Page 69 of Fun at Parties
I tilt my hips away, trying to give him space. I can’t have moved more than an inch, but he knows, and he knowswhy.His hands clamp down on my hips and he holds me like a loaded spring, not stopping until all that tension inside me cascades over and my body stopstrembling. He presses a soft kiss to my inner thigh and looks up, his eyes flashing in a way that reminds me of chilly nights on the beach in sweatshirts with the moonlight fracturing off the ocean.
What just happened—the way he worshipped me, the way he’s looking at me—makes it undeniably clear: He’s wanted this as badly as I have, for as long as I have. Since those first chilly Seapoint nights.
Okay. That’s enough of him proving himself.
I try to sit up, but I’m too dazed to coordinate my limbs, and my elbows give out. He laughs softly. “You okay?”
“I want to touch you.” It comes out breathy and desperate, and he responds with a hungry groan that gives me the boost I need to drag myself up. I take him by the shoulders and guide him onto his back, straddling him. “Can I?”
“Anything you want,” he says. What I want is to make him feel good. To be as open about how badly I want him as he just was with me.
I slide my hand into his shorts, and he tips his head back, murmuring expletives. He’s right; taking this slowly enough to appreciate it fully is the right move. While my hand is on him, I use my mouth to explore every other place on his body that’s transfixed me over the years: the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, the tiny brown birthmark on the right side of his chest. When he lifts his hips so I can pull off his shorts, I press one hand to the dimples at the base of his spine.
Then I lower my mouth to him, and he scrapes my hair back with his hands. The second our eyes connect,he pulls me back up. “Too good,” he says with an abashed laugh. Then he licks his bottom lip. “I have a condom. Not from the value pack in the car. It should, uh, work.”
His statement hangs suspended in the air for a second before I realize he’s waiting for my reaction. “Get it,” I urge. Seductively, I’m sure.
A scramble off the bed, a zipper on his bag. A glorious minute when I get to watch him, kneeling naked and focused as he rolls it on. The tender look on his face when he moves toward me and the joy that threatens to burst out of me when I see his expression. This look isn’t proof of his wanting me. It’s about the rest, the feelings we don’t get to keep.
But we do get to keep the memory of this night. One little fold in my brain will be a cul-de-sac containing a miniature version of this RV, like one of those elaborate dollhouses people build as a hobby. Inside will be us, kissing and touching and proving that we mattered to each other. Whatever comes next, we get to live in a world where this happened.
There’s a soft smile on his face. “Devil horns.” He kisses each of my temples. After that, he slides into me in one agonizingly slow movement, the pleasure intensifying as the pressure does, until he drops his forehead to mine and I shudder beneath him. “It’s so good,” I gasp, and he nods against me, his face burning hot. I need more, more of him, so I rock forward.
At first, we stick to Nate’s steady, measured tempo, even though my body is so greedy for him it’s a challenge. Based on all the sounds he’s trying to bite back, he’sstruggling too. Yet we persist, slow and deep, and I dig my nails into his back while he bites my shoulder, like if we can only find a way to burrow under each other’s skin, it’ll last longer.
It’s his noises that get me. I want to crack him open the way he’s cracked me, so it’s impossible for him to stifle them. In a second, I flip us over so I’m on top of him, sinking down and grinding against him. His hands rove everywhere.
The pleasure starts to come in pulsing waves, and I’m no longer sure whether we’re moving slowly or hummingbird-fast. The next time a sound rises in his throat, he sets his teeth against his knuckles, and I pry his hand away and pin it to the bed. “Please don’t hide from me.”
My face is level with his, and his eyes, dark now, pierce mine and don’t let go. He groans again, his mouth unguarded this time. It’s a sonic boom reaching my bone marrow, knocking everything loose. I kiss him, and he slides his hand out from under mine to gently grab my chin.
“Nothing about you is cold, Quinn.” He’s panting. “You’re the opposite of cold. The way you feel, god. The way you are. You’re warm. You’ve only ever been warm.”
He grips my waist and thrusts up into me and I break apart in his arms, riding it out until he tumbles over.
Afterward, he pulls me close while we catch our breath. His heart beats against my cheek, slowing gradually. I don’t want to let go of this moment. I could never tire of this feeling, a miraculous, impossible combination ofsafety and openness, of contentment and exhilaration. I’d lie in a heap on top of him forever if I could, but eventually he has to get up to get rid of the condom.
He’s coming back, I know, but that won’t always be true. The sheets and blankets are on the floor, and with Nate in the bathroom, I am very alone on the bed with a layer of sweat and mental snapshots of tangled, trembling limbs and teeth on skin. The hottest, sweetest experience of my life, and it’s no longer something we’re doing.
Now it’s something we did once.
Chapter 23
When I wake, gauzy bluelight is seeping into the room, and Nate is holding me snug against his chest. It’s an opportunity to catalog details I don’t normally get to see, like the length of his eyelashes and the faint freckling at the tops of his cheekbones. Wonder and fear hit me at the same time, lodging themselves under my rib cage.
I wriggle out of Nate’s arms and get up to pee, grabbing my phone afterward. On regular days in L.A., the first thing I do is check my email, even though I’m on the record in a Cyclelove.com interview as someone who “starts each morning with positive affirmations and a glass of water with lemon.”
Don’t get me wrong, I do those things too. Plus I scrawl a note on a Post-it and slap it on the tub of protein powder for Michelle, a ritual born of sincerity that is now a joke, even if I do really want her to “Have a stellar day!” or whatever. I omitted that from my interview response because they might’ve asked for a picture of one, and she always draws crude things on them.
Regardless, I do check my email first. It’s a mistake today, because a message from Tracy is waiting.
Quinn,
Looks like the trip is going well and you’re getting plenty of relaxation time. Let’s touch base this week to discuss your return so you can hit the ground running. We can also go over what content you’ll be responsible for posting going forward vs. what Summer will handle to lighten your load. When are you free for a call?
In the meantime, as I’ve been saying, marketing thinks we can get more out of your socials. I’ve seen some action from you on this front, but not a full commitment. Remember your WHY. Why did you work so hard to become a CycleLove instructor? Why do you drag your butt to the studio and turn on a smile even when it’s tough? I know because I’ve heard you say it many times. You love to connect with people. You love to make their days brighter.
Here’s a fun idea: A fan posted a photo with you at the festival and wrote that you gave her tips on handling a breakup. We love that angle. How about an “Ask Me Anything” session for relationship questions? Would be easy to do while you are relaxing at your next stop. And right in line with your WHY.
