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Claiming Puerto Vallarta

Page 277

by J.R. Thomas

We don’t make it to the bed in any dignified way. The couch gets involved first. Then the floor. Then finally the mattress, where Paul ends up over me, breathless and flushed, his hair falling into his eyes, laughing because I’m laughing, because joy can be so damn clumsy.

I press my hands to his face and just look.

Mine, but not like property. Mine because he wants to be.

Paul’s smile softens. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Later, then.”

And as he works his way down my body, tongue trailing along my chest, I sigh. “Yeah, later.”

We eat pizza in bed because the dining room downstairs is dusty, and the tables are for picnics. Plus, the bed just feels right for this.

The mattress is on the floor, the plates balanced on a cardboard box between us. Paul has one leg stretched out, hair wrecked, looking at the slice in his hand like it might explain something important about the universe. Or at least the man next to him.

I fail at not staring.

Finally, he takes a bite.

Six months, four days, one commercial oven, two countries, and we’re finally here. Who knew pizza could be so complex?

Paul’s eyes brighten.

“Damn,” he says between chews. “This is really good.”

I bark out a laugh. “Fuck good. That’s the best pizza you’ll ever eat.”

“It might be.”

“Don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not surprised… just humbled.”

“Better.”

He takes another bite, and I lean back against the wall, watching him chew because I’ve earned the right to be creepy about this one particular slice of pizza.

Paul notices.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s never true with us.”

“I just wanted to see your face.”

His expression softens, and I feel full. I’m full and naked and sore and happy in a way that feels dangerous because I can imagine keeping it.

The room is warm with late-day light. The paintings watch us from every wall. Outside, Riverside makes small ordinary noises through the open window. Tires on pavement. The little cling-cling of someone’s bike bell.

No sea breeze. No Mexico.

I look at Paul. “Are you disappointed it’s not PV?”

He stops chewing, swallows.