We move together,slowly at first, as if we’re trying to make it last forever. Our eyes are joined, just like our bodies, breaking only when George lavishes kisses on my nose, my temples, my forehead. My hands grip his backside, keeping him as tight to me as possible. There’s no space between us, but I still want him closer.
He says my name, over and over.
“Frankie” whispered in my ear.
“Frankie” kissed over my eyelid.
And then “Frankie, sweetheart” sighed against my lips.
“I know,” I tell him. “I know, I know.”
Our skin becomes slick, our breaths catching.
Thunder and wind and rain roar at our doorstep, but we’ve created our own weather system. Sex with George is an act of destruction. This is a tempest, a hurricane, a cyclone. We’re ripping through our old selves. Our friendship. We’re tearing it all down to build something new.
My thighs clamp around his hips as tension rises inside me. I dig my nails into George’s flesh, and I lift my hips, needing friction. My moans become impatient, and I reach my hand between us. George rises onto his arms, looking down at me, swearing at the sight of me touching myself. He squeezes his eyes shut, and then he rolls us over onto our sides, lying behind me like hedid that morning. He slips one arm beneath me and rolls my nipple between his fingers. The other hand goes straight to the tight bundle of nerves between my legs. I cry in pleasure as he enters me again. I cry in relief.
George. My George. Mine.
Lightning spears through the sky, but our own storm is building momentum as it travels across the sea. This is a hurricane of our own making.
“Your eyes,” he rasps. “I want to see your eyes.”
I look at him over my shoulder.
“So beautiful,” he says. “The most beautiful violet eyes I’ve ever seen.”
I stare into a sea of blue as the last remaining wall of our friendship comes tumbling down.
Chapter Forty-one
We fit together like a pair of stacking cups afterward, listening to the storm outside. My body is a ripe plum, heavy and swollen and sweet, but my mind is calm. Finally at rest. It’s not because I just had an orgasm that George drew out almost endlessly, until he was coming, and hearing my name from his lips had me cresting and falling again. It’s because everything has changed exactly when it was supposed to. It’s because every fiber in me is sure about how right this is.
I don’t sleep for long, and when I wake, I let myself stare at George. He’s always moving or thinking, but when he’s sleeping, there’s nowhere for him to be, no problem to solve, and his edges soften. His lips and eyebrows relax. Even the steel jaw seems less sharp. I stare at the freckles scattered across his nose. He looks younger without his glasses.
I reach for them on the nightstand—filthy—and clean them on the sheet.
I’m tempted to wake him. I’m greedy for more, hungry to get as much of him as I can. As if he can read my thoughts, George’s hand reaches out, patting around with his eyes shut.
“You can have your Pradas back if you promise me something,” I say.
His fingers freeze. A smile coasts across his lips.
He cracks one eye, squinting. “Tell me what you want, and if you’re nice, I’ll consider it.”
“No fair,” I say. “You know I don’t do nice.”
“That’s true.” He takes his glasses and pulls me onto his chest, hugging me close. “A promise for a promise, then?”
I love how the words feel as he says them. I tilt my chin so I can see his face. I adore this face. It’s so familiar to me, but it looks brand-new. The red, well-kissed mouth. The sex-rumpled hair. The smell of us on his skin.
“I think you’ll like this one,” I say. “Promise me we can stay in bed all day, and I promise to make itveryworth your while.”
He looks at the bedside clock and groans. “I hate to say this, but there’s somewhere we need to be.”
“This,” I say, running a finger over the bow of his top lip, “is exactly where we need to be. You’re leaving for Mexico tomorrow.”
“I’m only gone for four weeks.”
