“I like you saying it. I always wanted you to say it, from when we first met.”
Smoothly, swiftly, he moves me again, rolling me so I’m on my back. The view is perfect: half Adam, half wide-open sky.
Make me say your name a hundred times tonight, I’m thinking.I’ll introduce you to the stars.
“I called you Adam in my head. Never Hawk.”
He leans down and says “Good” against my mouth, and our kisses grow heated again, our tongues tangling and our hands roaming over each other.
And that’s how it happens. That’s how Adam and I find the right rhythm between two kinds of knowing.
The perfect dance.
He slips a hand beneath my shirt and says,I have to know how much shampoo you use, and I answer him with a gasp as he moves his thumb across one of my nipples.
I rub my palm over the front of his jeans, pressing against the hard bulge there, and say,Where do you buy all your clothes, while he groans out a response.
Do you know your mouth tilts right here—his tongue at the corner of my lip, his hand sliding effortlessly beneath my underwear—when you’re trying not to laugh
Do you know—my hand finding the hot length of him—the tops of your ears turn pink when you’re embarrassed
His fingers stroking between my legs, spreading my wetness
Do you like it this way
Can I take these off
Is it good
My face against his neck, my teeth against his humid skin
How come you smell so good when you sweat
His hips pulsing in time with my hand, his jaw tight with restraint
How come you smell so good all the time
We’re quiet for a good long while when bare skin meets bare skin; we stick to the one kind of knowing. I find out that Adam’s body underneath his clothes is as impressive as it is when he’s in them: sharp planes, firm packs, sturdy curves. He finds out that I’ve got another tattoo, a small and clumsily drawn feather on the right side of my rib cage that I got the day I turned eighteen and that I’ve always regretted until Adam sets his lips against it. I learn that Adam likes when I grip his hard length tight, tight enough that he has to saywhen; Adam learns that I want his teeth on the soft underside of my breasts.
I know I’ve got more questions to ask, know I’ve got more things to learn, but at a certain point I become incapable of anything except making demands. I’m telling him
Do that againor
Come up hereor
Show me
And Adam listens—he’s such a good listener—every time he makes me come.
When I make my last demand—more of a gasping, desperate plea, really—Adam stills over me, a foil square waiting in his hand and a question in his eyes, on his lips.
“I’m sure,” I tell him, because I am—sure about right now, even if I’m not sure about tomorrow or how much time we have left or whether I’m being totally irresponsible out here in the open air in the back of a borrowed truck.
“I’ll stop anytime,” he says as he rolls on the condom, his voice soft and serious, an echo of what he once said to me in a tiny art gallery in the Florida Panhandle. He says it as though I didn’t know, as though he hasn’t shown me this same thing in some form or another since the day I met him.
I reach up and set one of my palms against his cheek at the same time I slide my other hand down to guide him against me. I use the head of his cock to tease my sensitive flesh; I make the now-sheathed surface of him wet with what I have to offer.
I look in his eyes and watch them shut tightly as he tries to harness his control.
