I look at our villa, pretending to consider the distance, and then I take off.
“Cheater,” I hear George call.
I run as fast as I can, holding the skirt of my dress in one hand. I’m eight years old, tearing through the field to the creek, and then twelve years old, beating him in the one-hundred-meter sprint. But at any moment George is going to catch up to me. It’s that thought that has me pumping my legs harder. I want him to reach me, but I also want to win.
I let out a whoop when my feet hit the path up to the villa, and when I get to the door, I slam my hand against it just secondsbefore George does the same. He’s right behind me, his breath hot on my neck.
“I win,” I manage to say.
I feel George’s mouth on my shoulder. “You win.”
I dig out the key card from my pocket and unlock the door. I glance at George, then reach for his hand. “I’m ready to claim my prize,” I say, pulling him inside behind me.
I back him up against the closed door, and we’re kissing again, with no doubt as to where this is headed. The hard press of George against my stomach makes me feral. I pull off his jacket and drop it to the floor, then hike up his shirt. Once it’s gone, I go for his belt.
I want to get to know George in a way I never thought was available to me. I’m going to explore every part of him. His collarbone. The divot at the base of his throat. I’m going to put my tongue on his tattoo.
“Frankie,” George whispers as I unzip his jeans. I know exactly what I want, and I want it now. I sink to my knees, pushing his pants down his legs. I stare up at him from beneath my eyelashes as I pull down the edge of his white boxer briefs to reveal the scar above his hip. I press my mouth to it.
I run my tongue over the silver horseshoe. And then I kiss it again, my hand moving to his erection. I want him in my mouth. I want him everywhere.
I hear George swear. I look up and his head is tipped back against the door. I watch his throat bob as he swallows.
He takes a shuddering breath but reaches for me, pulling me back to my feet. I let out a cry of protest and he kisses me sweetly.
“This is our first date.”
“And it was going very well for you,” I say.
“If you were going to do what I think you were going to do, it was only going to go well for about sixty seconds. And I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“Sixty seconds, huh?”
“Honestly, that may be a generous estimate.”
I laugh. “So how do you propose we end our first date, then?”
“I’ll kiss you good night, and then you’ll go to bed up there, and I’ll sleep down here.”
“Hard no. What is this, Victorian times?”
He looks down at himself. The bare chest. The erection stretching his underwear. “Don’t think so. No.”
“Please stay with me,” I tell him. “I hate thinking of you on the couch. Tomorrow, when I wake up, I want to see you lying in bed next to me. I want to know that this is real.”
It might be the most vulnerable thing I’ve said all night.
“It’s real, Frankie.” He takes my hand and puts it on his heart. “Nothing is more real than this.”
“Stay with me,” I whisper. It’s our first date, but it’s also our thousandth date. “I want to be close to you.”
“Okay,” he says, wrapping his fingers through mine. “How can I say no to that?”
That night, I lie on a bed strewn with rose petals and fall asleep in my best friend’s arms, knowing that I’m safe. And that he is, too.
Chapter Thirty-nine
We Were Twenty-Seven
