Chapter 17 Wes
THEN
The sand is warm under my feet and Luca is ahead of me, walking at the water's edge with his jeans rolled to his calves and his shoes in one hand. The beach is wide and flat and the afternoon sun is low enough to turn everything gold. He has been walking ten steps ahead of me since we hit the sand.
He turns. "Are you going to walk or are you going to photograph the sand?"
"I'm walking."
"You've been standing in that spot for a full minute. I counted."
"I'm looking at the water."
"You look at water every morning from the balcony. This is the same water."
"It's not the same water. Different angle. Different light."
I raise the camera. He is standing in the surf with the wind pushing his hair sideways and his face turned toward me.
I take the frame. He doesn't pose. He just stands there with his shoes in his hand and his feet in the wet sand and the whole ocean behind him like it showed up to be in his photograph.
"Did you just take my picture?"
"I took a picture of the water. You happened to be standing in it."
"I did not happen to be standing in it. I am the focal point." He raises one finger. "Show me."
I walk to him and hold the screen out. His feet in the wet sand. The water pulling back around his toes. The light catching the tops of his feet and the sun behind him and the whole afternoon held in one frame.
"That's a nine," he says.
"The water or the photo?"
"The feet. The feet are a nine."
He looks at me and then he looks past me at the beach. The couple walking their dog. The woman under an umbrella reading thirty yards up the shore. Two men standing close together at the water's edge and the entire open afternoon not caring.
We find ourselves at a restaurant on a side street, two blocks from waterfront. Tile floors, ceiling fans turning slow, a patio that faces the ocean. Luca picks the outside table. He has picked the outside table every night since we arrived.
"The ceviche," he tells the server, "and whatever he's having."
"The grouper is fresh. I called ahead."
"You are the most thorough person I have ever been on vacation with."
"I'm the only person you've been on vacation with."
"Which makes you the title holder by default and by merit."
The ceviche arrives. Eight-one. We agree without debate.
"Agreed on first pass," he types into the Notes column. "Suspicious."
"Why is agreement suspicious?"
"Because we have never agreed on a number without a fifteen-minute argument. Consensus without conflict suggests one of us is compromised."
"Or the ceviche is an eight-one." I raise an eyebrow at him.
"The ceviche is an eight-one. But I'm flagging the consensus."
The server refills our wine. The ceiling fan turns. Nobody in this restaurant is paying attention to us. I keep noticing. I keep noticing how little effort it takes to be with this man here.
We walk back along the beach road and I can hear the waves through the palms to our left.
The villa is small and white with blue shutters and a balcony that fits two chairs and a railing.
His suitcase is open on the floor by the window.
My camera bag is on the dresser. The sheets have not been made since the first morning because we keep getting tangled in them and then leaving for the beach before either of us remembers.
He walks to the balcony and leans on the railing with both forearms. I lean next to him. His hip against mine. No gap. No distance to manage.
"I want to rate the island," he says.
"You can't rate an entire island."
"The beach is a nine-one. The restaurants are an eight-three average. The villa is a seven-nine."
"Docked for what?"
"Water pressure."
"The water pressure is fine."
"The water pressure is a six. I have been telling you this for four days."
"What's the overall?"
He turns his head. The ocean is dark below us and his eyes are close and steady and his face is one I only see when we are alone.
"The overall is a ten," he says. "Definitely a ten."
I kiss him. Slow and open and his mouth is warm and he tastes like wine and salt air. His hands come up to my jaw and hold me there.
"Inside," he says against my mouth.
We leave the balcony door open. He pulls my shirt over my head. I pull his over his. He walks backward toward the bed and pulls me down onto him and his skin is warm from the day's sun and I can taste the salt on his collarbone when I press my mouth there.
His hand goes to the back of my head. His fingers push into my hair.
I take my time. I kiss his chest. His ribs.
The muscle along his stomach where it tightens under my lips.
I mouth the skin below his navel and his hips lift and the sound he makes is low and patient.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of his shorts and pull them down.
His cock is hard against his stomach, the head slick.
I wrap my hand around the base and stroke once, slow, watching his face.
His eyes half-close. His lips part. His hips push into my grip.
"Wes," he breathes my name.
"I'm here."
I lower my mouth and take him in. His exhale is sharp and his hand tightens in my hair.
I take him deep, my lips at the base, my throat opening around him, and pull back slow with my tongue flat along the underside.
He is thick and warm and the taste of him is clean and salt-sharp and I want to stay here.
