I sigh out a shaky breath, sagging a little as the last of my anxious thoughts recede, and he leans in, putting his lips close to my ear.
“I brought you out here because of these.”
At first I can’t do much more than shudder from the feel of his breath against the skin there. It’s warm and patient and perfect.
“Because of my tattoos?”
He nods, giving me a teasing scrape of his evening stubble.
“Flowers,” he murmurs.
I think of first driving up to this farm, the shock of shame I felt, imagining Adam’s family seeing my line-drawn imitations of all these bright, alive things. When we first came here, I was afraid of being seen, being open.
But now I’m reminded: Adam sees me. Adam hasopenedme.
Adam is trying to know me for himself.
“They’re not finished. I never got the color done.”
“I like them this way.”
He moves again, leaning back and maneuvering me slightly to the side so my center is no longer pressed directly against him. He takes my tattooed arm and lifts it, setting my wrist on his shoulder. Then he draws closer, moves his lips in that same pattern his thumb traced, and I feel it everywhere. Heat spreading evenly, perfectly, slow enough that I can savor it.
“This field at night. That’s what your tattoos remind me of.”
He gently nips at the skin of my inner arm.
My hips roll against his thigh. His breath catches, the hand at my waist tightening before he presses his face in the crook of my neck. I think he might say something about a couch, but I don’t catch it, and it doesn’t matter. This small show of desperation—even as he’s trying to reset this, to get us in a better position for it—makes me feel so wanted, so powerful.
Like I’m in exactly the right sort of in control.
I dip my chin and whisper to him.
“I’m named after a flower.”
He lifts his head and settles his back against the truck cab, pushing my hair over my shoulders before trailing his hands down again to hold my waist. He watches me, curious and patient.
“Jessamine,” I whisper. “I don’t know if Tegan already told you that. When . . .”
I trail off, not wanting to bring it up, that time before Adam knew me at all.
That time before he knew me like this.
“She didn’t. It’s a beautiful name.”
“I like Jess.”
He nods. “Me too. But it’s nice knowing what it comes from.”
I kiss him again, and it’s better now: smooth like the trampoline,rooted, steady and shared and so good. When we pause I whisper his name—a prompt, an invitation.Tell me about your name, too.
“Not much of a story there,” he breathes. “First son, father’s name.”
“It’s a good name.” I trace my tongue along his neck, up to the lobe of his ear. He groans, and I file that sensitivity away.
Knowinghim.
For myself.
