Page 70 of Lovely War
“I meant the chair,” I say, but he’s already pulling me up. “You fantasized about this?”
He drags his knuckle across the bare skin above the waistband of my shorts. I make a throaty noise and close my eyes.
“Bed?” he suggests.
“Floor,” I counter.
He follows me down, lying over me. I pull on his belt loops until his hips press against mine, his knees between my legs. He grabs my waist tightly as I touch the fly of his pants. “Okay?” I ask.
He squeezes me tighter and makes an affirmative noise.
I try to undo the button but my hands aren’t working properly. “Can you?” I ask, and he helps me work his pants off. I wrap my ankles around the backs of his legs and he slides his hands around to grip my ass. A groan escapes his mouth, and he kisses me thoroughly. There’s so little between us now, just my threadbare shorts and our underwear, and the rhythm we find arching into each other is addictive. I can almost quiet my mind enough to do this with him for hours, maybe forever. Almost. It’s just…
“Are you comfortable?” I whisper after several minutes.
“I don’t think this floor is meant for kneeling,” he says. “Tomorrow when I ask the trainer how to treat my turf burn, he’s going to have a lot of questions.”
“What are you going to tell him?” I press harder against him, rocking.
His lips part and his eyes flutter closed. “Who?”
“The trainer.”
“Why are we talking about the trainer?”
I laugh at that. I don’t recall ever laughing before while dry-humping, and I never would’ve thought it would be so nice, but it is, and he’s laughing too.
He sits back on his heels abruptly, touching my ankle and brushing little circles around the bone on the outside with his thumb. “Hey. Are you sure you want this? All I want is to spend time with you.”
He can tell I’m still nervous. Of course he can. The realization lands heavy on my chest like the palm of a reassuring hand, and the mood board slips away. “No,” I say forcefully. I’m reluctant to talk about anything going on in my head, but it’s imperative that he understand. “I want you so much—so much it scares me. Don’t you want me?”
“Annie.” His voice catches. “All I think about is how much I want you.”
My throat isn’t working. It’s stopped up with something, possibly the chemicals they used to make this floor so green thirty years ago. They’re probably illegal now. I finally manage to say, “All you think about? What about basketball?”
“What’s basketball?”
“What about reality TV and standard deviations? What about Wawa subs?”
“Wawahoagies,” he says. “And no. Just you.”
I reach out to pull him back toward me fiercely, but he catches my hand. He places the most delicate kiss on my palm, and then another on the inside of my wrist. I shiver.
“Let me?” he asks.
I nod. Okay. I haven’t been fooling anyone but myself.
“I think about your mouth,” he murmurs into my wrist. He releases my hand, leans in to whisper in my ear, his lips grazing my cheek. “Your body. This necklace.” He dips his head and drags his teeth along the chain, the sensation overloading my circuits, my brain function flickering in and out. “Sometimes I catch myself staring right here, and I can’t look away.” He slides back up to my other ear. “I think about how much you make me laugh. I think about that terrifying look you get in your eyes when you’re determined to get something you want.”
“I want you,” I say, dizzy.
“Yeah,” he says. “Sometimes you look at me like that. And I can barely handle it. I’d give you anything you wanted when you look at me like that.” He plants a hand on his knee and stands. “This room has never been, and never will be, anyone’s sex cave.” He nods at the doorway. “Bed.”
The word shimmers in the air like the haze above hot pavement. “Bossy,” I say.
“Bed, please,” he amends.
“I liked it.”
