“I want to hear it,” I say.
“Why? What if I don’t want to share that with you?”
“Why wouldn’t you want to share anything with me? Afraid I’ll get jealous at the thought of you with someone else?” I smirk,letting my confidence and, let’s be honest, cockiness shine through.
Alis huffs, “No. That story is just… it’s awkward.” Awkward? That week was anythingbutawkward for me.
“Why was it awkward?” I inquire. “Now I’m even more curious. Now youhave totell me.” I’m teasing and she knows it, still, that signature shy expression appears on her face and I see her clearly. Twelve years younger, blue sundress blowing in the wind, laughing at something one of the other guys in our group said while recounting tales of frat parties past. I remember watching her, thinking she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Wide open, carefree, overflowing with happiness and joy. And her sister, oh my God, I remember Belle.
Before I can think deeper into how incredible a coincidence we’ve found ourselves in, Alis says, “I met him on a cruise during spring break of my senior year.” Senior year? Wait. I do the math — holy shit, she waseighteen. I was twenty-two? No. Twenty-three.
“I met this guy, and we spent the week together. I didn’t even tell him my name. Well, that’s not entirely true. I went to introduce myself to him and Belle cut in telling him my name was Rory. Not technically a lie, but like I said that day in your office, I’ve never gone by Rory because I didn’t want to make people think of Gilmore Girls.”
I vaguely remember mention of this from when Abigail introduced us at the beginning of the school year. Alis continues, “Belle told me that I didn’t have to feel self-conscious because Rory could be anyone she wanted to be. She knew I needed to let loose and enjoy myself, and, I don’t know, I liked being able to recreate myself that week.”
Before I realize what I’m doing, I say, “You didn’t have to recreate yourself. You were your truest self that week.”
My hands tense on her hips, but Alis is too busy brushing off my comment to notice. “Whatever. How would you know? You weren’t there.” She swats at my chest, “Do you want to hear the story or not?”
I swallow. I know what happens next. And I’m dying to hear it told from her perspective.
Alis
Dexter grows impossibly more stiff underneath me as I recount details of a week I spent with another man. I’m confused by his insistence that I tell him, and also by his reaction. I don’t want to think of anyone else while I’m with him, nor would I ever want to hear about him with another woman, so I skim over the finer details and only share what I know he wants to hear.
“So the group of us girls met a group of college guys from the East Coast, and I hit it off with one of them. We had a really great week together, and I hadn’t felt that easy of a connection with anyone before, so I took the plunge and slept with him the last night of the cruise.”
“Took the plunge?” Dexter laughs, “Who says that?”
“Stop it,” I chastise. “You’re the one who wanted to hear all about how I lost my virginity to Andromeda man.”
He freezes under me. “I was your first?” he whispers, eyes wide with shock.
“Hewas my first,” I clarify.
“DJ,” Dexter says.
“Yes, D— wait.” I freeze. I never mentioned his name. How did he…?
Dexter locks his eyes with mine and unleashes that half-smile I adore so much. “I can say that you were your truest self that week because I was there, Rory.” The way he says that name,Rory.
“Wh-what? How?” I ask, unable to grasp what he’s saying.
“I realized it when I saw your birthmark,” he says, leaning down and pressing his lips to my collarbone once more. “You confirmed it when you mentioned your grandmother, and, I must say, hearing thatI am the only other person to catalog this detail about you is everything to me right now.”
“But, your hair. And your beard. And …” I place my hands on either side of his face, searching his features for the much younger man I met so many years ago. His eyes. His smile. “Oh my God,” I breathe. It’s amazing how different a person can look with a few simple changes. But it is him. Dexter. DJ. One and the same.
The happiness welling up inside me at the confirmation that the man I love is the same man my sister encouraged me to let go and be free with is intoxicating. I slam my mouth against his, needing to be as close to him as possible.
Dexter wraps his arms around my back and holds me flush against him, our tongues dueling and bodies writhing against each other. I tear my mouth away from his and tug up his t-shirt roughly, needing to be skin-to-skin with him. He helps me to remove the shirt and tosses it to the side, sliding his hand to the back of my neck and pulling my mouth back to his.
I can feel him beneath me, hard as granite and lighting a fire in my core. I rock my hips against his, pressing myself down on his erection. It’s not enough. I need more. I need to be fully connected to him. I need him inside me. Now.
“I need you,” I moan against his mouth, pressing my core into him more insistently to convey my eagerness and impatience. Dexter grunts before gripping my hips and flipping us over so he’s pressing me into the mattress.
“J'ai besoin de toi,” he says gruffly, kissing down my neck, nipping at my collar bone before continuing to trail open mouth kisses down my chest to my breasts. “Mon dieu, tu es délicieuse. Je vais te dévorer.”
I’m about to combust from his words alone when he thrusts his pelvis into me, grinding his erection against my clit. At the same moment, he sucks my nipple into his mouth and bites down, tugging gently with his teeth while his hand roughly kneads my other breast.
