I say yes as though he’s asking me if I want ten million dollars or to leave the tenth circle of hell. As though it’ll be my last chance to say yes for this entire trip.
Adam only smiles at me in response, and those warm coals inside me flare with heat.
And I have to wonder.
I have to wonder how many moreyeses I have in me tonight.
* * *
“YOUlike it?”
It’s not as easy to say yes as I thought.
And not because I don’t like it.
Because Iloveit.
I’m sitting in the bed of a pickup truck Adam borrowed from the farm’s garage, the hard, ridged steel beneath me barely a bother since Adam has covered it with two layers of thick, freshly laundered blankets. Beside me, the firm length of his body is warm and a little restless as he continues to fuss with this nest he’s made for us.
The sky above us is the darkest navy blue, dotted with pinprick stars and bearing a curved slash of white light in the form of the crescent moon.
And in front of us, rolled out like a magic carpet, are rows and rows and rows of flowers, their blooms gently waving with the night wind.
I can’t name them, because I can’t see them clearly enough in the dark.
But I can smell them, fragrant and lovely, all around me, in a place where we’re finally—finally—all alone.
It’s overwhelming. The only truly romantic gesture I’ve ever experienced in my life. I hardly know how to process it.
“Jess?”
I realize that Adam has stilled, no more fussing. He’s waiting for me to answer. There’s a look in his eyes I recognize from all the times during this trip I’ve been caught off guard by some new revelation about my mother—that same cautious concern blended with his innate protectiveness.
He’s worried I don’t want to be out here with him. That I’ve changed my mind.
I love it, I know I should say, but I’m still too overwhelmed to get it out.
So instead, I lean in—fast and desperate—and fit my mouth against his.
At first, it’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for. Adam responds how I need him to: immediate, intense,grateful. He makes a noise at the back of his throat and finds my hips with his big hands and practically yanks me against him, all thatI want these two fucking daysenergy back in full force. I don’t know how he gets me back to straddling his lap; I just know I’m there when I feel the thick, hard length of him against the center of me.
But then those smoldering coals in my middle—they seem to catch the same breeze that’s rustling the flowers out there, and suddenly flames are licking up my ribs, my chest, my neck. It’s the igniting I thought I wanted, but when I rock my hips against him, I’m almost alarmed by how hot and impatient I feel—a strange, panicked desperation I don’t remember experiencing on the trampoline. When one of Adam’s thumbs grazes the underside of my breast, I arch into him suddenly, electrified by even this incidental over-the-shirt contact. It feels incredible but also shamefully immature—too close, too soon, my body a live wire I don’t know well enough to control when there’s another person involved in giving it pleasure.
Anxious thoughts nag at the periphery of my mind:How much time do we have left, what if I’ve forgotten how to do this, what happens tomorrow, what if I’ve been irresponsible, what if Tegan isn’t okay . . .
Adam stills and pulls his lips from mine, shifting his hand to rest on the curve of my upper arm, and I know those flames inside me must be congregating in my face, turning it tomato red with embarrassment. I was moving too fast; I was out of control.
His gaze searches mine, and if there’s a comfort, it’s that his breath is heavy, too, his length beneath me still rock-hard.
“You okay?”
Once again, the easyyesgets caught in my throat. I barely manage a nod, but Adam doesn’t press. He keeps his thumb stroking over that spot on my arm, slowing its movement in time with his breathing and my own.
When I’m calmed down, cooled down enough to focus again, I notice that the way he’s touching me is more complicated than a simple up-and-down or back-and-forth over my skin. Instead, he runs his thumb up in a line, then traces a circle. Moves a little to the right, does it again. Over and over, inner arm to outer edge. A pattern.
After a few seconds, I realize: He’s tracing along the lines of my tattoos.
As though he’s memorized them.
