Our breathing mingles in the dark—our chests still pressed together—hearts so close I can feel his beating into mine. He turns onto his side, runs his hand down my stomach.
“You have five minutes to rest,” he says, and a hysterical giggle bubbles out of me as I watch his gorgeous ass head to the bathroom.
When he returns, I turn on my side and look up at him. His eyes look dark and serious—just like they did when he pushed—
“Zero minutes if you keep biting your lip like that,” he says.
I push myself up onto my knees on the mattress while he stands in front of me.
“I’m ready when you are,” I say, with a soft smile.
And he doesn’t answer. Just lowers his mouth over mine because he’s ready too.
QUARANTASETTE
James
The sun seems to be coming at me from every angle. Even with the pillow over my face, the room is unnaturally bright. Neither of us left the bed long enough to shut the heavy velvet curtains last night. And when I roll over and put my hand out to find Ava’s smooth, soft skin beside me, I come up empty-handed.
I lower the pillow from my face and turn, squinting as I search the mounds of soft comforter for her perfect body—a body that I now know I will never get my fill of. There was a time where I thought maybe cutting through the tension would alleviate some of this nagging desire for her, but if anything, having her last night has only aggravated the situation. Knowing that satisfaction—the way she feels beneath me, the sounds she makes when I touch her just right—all of it has just piled up above me and buried me alive.
The sound of Ava cursing in the kitchen reaches me before I have a chance to spiral into my thoughts. I push myself up, my legspleasantly sore beneath me as I step into the pair of sweats at the foot of the bed, then head for the noise.
She’s wearing my gray T-shirt, the hem hitting her mid-thigh on her bare legs as she attempts to flip what looks like the world’s most pathetic pancake. I lean against the doorjamb and watch.
The kidney-shaped, drippy pseudo-pancake slips from the spatula onto the floor at her feet.
“Motherf—”
“This is why we don’t do pancakes in Italy,” I laugh, taking the spatula from her hand before she smacks something with it.
She looks up at me and I pull her around the dead pancake and into my arms.
“I wanted to make you an American breakfast,” she says.
“Isn’t that what I had earlier when we—”
She pinches my side and pretends to be scandalized. I smile down at her and let my hands wander down her back.
“There’s a bakery five doors down with brioche that melts on your tongue,” I tell her.
She looks over her shoulder at the mess she’s made and grimaces.
“I’ll clean up while you get ready,” I offer, and she squeezes me so tight my laugh comes out like a wheeze.
“Give me ten,” she says, slipping out of my arms, then stopping in the doorframe and turning back toward me. “James?”
“Ava?”
She rocks back on her bare heels and up onto her toes, then fidgets with the hem of her shirt.
“Would you mind—coming with me—I found my mom’s—Professor Genaro—and I know this wasn’t part of the plan, but—”
“I thought we got rid of the plan,” I say. “Besides, I looked up his address the night you asked me to bring you to Venice.” I lookdown at the pancake smear, then back up at her. “I’d love to come with you.”
The way she’s looking at me makes my chest hurt.
“You are too amazing,” she whispers, and her eyes are glassy now. I want to spend my life making her look at me like this.
