Page 49 of Any Girl But You
“Roll over,” I command, matching Zoey’s intensity from before.
She immediately obliges.
As I move my lips down her skin, I marvel at these feelings. I may have done this hundreds of times before. But never in my lifetime have I ever felt like this.
TWENTY-FOUR
ZOEY
The bed barely makes a creak as I leave. In all fairness, I slithered out of it like I’m on some covert operation hidden behind enemy lines. But I still held my breath the entire time, only releasing my lungs once I reached the bathroom. Quinn has pushed herself to the limit, both physically and mentally, at the farm. And at night, I’m giving her no rest. I’m not even apologizing for it, either. Not really, anyway. Although, last night, I did ask her if we needed to take a break to let her rest. Luckily, she looked at me like I’d asked her to chew on a spiked pinecone. But I did draw her a sudsy bath and bring her a sandwich, first.
And then devoured her after.
After nearly three years without sex, and finally connecting with someone like this, I’m famished. Insatiable. And Quinn is the one who fills me.
The farm is close to opening, one week away, and I see how the pressure is wearing on Quinn. Red eyes in the morning, yawns at night, heavy breaths while she sleeps. So, the fact that she’s typically gone before I even wake up, and today she slept through my alarm, tells me what I need to know.
After my shower, I creep back into my room, and take it all in. My new life. The scent of Quinn’s coconut shampoo lingers in my room. I want to bottle it up and take it with me downstairs. Quinn’s a goddess. She’s lying on her stomach now, her bare back exposed. Crimson hair splashes against the white pillow with a burst of color contrast. She lifts and lowers with each heavy breath. My mouth was on her all last night and still I salivate for more. As much as I want to leave a trail of kisses down her spine and one sweet smooch on her perfect round tush, I don’t. I grab clothes from my closet and tiptoe from the room to get dressed in the guest bedroom.
At the front door, I quietly put on shoes when bare feet patter against the hallway hardwood floor. I look up and…Ah. I know it’s been barely a week since we officially got together, but this feeling, this all-encompassing tingle that charges each cell with electricity and shoots heat everywhere, I never want it to leave. Every day since the day in the alley feels new. I’m seeing my friend, my best friend, in a fresh, beautiful light. I will never get enough.
“Good morning,” I whisper to a sleepy-eyed Quinn, and lift myself from the chair. I used to think denim-overall-wearing Quinn was my favorite. I was wrong. Naked, messy hair, pink sleep marks imbedded into her cheeks, wrapped in my sheet, is my favorite Quinn.
“Are you leaving already?” Her voice carries the raspy edge of exhaustion. She crosses the room and cocoons herself into me, laying her head against my chest. I wrap my arms around her, kiss the top of her head, and breathe in the remnants of her conditioner.
Her body relaxes into me as I hold her. While so many things in our relationship haven’t changed—we still have movie night, we still disagree about food, we still share very different pop culture memories—so many things have. The sex, thephenomenalsex, I may add, and the teenage level of make-out sessions of course is different. But it’s the hugs. The cuddles. Quinn seems to have this almost frenetic need to touch me, like she’s making up for a lifetime of not being held. And I love it.
And while she’s making up for all the snuggles, I’m making up for all my celibate years. At some point, we’re going to be imprinted on each other and our skin will fuse together like a graft. But until then, I’ll soak up every ounce I can.
I kiss the top of her head. “I have to go to work.”
“Aren’t you the owner?” she says, then peels herself away. She yawns into her palm and slinks into a chair.
What I would give for a full day off to do nothing but be with her. Someday soon. The holidays will be over, I’ll take some time off work, and we’ll do takeout for a week. I tug a jacket over my arms and button up. “If you stay up here in my loft, I’ll come up as much as I can during the day.”
She groans. “I have to go to work, too.”
“Aren’t you the owner?” I ask in the same teasing tone. When she lifts her head, I lean down to plant a soft kiss on her mouth.
“Whoever thought entrepreneurship was a good idea works for the devil,” Quinn says as she tugs the bed sheet around her folded arms. “Want to quit, sell everything, and drive around the country in a beat-up VW van with a solid nineties music playlist?”
“I’m in.” I wrap her in my arms one more time, and her head rests against my belly. This is heaven. Do I really need to be at the bakery today? I mean sure, Thanksgiving is six days away, but maybe the prep for the pie can wait and the community can go somewhere else this year. “I have an idea…”
“Oh, I love your ideas,” she says, her head snapping up to meet my gaze.
I giggle. Sure, we haven’t been together long, but we’re making up for lost time. So, Iknowthis look. The sparklethat highlights the tiny amber ridge around her jade-and-moss-colored irises. The red blooming across her cheekbones. The way her chest lifts the tiniest bit. She’s thinking about “Petunia’s Box,” my nickname for my toy box. And trust me, I think about that box a lot, too. But I’m not thinking about it this time.
“Well, not that exactly,” I say.
“Boo.” She puts her head back on my stomach.
I still want to do that, but first I want us to do coupley things. Outside the bedroom. Petunia’s Box can be for dessert. “How about after work tonight, we have a date night. I can make reservations, we can have some wine, I can do dirty things to you after?—”
“Yes,” Quinn says. “Immediately, yes.”
I giggle, kiss her once more, tell her to go back to bed even for just a little while, and walk down the stairs to the shop. The second I step into the bakery, and I’m hit with that familiar, tangy scent of raw dough, my brain shifts into business mode. Less than a week until Thanksgiving, and there is only so much prep I can do for the vast orders of pumpkin and pecan pies we have to fill. I love my job, so much, but this year I wish I could spend more time with Quinn at her farm. Luna and Caleb have put in more hours this week to give me a bit of time off to help Quinn, but I need more. I miss Quinn even when she’s lying in my arms.
As I start loading the display case with the items the morning baker made, all I can do is think of Quinn. At what point is this excessive? No matter what I’m doing, I’m picturing her face and smiling. Even when I picture her in my shop this past summer, angry about blue cookies, I’m happy.
