Dolly All the Time(63)

“Sure,” he says, and follows me to the kitchen.

I fill up the kettle and turn on the burner. It clicks a few times before it catches. I pull two mugs from the shelf: one Red Sox, one World’s Best Mom. I can feel him behind me. I take a breath and turn around. I look up and his gaze is heavy on me.

“Thank you again for tonight,” he says. “I liked having you in my corner.”

“Good,” I say. “That’s good. You’re getting your money’s worth.”

“You put your hand on my leg at dinner.”

“Was that too much? Seemed kind of natural in the moment.”

“It was,” he says. “Everything about being with you feels natural. Everything but not touching you.” He takes my hand, and I close my eyes for a second. Just to feel it.

I lean back against the stove. “Are you trying to say you want to kiss me again?”

“Obviously.”

I smile. “Just once?”

“Till you tell me to stop.”

We look at each other while he waits for my response. Stewart is a pleasure I am denying myself because he’s a daydream I’ll have to wake up from. But he wants me, that is undeniable. Neither of us is acting.

“Tell me what you said under the helicopter, and you can kiss me one more time,” I say.

He smiles. He wants to pay me a compliment as much as he wants to kiss me. I smile back and I wait.

“I said you take my breath away, more every time I see you.”

My heart takes that in. I can feel it soften and expand. To hell with it, I think. This daydream is worth whatever comes after. “Thank you,” I say, and I lean in to kiss him. I take it slowly, kissing his top lip and then his bottom. He’s letting me taste him without touching me at all, but when I cover his mouth with mine and wind my hands up into his hair, he grabs me by the hips and pulls me to him. We are instantly wrapped up in each other—mouths and arms and breath—as if that is where gravity would take us if we both just let go. My dress has come off my shoulder, and he’s trailing kisses there while I’m untucking his shirt.

He takes my hands and stops me. “Is this still part of that one kiss?”

I nod. There’s a reality where this kiss lasts until the end of August. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”

His mouth is on mine again and the kiss is endless. I’ve undone all of his buttons and am exploring his chest and his stomach with the tips of my fingers. I can feel him reacting to my touch, a hitch in his breath and his hips pressing into me. I stop kissing him and he bites his lip with worry.

“I’ll show you my bedroom,” I say, as if we’re still on a tour.

I turn the fire off under the kettle, lead him to my room, and turn on the lights. I am delighted to see that I took care making my own bed on the day we raced out of here. I’ve folded the white top sheet down over the pale pink comforter. Both pillows are fluffed and welcoming. I feel a hesitancy off Stewart, as if he’s not completely sure what’s happening here. It sends a thrill through me because I am.

“It’s pretty,” he says, squeezing my hand. He drags me with him to my bookshelves and scans all the photos of Gus and me. He picks up one of us in Red Sox gear, Gus sitting on my shoulders holding an ice cream cone that’s about to topple into my hair. He picks up a Little League trophy.

“1998? Is this yours?”

“It is,” I say. “I wasn’t bad.”

He smiles at me. “I bet.” He takes my other hand and asks, “Dolly, what’s happening here?”

I meet his gaze, and I know that we are in a delicate place. Each of us wants to take a step we’re unsure of. “Unzip my dress,” I say. He hesitates, but then turns me around and unzips it slowly, tracing each inch of skin with his fingers until it’s in a puddle on the floor just like I imagined. I step out of it and turn around. I’m in my bra and underwear—my own, beige from the annual sale at Macy’s. Busy didn’t think I’d need lingerie. I push his shirt off his shoulders and step toward him. He runs his hands along my waist, over the cotton of my underwear, and loops his thumbs inside, like he’s one cowboy-swift motion away from dropping them to the ground. I run my hands down his chest and rest them on his belt buckle without taking my eyes off his. He smiles just a bit, like it’s a question.

I pull him onto the bed with me. We land on our sides, facing each other, and he runs a hand along my side and over my hip. His mouth is close enough to mine that he smiles when my breathing goes shallow. But he doesn’t say anything, he just waits. I touch his face, the high ridge of his cheek and the small scar in his eyebrow that I’m seeing for the first time, and he leans in to my hand. He’s clean shaven on account of the Kramer dinner but he won’t be in the morning. I’m going to wake up with him here with his bed head and his sex smell. I lean in to kiss him and he rolls onto me.

He kisses me, slowly, and I get to savor it. His lips soft against mine, the way he tastes me like I’m chocolate. My hands grip his face, his mouth is on my neck, and my body is screaming for more of him. I push up into him and he whispers, “Dolly,” running his hands down the sides of my thighs. I fumble with his belt until he rolls off me and handles it himself. I feel a chill from having his body that far from me. It’s for a count of twenty, but I hear myself say, “You need to come back.” It’s such a small thing, saying what you want, and I’m not sure where it came from.