We’re in the finished basement of the Sutherland house, a massive but low-ceilinged space that’s partitioned off into a laundry room, a storage closet, a half bathroom, and this larger space. It’s clear that it’s been transformed since Reid’s childhood years, now the kind of neutral guest room that seems cobbled together from old furniture and decor.
“It used to be two sets of bunk beds,” he says. “A desk over there.” He points to the far wall, where there’s a simple dresser set beneath the one source of natural light in here, a narrow rectangle of glass block that’s now, this late at night, mostly a black ripple, twinkles of light from the dim bedside lamp like stars dotting its uneven surface.
“Cozy,” I say, crossing to sit on the bed, propping myself on my palms as I gently push my way to the middle of it. I lean back on my hands, my feet crossed at the ankles, and study Reid, who’s still leaning in the doorway.
“You’re okay,” he says, “that we’re staying?”
It was only meant to be a day trip, this visit. But the afternoon had stretched on, in the most natural of ways, all of us forgetting to count the minutes during tea and conversation. When talk had turned to my work, Cady had begged for me to consider designing a business card for her, a request I’d told her I didn’t even need to consider, and two hours later, I’d sketched her three different treatments. I’d accepted her thrilled hug of thanks, but the real prize had been the way Reid—coming to look at the final product—had bent to press a kiss to my temple before whispering his gratitude in my ear. By then, it’d only seemed natural for Cynthia to ask us to stay for dinner, which had turned into after-dinner cleanup, which had turned into a game of gin rummy, apparently a long-held tradition in the Sutherland household.
And then it’d been so late, and Cynthia had insisted.
“Very,” I say, smiling. “I’ve had fun.”
“Good.”
That single word—every time I hear it in his low voice, I’m back in his bed, beneath him, and despite the fact that his parents and his sister are in bedrooms that are only a flight of stairs and a hallway away from us, I can’t help but shift restlessly now, suddenly feeling all the affectionate but chaste ways he’s touched me since we walked into this house.
Something changes in Reid’s eyes—some flare of heat I recognize—as he looks at me.
“You’re not coming in?” I say, innocently. But I am not being innocent.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“On whether you make the very poor decision to change into a pair of my sister’s pajamas,” he says dryly, nodding toward the neatly folded shorts-and-top set Cady had given me, along with a small tote of extra toiletries.
“Oh?” I reach out, lift up the shirt from the top of the stack. “But this tie-dye would match my eyes. Anybody’s eyes, really.”
He crosses the threshold, pulling the door closed behind him before he comes to me and takes the shirt gently from my hand. Then he pauses and looks at the whole stack, and in a swift movement he pushes it off the side of the bed onto the floor, dropping the shirt on top of the now-messy pile. I look down at it, then up at him, my mouth agape.
“I’ve never seen this side of you,” I tease. “Rebellious.Messy, even. I think you’re trying to seduce me.”
He leans over me, his hands planted on either side of my hips, and gives me my favoriteone two threekiss. When he pulls back and looks at me, his eyes dropping to my quickened pulse point, his smile is crooked, mischievous. It’s his game face.
I shift again, pressing my legs together.
“It must be because I’m breaking an old rule. No girls in our bedrooms.”
“Your adolescence must’ve been a trial,” I say, leaning up to kiss his neck, sucking gently.
He nudges along my jaw so I’ll tilt my head back, leaving my neck exposed to his warm kisses. “I did a lot of math in my head.”
I laugh softly, my hands lifting to his sides, and for long, delicious minutes we kiss, Reid’s mouth on mine hungry, his hands growing restless, impatient. But when he lowers himself onto me farther, when our hips roll to meet each other’s in the rhythm we’ve perfected together, the bed protests, a squeak so loud it could absolutely wake the dead.
I stiffen immediately. As though I am impersonating the dead.
Game over.
Reid groans again, this time right against the skin of my neck, his body tight with frustration, and I breathe out a quiet laugh, rubbing my hands over his back, trying desperately to ignore—to not rub against—the rock-hard, denim-covered length between his legs that is still resting against averysensitive place between my own. I’m concentrating on slowing my panting breaths and my quick, aroused heartbeat when he speaks again, his voice low and gruff and desperate.
“Christ, I wish we were home.”
Before I can stop myself, I stiffen again, my hands on Reid’s back stutter-stopping in surprise before I move them again, trying to smooth over the thrill that had gone through me at his words.
I wish we were home.
In the city.
