Great Big Beautiful Life(61)

“Me too,” he whispers right beneath my ear.

He’s hard against my back, and I will myself not to move around too much, but it’s an effort. I feel antsy, exhilarated. His next warm breath makes me bow, and his hand folds over the top of mine, not touching me himself but touching me all the same.

He moves my hand up higher, brings it fully over my chest with a groan into my ear. I push myself back against him, and he skims higher, reaching the neckline of my shirt, letting me pull it down myself, his warm breath feathering down to dance along my bare skin. His hand tightens around mine, gripping me without gripping me. I press back, trying to find the friction between us, and he takes the opportunity to guide my hand lower, pulling the neckline down until my left breast is exposed to the moonlight. “God, Alice,” he hisses. “We’d be so good together.”

I whimper as he sets my hand where he wants it, catches my nipples between my own fingers. “I want to,” I whisper.

“Not now,” he says. “If you still want to, after all of this…” He trails off as his lips brush the side of my throat, not quite kissing, just teasing.

He drags my hand down my center, all the way to my skirt. I squirm at the pressure between my thighs, but he keeps moving until he reaches the hem and then guides my hand beneath the fabric, settling my palm against myself. I grind myself back against him, and he gently cups me over my hand.

He swears, thrusts behind me, and the sensation shoots through my bloodstream like firecrackers. “We were just supposed to touch,” he murmurs.

“Then touch me, Hayden,” I say.

His hand releases from mine and slides up over my chest, tight, kneading. I bite down on a cry as he pushes the fabric down again, and I arch back, desperate for his mouth to touch my bare skin. Instead he buries it safely in my hair, and does what I asked.

Touches me. Drags a thumb roughly over my nipple, then catches it between his pointer and middle fingers on a groan. I turn hungrily toward him, reach for his belt. He catches my wrist, stilling me. “I’m touching you, remember?” he says, gently removing my hand from the buckle. He sets it on the side of his neck, then slips his hand between my thighs.

I gasp at the smooth glide of his fingers over me, my legs parting. His eyes watch me drunkenly, and as I move myself against him, he swallows hard, gravels, “You’re so wet.”

“I know,” I whisper.

He buries his face in my neck again, a frustrated groan vibrating through him as he slides his hand down the inside of my thigh, as if with great effort. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” he says finally.

Surprise pulls a shallow, breathy laugh out of me. “Why?”

“Because I think we should go out,” he says. “Somewhere with a lot of people, and very bright lights.”

I’d personally rather be somewhere warm, dark, cozy, and private.

“I can’t.”

He stills for a second, then nods, his expression seeming to zip up, going from raw and intimate to cool and almost businesslike, despite the very unbusinesslike position we’re lying in. “Of course,” he says, as if he expected this, as if he’s the one who crossed the line when it was, as always, me.

“No, Hayden!” I grab his hand and pull it in between us. “I mean, I can’t. I’m going down to see my mom tomorrow.”

“Oh.” His brows flinch upward in surprise, then slowly settle into a furrow. “Is that stressful for you?”

“No, not really,” I say. It’s only partly a lie. Partly in that it is definitely stressful, but it’s also nice and fun and everything else, at intervals.

“It’ll be lonely here without you,” he says matter-of-factly, and I try not to melt into the sand, where the goop of my former body would never be entirely recovered.

“You could come with me,” I say. At the way he startles, I hurry to add, “Not like come meet my mom. Just, like, she’s always happy to have guests. And her house isn’t exceptionally bright, but it’s not private because she’s there, plus a bunch of chickens, and—never mind. Just an idea.”

“Wouldn’t that be weird?” he asks, gaze narrowing. “I mean, how would we explain what…” He trails off, apparently unwilling to say the mortifying phrase what we are or the equally damning what’s going on between us.

But I meant what I said: “My mom’s an amazing host, actually. It’s one of her passions. I’ve brought home a lot of friends over the years. She’d love to have you.”

He thinks it over.

“No pressure.” I sit up, a more respectable distance between us. “Just if you wanted to get out of town.”

He does the same, still silent, face serious and eyes watchful on the waves.

My cheeks start burning.

“I don’t want you to invite me to be polite,” he says suddenly.

My gaze snaps toward him. “I’m not,” I promise. “And I really don’t want you to say yes to be polite.”

“You forget,” he says, “I never do anything to be polite.”

At my laugh, he reaches out and gently touches my lips, light and fleeting. “I’d love to go.”

I beam back at him. “Good.”

And then, quickly, almost like he didn’t mean to at all, Hayden leans forward and kisses my cheek. “I’ll walk you back to your car,” he says, starting to stand.