Page 48 of Fun at Parties
“Um.”Guts.I square up to him, looking straight at his shadowed face. “Because I wanted to.”
He doesn’t move. “You wanted to.” The lamplight catches his eyes, turning them to black glitter. “Are we just doing what we want now?” His fingertips brush my hip, an accident or a test, and I feel it everywhere.
“Yes. Please.” That amber-suspended feeling descends on me like it did in Vegas. Every worry blurring into nothing. Every thought evaporating. All that’s left is the wanting, and it wraps around us like a shell and fills in all the gaps. That’s why I need more: because for as long as Nate stays with me like this, everything I can’t handle ceases to exist.
I cup his jaw, tracing his cheekbone with my thumb. His eyes flutter closed. “What do you want?” I ask.
The word feels like a kiss when he whispers it: “Upstairs.”
The space between my thighs aches, and a feeble noise slips out of my mouth. He catches it with soft lips, bringing them to mine. Before it fully registers that it’s happening, he sets a rhythm that drags me in deeper every second. An electric hunger courses through me, and I wrap my arms around his neck. It’s like my body is dissolving into his.
He breaks our kiss but presses his forehead to mine. We both watch as he squeezes my hips, then glides his hands up to my waist, my rib cage. When his thumbs sweep across my breasts, I roll my hips.
“Upstairs,” he says again, and we clamber up to the loft, grabbing at each other clumsily the whole way. When I move to lift my shirt, he stops me from pulling it off, guiding my hands to his chest instead. It rises and falls rapidly against my palms.
He wants my clothes to stay on. I’m sure he has a reason, just like I’m sure he has a reason for choosing my bed instead of his. He’s dictating terms that go beyond the way we’re touching each other, but I’m not worried about deciphering them yet. Those belong somewhere outside the amber.
“What do you want now?” I ask, gliding my hand from his chest down to his stomach.
“C’mere.” He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me into his lap, so I’m straddling him. His hips rise to meet mine in one hard, shaky push, and he groans as I grind down to meet him. His lips tug on my earlobe. “I want you to feel good. Whatever that takes.”
I squeeze his shoulders. “All of this feels good.” I mean it. It’ssogood, so perfectly what I need. My only goal is making it last as long as possible.
Nate has a different objective. He grabs one of my legs and guides it between his, so I’m sitting astride his right thigh. “Show me.”
Holy shit. Just the idea of showing him what I want sends a wave of desire crashing over me. My head drops to his shoulder, and I begin to move. It’s overwhelming in the best way, the firmness of his thigh connecting with the spot where I’m worked up and sensitive, his greedy hands tight on my waist, words of encouragement tumbling out of his mouth. There are more efficient ways to get off, but something about how imprecise and frantic this is makes it hotter.
He tells me I’m so pretty, I’m perfect, I’m better than he ever imagined. When the friction can’t quite get me there, he curls his fingers behind the button on my jeans and waits for my green light. I nod so enthusiastically, the top of my head bumps against his chin, and I feel him laugh. For revenge, I nip at the side of his neck.
His whole body shakes when his hand works its way into my underwear, like the contact is pleasure for him too. “I’m close,” I say, to encourage him. It might be tricky with my jeans on, with me half-collapsed on top of him like this. Especially since we’ve never done this with each other.
But I should’ve known that Nate, in his solid, unassuming manner, would find his way. Observation, communication, experimentation—he uses them all, and then my back arches and my whole body feels like it’s opening,and the word that comes out of my mouth, again and again until I collapse on top of him, is his name.
After regaining control of my senses, I try to change positions so I can make him feel good too. “That’s not what tonight is for,” he says. “That was perfect. Exactly as it was.” Another term he’s dictating that, I’m pretty sure, is about more than just us touching each other. “Do you need anything? Water?”
I shake my head, afraid that if he gets up, he won’t get back in my bed. “Just sleep. Will you stay here?”
His eyes probe mine. “Of course.” He sinks one more delicate, tender kiss against my mouth, upending my heart. “Let’s sleep.”
All I can think about as he pulls the covers over us and tucks me against his chest is that I didn’t know it could be that good. But the amber around us must already be dissolving, because I’m too scared to ask if it was the same for him too.
Chapter 16
I sleep deeply, out ofexhaustion and satisfaction, and wake in the morning disoriented about where I am and what time it is. The memory of last night hits me a few seconds after I get my bearings. Nate should be in bed next to me, but his pillow is cold and the sheets on his side aren’t rumpled at all.
I’m pretty sure he slipped away as soon as I fell asleep.
I chastise the pit in my stomach: It’s okay. He’s allowed to do that. Another term he’s setting. Irrelevant too, because I got what I needed, he seemed to enjoy himself, and we both know exactly what it was.
Onward.
I have a text from Bailey, sent three hours ago:SO sorry I didn’t message you back yesterday. I saw your text during my ten-second pee break between patients, and I mentally responded without actually replying. UGH. I am so confused by how this trip is playing out but I hope you’re having a good time, and I can’t wait to hear all about it when you get here!
How many times have I put off responding to her messages and then never responded at all? Because I forgot orfelt guilty. Or sometimes because it’s hard to be the version of me she knows.
I send back a quick reply—No worries! Yeah, it’s been pretty wild!—and climb out of bed. The shower is running, and Nate’s stripped the sheets from the pullout and converted it back to a couch. His half-zipped bag sits on the coffee table, and it looks like he’s repacked it. Cold panic swamps me. We booked this place for two nights, so he shouldn’t be going anywhere until tomorrow.
It’s possible Nate has a lead on Logan. But the panic is telling me it’s something else: that because of last night, Nate is leaving. I should’ve known when he snuck out of my bed after I fell asleep. Maybe even when he told me to keep my clothes on.
