I held out my hand for the notepad.
I’m sorry my parents are so crazy.
He took the notepad back, hesitated, then wrote.
I’m jealous.
I drew him a heart.
But in a good way,he added.
Not too late to go to the motel,I scrawled.
He raised an eyebrow and took back the pen.
I’d rather eat you out surrounded by the cold, soulless eyes of a thousand abandoned stuffed animals.
He quickly looked outside then held up a finger to his lips.
Almost gracefully, he knelt in front of me, hooked his fingers in the waist of the shorts, and slid them down.
I lay back against the mound of stuffed animals.
One of his large hands covered my mouth as he pulled at the thin straps of my bikini. His mouth was on me, licking my breast and sucking on my nipple. It was good thing he had my mouth covered because I would have cried out when his fingers slid under the swimsuit bottoms.
He suckled my breasts while he stroked me, then he pulled the fabric down.
I lifted my legs so he could slide the thong bikini bottoms off of me. He flung them to the carpet. I spread my legs for him as he dipped his head down to lick me, sucking on my aching clit, his tongue swirling down to dip at my opening then back up.
He sucked and licked me to a frenzy while I held onto the arm that covered my mouth, my nails digging into his sun-kissed forearm. The muscle and sinew flexed under my hands as he held me down while he licked me, his tongue bringing me to the cresting wave of pleasure.
A groan escaped through my nose as he milked the last of the pleasure.
After he released me, I grabbed the notebook and scrawled in shaky handwriting,Damn.
He left me there and grabbed the tea to take a sip as he regarded me.
Then he wrote on the notepad,If your parents weren’t here, I’d fuck you ’til you screamed.
Grayson hadhis sleeves rolled up and a pair of sunglasses on and the top few buttons of his dress shirt undone as we walked through the farmers market the next day. He was carrying a basket for my mother while she showed him around the market, telling him about how lots of restaurants from Orlando came here to purchase for their fine-dining menus.
“Grayson seems like a good man,” my dad said casually. We were staffing the family orange stand where we sold orange scones, orange marmalade, orange juice, and of course oranges.
“He is,” I agreed, still watching him with my mom.
“Do you love him?” my dad asked after a moment.
Did I love Grayson? I loved everything—the cute dog that the guy in the subway was carrying in a backpack, the chocolate-filled croissants at the bakery around the corner, the guy at the bodega who always sang the song fromThe Little Mermaidwhen he saw me, my favorite dark-pink sparkly gel pen that had the perfect flow rate and didn’t smear. I loved stickers, cake with lots of buttercream frosting, and the beach.
But Grayson? It seemed a little trite to put what I felt for him in the same category. Grayson, with his notes, and the hat he bought for his pet rock, and the expression on his face when he talked about his mother, and the voice he used when he was having a conversation with Gizzy and he thought I wasn’t listening.
“He’s—I—we’re …”
My dad gave me a knowing look.
“Words just don’t quite cut it. You need a song then. That’s what I feel for your mom—it’s bigger than love. It’s a whole song with dancing seashells singing the chorus.”
“I need a whole Broadway musical for Grayson,” I said longingly.
