“Definitely not,” he agrees. “Out in the open like this? Anyone could see us, rutting in the mulch like animals.”
“So we should stop.”
“Oh, absolutely. We have to.”
I palm his cock at the same time that he shoves a rough hand down the front of my leggings.
“The thing is, though,” he pants as I start to stroke him, “I don’t think I give a fuck anymore.”
I laugh again, giddy and delirious, as I exhale into his mouth to say without words that I don’t give a fuck anymore, either. Clothes get shed or shoved down or rearranged with hands getting more and more frantic by the second. I’m a buzzing, pulsing beacon of sparks now, liquid and electric. When he pushes inside me, we both freeze like that. His cock nestled in me. Me groaning and tightening around him. Then he starts to move, and I forget everything else. The thorns drawing red, bloody lines in my skin no longer matter. Neither does the wetness of the ground or the prospect of someone catching us like this.
There’s only Bastian above me, around me,inme.
It all happens so fast. When the pleasure crests, I bite down on his shoulder to muffle the cry that tears out of me. That’s it. Finished almost as soon as it began, but goodness gracious, I feel reborn.
When it’s over, we lie all ramshackle together in the mulch, breathing hard, grinning at each other like idiots. I have dirt in my hair and scratches on my arms, and I can already feel bruises forming on my hips where Bastian’s fingers dug in. His wound is probably furious with him.
Neither of us cares.
“We’re going to win,” I tell him sternly. “You know that, right?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Long enough that I start to wonder if he’s going to retreat back into that fortress of pessimism he’s been building his whole life.
But then his hand covers mine. “Yeah,” he says. “I think we are.”
“Say it again.”
“We’re going to win, Eliana.” His lips brush my forehead. “I believe you.”
Then a screen door bangs shut somewhere nearby. “Mr. Whiskers!” someone hollers from a few yards over. “Mr. Whiskers, you mangy little gremlin, get back here!”
Bastian and I exchange a laugh, and then we’re scrambling. Our clothes get yanked back into place, my leggings hauled up, his hoodie tugged down. I’m stifling giggles against my palm as Bastian helps me to my feet, and he’s making these little huffing sounds that tell me he’s doing the same.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, his fingers working through the mess in my hair. “You’ve got half the garden in here.”
“Leave it. I like a little wild in my life.”
We slip out of the yard like slutty little thieves, fingers laced together, both still chuckling. The morning is still quiet, still ordinary, still unbelievably boring, set to a tune made up of sprinklers and birdsong and Mr. Whiskers evading capture.
My God, it’s beautiful.
52
BASTIAN
TWO DAYS LATER
reservation /?rez?r'vaSH(?)n/: noun
1: a table held for guests who haven’t yet arrived.
2: the future you’re swearing you'll show up for—ring, baby, happily-ever-after, all of it.
I’m shaving for the first time in weeks.
The razor scrapes against stubble I’ve let grow too long, clearing paths through the mess I’ve become. Halfway through, I stop and study my reflection.
The man staring back at me is a stranger I’m still wary of getting reacquainted with. Hollow cheeks, eyes drained of color. A jaw that’s been clenched so tight for so long there’s probably permanent damage to the bone.
