“Fuck, Claire.” It comes out hitched as she crawls back on the bed, and I tear off the one remaining material between my body and hers.
I climb back on top of her, kissing slowly up her calves, then her thighs, pausing at her middle just to sample her. She bucks beneath my touch.
“Jay,” she whispers.
I taste her again, but it’s not enough. I continue up her hip, then the curve of her side, to the space between my favorite curves. Her nails are in my hair, then on my back and I throb between us, only for her.
Where. Ever. You. Are.
“Be with me,” I blurt and I’m as caught off guard as she is.
I feel an elemental shift deep in my soul. Like my insides are rearranging to make room for the parts of me that have been stored away, dust brushed off and cobwebs wiped clean. This is one of those moments that gets broken down into befores and afters.BeforeI gave my heart to Claire andafterI risked it all.
“Be with me.” It comes out more intentional this time, but still foreign in my voice.
She freezes beneath me. “Jay,” she says.
“I mean it. Be with me, Claire.”
She focuses on me, her amber eyes dilated.
“Shit.” I hang my head, my weight balanced on my hands on either side of her beautiful face. “I’m fucking this all up.”
Claire tilts my chin up, her face once again only inches from mine.
“Jay, I—”
“Will you please just fucking be with me? Please?”
“So polite,” she says, after a painful amount of time, and I watch the corners of her lips turn up before the hunger returns to her eyes.
“Yes,” she says.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
Ipush into her and the rest of the world goes quiet. My mother, the men, cornfields, alcohol, Jackson, closets, Huck, cars, Mel, bruised fists, wet cheeks.
"Just a little longer, Jamison."
“Make a life for yourself.”
"Be a good boy."
All of it. Silenced.
I push into her over and over, the only sound in my head matching the rhythm of our bodies.
Where. Ever. You. Are.
40
Claire
Iopen my eyes and stretch, the twin-sized bed somehow feeling even smaller without Jay in it. I glance at my phone and see he must have left for work. I scroll through my notifications to see if there are any texts from him or Chloe, but there’s just Facebook requests and email alerts.
Jay wasn’t kidding. His place really is tiny, but despite its size, it feels just like him. Some parts are reserved and steady — the bare white walls or the single framed photograph of him in the middle of Ronan and Mikey, sitting on his dresser. Then, some parts are personal and warm — the sandalwood candle on his kitchen counter or the worn toothbrush next to the soap by the sink for cleaning his nails of stubborn grease. And then of course, some parts are just…Jay — the mismatched sets of dumbbells, the books and ashtray on his bedside table. All of these things together fill this small space with everything it needs — him.
