I picture him pressing me to the table, telling me to stay just as I was as he pushes my panties to the side. “I’m so close, Easton,” he warns, just as he did before. “Just stay like that.”
He slides against me, but never pushes inside—his breath hitching every time he presses to my entrance, then denies himself. Faster and faster, and I’m so close. I tell him and...he goes farther, an accident. Only an inch but even that is a stretch,the kind that promises pleasure and pain in equal amounts, one amplifying the other.
I arch hard against my hand and gasp, as if it’s happening all over again. I will hate myself for this later, though I should be used to it by now. It’s always the thought of him that gets me off, no matter who I’m actually with.
When I wakein the morning, Elijah is in his bed. I’m not sure when he got in.
He is shirtless, sleeping flat on his back with one arm under his head and the sheet has slid low enough for me to make out that line bisecting his abdominal wall, the trail of hair at its base.
I blush, thinking about last night. The door was wide open—he could have heard me. I continue to blush, thinking of the question I asked him on the beach. It’s one thing to give him shit for being a dick...it’s another thing entirely to let him know he legitimately hurt me.
I roll on my back. The plastic sheet covering the mattress makes so much noise that he wakes. To be honest, it’s so loud I don’t know how either of us slept in the first place.
“What time do we need to leave?” My yawn is a little theatrical.
“We don’t have to be out until eleven,” he replies, “at which point my grandmother will insist we go find a restaurant. By the way, Betty is already conspiring to set up another romantic photo op for us when we get to New Orleans, since we’ll have so much time there before the festivities start.”
I roll face down on my pillow and groan. “What is it now?” There’s already been a tub full of orchids and a candlelit dinner at sunset. I can’t even think of what’s left.
“Couples massage,” he says. He scrapes a hand over his jaw—I love the look of him in the morning, when he badly needs to shave. “I just don’t see the point. It’s not you at all, and if this guy knows you, he’ll realize that.”
I’m offended, and I’m not sure why. Will the girl Elijah ends up with be one whodoeslike baths full of orchids and couples massages, and what insight can be gleaned from the fact that I don’t? Is this why I was wrong for him? Because I can’t relax? Because I don’t like pedicures?
“How is a massagenotme?” I demand, a hint of pique in my voice.
“You like eating on outdoor porches and seeing beautiful places and being in the water if at all possible, but not just sitting around. You like doing something—bodysurfing, swimming, snorkeling. Any guy who’d spent a week with you should know that, and any romantic gesture would involve at least one, or all, of those things.”
I stare at him a little too long. He’s entirely right—those would be the things I’d love most. And those are things Elijah’s been doing since this trip began, while I don’t think Thomas has ever done a single one of them. On my birthday last year, he suggested a trip to the Museum of Fine Arts. I went along with it because it seemed like the sort of thing Ishouldlike, and then spent most of the afternoon hoping the weather would hold so we could take a walk when it was done. He teased me about how obvious my boredom was, then told me I should be “more curious.” A gentle scolding, the sort you’d give a child who needed guidance. I don’t think it pissed me off at the time, but it pisses me off now.
I climb from the bed. “I have to move around before we’re stuck in the car, so I’m heading to the beach. I’ll check for sharks if I decide to go in this time.”
He stiffens. “I ran a load of towels last night when I got in. I think your bikini was with them. You might want to check the wash.”
My nipples tighten at the idea of him handling my bikini. God, what the fuck is wrong with me?
The sky is just starting to lighten when I get to the beach. I kick off my flip-flops near the boardwalk to the house and start walking north. The water is still this morning—perfect for swimming. Elijah unleashed a monster when he took me to the Dry Tortugas. If I was willing to wash and dry my hair again, I’d be in there right now.
I go for a long walk then drop into the sand in front of the rental, my legs stretched in front of me as I check my texts from last night.
I posted three more photos before I went to sleep. One of Elijah feeding the tarpons at Robbie’s—only his broad hand visible; one of the rose-petal-covered table at Sunset Key, looking ready for a wedding proposal (unlike the steak house,Thomas), and me on the ferry at dusk, the lights of Key West glowing in the distance.
They’ve apparently worked, as Thomas texted about an hour after I uploaded them. Maybe it’s just residual hurt over the Sofia Leigh thing, but once again...I’m less delighted than I am resentful.
THOMAS
Hey, are you up?
I guess you’re asleep. Just wanted to say that I wish you were here. A song you like was playing, and I thought of you. The yacht is nice but kind of lonely. Did you see the UCSD study, btw?
Idowant to discuss the study, but he owes me a big groveling apology, not this nonsense about a song I like, with an additional dollop of self-pity on top of it.
Oh, you’re lonely, Thomas? Gosh, you know what’s worse than being lonely? Having a guy lead you to think he’s going to propose and then dump you instead, just before you were supposed to go to a wedding with him. You know what else is worse than being lonely? Having to return to your hometown and admit to everyone that it happened and worrying that you’ll be persona non grata when you get back to school.
Or seeing your boyfriend on a date with a famous actress. That’s worse than loneliness too. And shouldn’t you be telling Sofia Leigh about your fucking problems instead of me?
Obviously, I say none of this. There’s nothing about a female’s righteous indignation that will lead a man to think he wants more of her. But...I guess I’m sort of surprised that it’s there at all—that I’m not more thrilled than I am.
Focus on the prize, Easton.
