His eyes open. “No.” He huffs a rueful laugh. “I’m trying to make this last longer than thirty seconds.”
Something about the way he says it, half disgruntled and half awed, makes me feel special. I assumed he wasn’t a virgin when we hooked up before—and the glove box basically confirmed it—but I like that some part of this is unique for him. Again, I can’t pinpoint why I care, but I sort of do.
I lift my hips, then sink down again. It’s easier, smoother, this time, the slow drag stimulating a flicker of heat low in my pelvis. It’s deeper, stronger, than when I came before. More powerful, too, the building enormity of it startling me. This was supposed to be for him. I wasn’t expecting to come twice.
One of Sawyer’s hands is in my hair, tugging gently on the loose strands. The other brushes just above the spot where he’s spreading me, circling my clit.
My hips move faster, chasing pleasure in earnest. I know it’ll be the best orgasm I’ve ever experienced long before it rips through me, stealing my breath from my lungs and erasing any thoughts from my head.
I want to live in this thoughtless, weightless moment forever.
I don’t want to move, but I have to. The clock on the dashboard reads three thirty, and my dad usually gets up at five. The correct alarm code won’t matter if he’s waiting in the kitchen when I sneak in.
I pull away, shifting back to the passenger side, tugging my clothesback on while Sawyer deals with the condom.
He leaves his shirt off, pulling his shorts on without bothering with boxers beneath. How little he’s wearing is more distracting than it should be, considering wejusthad sex.
I speak first once we’re rolling along the gravel road, headed back the same way we came. “Is it always like that?”
As soon as the question is out, I regret it. I blame the dopamine rush drugging my system and lowering my usual defenses.
Sawyer is silent. He’ll pretend to have not heard me, which is per?—
“No.” That’s all he says, then turns on the radio.
I thought I could rely on myself to stay detached. To treat this like exactly what it was—a summer fling.
And Ireallythought I could rely on him to say yes.
9
September
Gus holds a joint out to me.
I shake my head, lifting the plastic cup of vodka. “I’m good with this.”
We’re at work, but we’re not working. Post–Labor Day, Atlantic Yacht Club is pretty quiet. One of the reasons it’s my favorite time of year. The temperature is still balmy, the water warmer than ever, but there’s no traffic. The marina is practically deserted, just me, Gus, and a few other guys who are still in high school sticking around to help with winterizing. All the college guys are gone, same with most of the boats’ owners.
“More for us,” Wade says, reaching for the lit joint eagerly.
I slouch lower in the lawn chair, swallowing another sip. The bar in the yacht club’s restaurant is completely shut down now, leaving the liquor unattended. It’ll reopen around the holidays, for the members in town that time of year, but no one will remember the exact inventoryby then. And Macie, one of the summer waitresses who’s since returned to college, said she fudged the numbers a little. She told me at the end-of-the-year party, paired with a sly smile. It was an invitation to filch a bottle and sneak off. An offer I pretended not to notice, and I wish I had no clue why the prospect lacked appeal.
“How’s it been with your mom?” Gus asks, nudging my arm with his elbow.
“Fine,” I say, which is an accurate summary.
It’s nice, having her home, but it never lasts long enough for us to settle into a real routine. The house feels emptier when it’s the two of us versus just me, her company making the other absences more obvious. Closer to normal … but not.
Gus nods, knowing me well enough not to push for more details. I guess the only upside of my family’s dirty laundry being so public is that there’s little space for speculation. Everyone just knows already and are mostly too polite to mention it to my face.
I swig the remainder of my drink and stand, tossing the cup toward the nearest trash can. It lands on target, and Ricky whoops in approval.
“Still don’t get why you quit baseball, man,” he tells me.
“Pratt,” Gus snaps.
“What?” Ricky says. “Sports have nothing to do with …” He reaches for the joint Wade offers like it’s a life preserver, letting his voice trail.
