“I won’t. Although nobody would be shocked to hear you’ve developed deeper feelings for George.”
Deeper feelings. That’s it exactly.
“He’s George,” Mom says. “He’s the best.”
“He is. A top-tier human.”
“Did you know he always sends flowers on my birthday?”
“Yes, I did know that.”
“Nice ones, too. You know, you might be right. I think I dolike George more than my own children.” She laughs before saying, “I’m so happy for you, Frankie. For both of you.”
“I don’t know what it will look like,” I say. “Or how it will work. Or anything at all.”
I can hear her smiling. “Well, my love, that’s life.”
“I miss you,” I say, my eyes welling.
Her voice tightens. “Honey, I miss you all the time.”
Chapter Forty-four
We take the food back to the resort, along with a couple of cans of Surfeza from the brewery. By the time we arrive, another storm is rolling in. The rain is fierce. We stare out the windshield, then at each other. George reaches for the take-out bag on the back seat.
“Picnic?”
I nod and crack open a can of beer to share. We lay out the food on checkered wax paper. I rip off a corner of the okonomiyaki pancake and hold it out to George. He takes it from me with his teeth, his eyes fastened to mine. I give him a piece of cucumber next, and he uses it as an excuse to suck my fingers into his mouth.
We eat it all with our hands, watching each other lick ponzu sauce and mayo from our thumbs. We feed each other tastes of gyoza and plump pink bites of shrimp. The windows are fogged.George’s gaze keeps sliding to my lips. It’s the sexiest meal I’ve ever had.
It’s still raining when we’ve finished, so we run hand in hand to the villa. I open the door, and no sooner am I inside than George lifts me off my feet, sweeping me up like a bride on her wedding night. He carries me upstairs, where he returns me to my feet.
It starts like a tango. His hand finds the middle of my back, at the bottom of my rib cage, with the barest of pressure, and I know exactly where he’ll lead me. The kiss is soft and reverent, and somehow it’s even hotter than the ones that have come before it. It feels like an undoing. When my tongue finds his, he takes things even slower, as if he wants to memorize every sound, every contour. His fingers dip below my shirt, and I raise my arms so he can pull it off. George undresses me in steps, slowly and smoothly, and it feels like a new dance we intuitively already know the steps to.
A streak of lightning spears the sky as George leads me to the edge of the bed and then sinks to his knees. I bring my hand to his face, brushing a defiant curl off his forehead. My fingers trace the hard line of his jaw.
“I didn’t imagine this was a possibility right now,” he rasps before kissing the inside of one thigh, then the other.
I lean back on my elbows as George brings his mouth to me and paints me in bold strokes with his tongue. After I fall apart, chanting his name, he explores his way up my body.
“I’m not sure what it says about me that I like this so much,” he says, kissing my tattoo. “My name on your skin.”
His glasses are off, and his cheeks are scarlet. It’s an important discovery—his skin reddens when he’s turned on. I pull off his shirt and trace a finger over his ribs.
“I like it, too. Mine on yours.”
He looks up at me through the dark fan of his lashes, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his lips. His hair is lawless. My heart skips at the sight of him.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I’m struck with a sudden jealous jolt for everyone who’s seen George’s swollen mouth and heated gaze. I hate the other women who’ve touched his tattoo, who’ve felt the blunt ends of his fingertips on their skin. I know there are dozens of them. But a wild, terrible part of me takes satisfaction in knowing every one has seen my name on his body.
A crack of thunder echoes in the distance.
We kiss as I attack the button on his jeans, rushing to get them off. Our lips briefly part so we can get them down, and then I’m fumbling for his underwear. I make it clear: I need himnow. I pass him a condom and hook my leg around his hip.