I want to learn every sound he makes when there is no time limit and no wall between my mouth and his body.
I take him deep again and his thigh tenses under my palm and his hips rock up.
"Fuck. Your mouth." His head drops back and his chest is flushed and his hand in my hair is pulling without pulling.
I pull off and press my lips to his hip. He grabs my shoulders and hauls me up and kisses me hard, tasting himself on my tongue, his hand going to my belt. He gets it open. Gets the zipper down. His hand wraps around my cock and strokes and my whole body goes still.
"I want you inside me," he says. Calm and direct and his eyes on mine.
I reach for the lube on the nightstand. He opens his legs and I settle between them and slick my fingers.
I press one inside him and he exhales and his eyes stay on mine.
His body opens and his jaw loosens and his hand grips the sheet beside his hip.
I add a second finger and curl them and his back lifts off the mattress and the sound he makes is sharp and raw and his cock twitches against his stomach.
"More. Wes, more."
A third finger. I work him open and I take my time with it because I have time.
Because there is no clock and no flight and no door to listen for.
His hips are rocking onto my hand and his cock is leaking against his stomach, a slick line from the head to his navel, and he is watching me watching him and his face is open and hungry and entirely mine.
"Now," he says. "I'm ready."
I slick myself and line up and press the head of my cock against him and push in.
Slow. His legs come up around my hips and his hands grip my shoulders and I watch his face as his body takes me in.
His mouth opens. His brow pulls tight and then smooths.
His fingers dig into my back and then his eyes open and find mine and stay.
"Slow," he says. "Like that."
I move. Deep and steady and unhurried. Each stroke full, his body tight and hot around me, his legs pulling me closer on every push.
His cock is hard between us, pressed against my stomach, slick with precome, and every time I thrust deep he makes a sound that is low and wrecked and patient all at once.
I shift my angle and his breath catches and his nails scrape down my arms.
"There. Right there. Don't stop."
I lace my fingers in his hand beside his head and wrap my other hand around his cock and stroke him in time with my hips. His body is taut under me. His face is flushed and his mouth is open. His eyes are dark and watching me. I am looking at him and I realize I don't need to be careful here.
"I love you," I say.
His hand goes still on my shoulder. His eyes search my face.
"I love you, Luca," I say again.
"I love you, too." No pause. No beat. His voice cracks on it and his hand comes up to my face and his fingers press into my jaw. "I love you, Wes."
I feel every word in my chest and my throat and the place where his body is holding me.
He pulls my face down and kisses me and I thrust deep and stay and his whole body tightens around me.
I stroke him faster, my grip firm, my thumb running over the slick head on every pass, and his hips stutter and his breath goes ragged against my mouth.
He comes. Hot across his stomach and my hand, his back arched, his mouth open against my cheek, his body clenching around me in waves.
I come right after. Bury myself deep and hold and let go, my forehead pressed against his, both of us breathing the same air, his arms around my back and his mouth against my temple saying my name into my skin.
We lie still, his hand is on my back drawing slow lines between my shoulder blades. His breathing slows against my chest.
I pull out carefully and reach for the towel on the nightstand. I clean us both up with slow hands and he watches me without speaking. I drop the towel on the floor and lie back down and he rolls into me, his head on my chest, his palm flat over my heart.
"Did you mean it?" he says.
"Which part?"
"Don't do that." He lifts his head and looks at me. "Did you mean it."
"I meant it before tonight. I think I've meant it for months."
He puts his head back down. His finger traces my collarbone. "I meant it the day you handed me gelato and remembered my order from the week before."
I press my mouth against the top of his head. His hair smells like salt and sunscreen.
"Luca?"
"Mhm."
"I love you."
"I know." His voice is going loose at the edges. He is almost asleep. "I love you, Wes. Don't let me forget to rate the wine from dinner."
"Go to sleep."
"The wine was a seven-eight."
"Go to sleep."
"Seven-eight. Notes column: consumed before Wes said he loves me. Premium applied."
His breathing evens out. His weight settles against me. His hand stops moving on my chest and his fingers spread wide and go still.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The camera roll opens to the photograph from this afternoon. His feet in the wet sand. The water pulling back around his toes. The light on his skin and the whole ocean behind him.
I set it as my wallpaper.
He is asleep on my chest with the balcony door open and the ocean steady through the room and three days of this trip still ahead of us. The world feels more full than it did hours ago when I took that picture.
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