Chapter Eight Mateo #3
"One year to go," I start, clearing my throat and seeking a middle ground. "And if we're doing this, I don't want to hold back anymore. Not if it's only about protecting ourselves from feeling too much. I want to hold you, and you want the truth."
"Like the day you came over to tell me you were leaving for the summer."
"That night, too."
"You want more of those."
"Yes."
"Without getting away with anything."
"Without crossing lines in the first place," I say. “Not the ones that would mean we’ve given up on each other.”
He turns toward me then, and while we're huddled under the blanket—and while it feels like that first night—I pull him into my lap.
Jamie's strong thighs are on either side of mine, and he's quick to readjust the blanket like he had back then, the pure longing on his face something I wish I could kiss away.
Jamie presses his forehead to mine. "This isn’t giving up?"
"This is close. But it hasn't done me any good to keep my distance from you. I don't love you any less just because we don't touch like this."
"I don't love you any less, either. But in public—" He trails off and eases back so we can see each other clearly.
He's so goddamn pretty.
"We'll be careful then, but it’s what I want—I want to go out more than we already have. Just the two of us, or with Kai or Sophie or anyone else."
"What about Harper?"
I tilt my head and can't figure out what he's asking. "What about her?"
"I still don't want her to know about us. Not everything, anyway," Jamie sighs. "I don't want to put her in the position of having to keep our secret."
"Okay, how do you feel about her knowing we're friends?"
He's quiet for a moment, his hands clinging to the blanket while mine are at his waist. I want to feel the warmth of his skin, but even after telling him I'm okay pushing up against a line that will make me ache, I hold back. His answer matters. After all, Harper is why we're hiding in the dark.
"Let's wait until soccer starts again," he finally says. "It'll be easy then. She's mentioned that I should take you to L.A. for a game, and maybe she was half kidding, but I don't think she'd blink if I actually followed through. I don't think she'd care."
"And then we hit it off at the game, talk a little more at soccer, decide to hang out again—"
"Exactly. And when she's with Danielle or at Lizzie's or Kate's—"
I smile. "I can touch you again."
"I want you to touch me now," Jamie whispers.
My hands are moving before I can think it through, my fingers under a hoodie that hasn't belonged to me for three years. He's watching me, his arrogance flashing where everything else is dim, and I pause.
"You're daring me."
He shakes his head. "I'm trusting you."
I'm curious what Jamie would do given the same free rein, but he hasn't let go of the blanket yet and shows no signs of doing so now.
On another night, in a different place, he can have it all, but we're on his bench and my only limits are the ones I don't want to talk about anymore.
My hands slide higher, over a body slightly softer than the last time I touched it like this, and my own body reacts immediately.
Everything is familiar when it barely has a reason to be, but the attention I pay to his nipples is newer than that, and I earn an unexpected sound, lower than the whimpers I've been blessed with before.
Arrogance fades into desire I know well.
With my hands still under our hoodie, I brush my thumbs over his nipples one more time, then flatten my hands as they travel over his rib cage and around to his back.
The move has Jamie arching into me, dangerous and nothing I plan to stop.
A second later, he curls forward, his face buried in my messy hair when he says my name.
I say his name too, and memorize the moment for when I'm alone.
When I scrape my fingernails down his spine, he trembles, and I ignore the slight thrust of his hips. Then I do it again, and for a moment, I feel damn near arrogant, too.
My heart is pounding, and it works in tandem with the slow roll of the ocean to make me think of another night, still more than a year away.
We're in public here, but it hardly matters, and with Jamie's blanket or mine, we'd be able to do anything without the fear of being caught.
Next summer might be so much like tonight—so much like then—but with him in my lap, and nothing between us anymore.
He'd sound the same, too. Little moans and promises made against my ear each time he takes me deep.
Without realizing it, my hands have dropped to his waist again, tight there. I'm the one to thrust this time. "God, Jamie."
"I know. Me, too."
We're both in sweatpants, and it renders any other words unnecessary.
Our situation isn't unlike the night I'd spent with him at his house, when he'd loaned me something more comfortable to sleep in.
We'd woken with morning wood, unsurprising on any day and less so when we'd stayed tangled together while we slept.
But we hadn't talked about it then because we hadn't been so close to do something about it.
We don’t talk about it now, either.
Jamie trusts me.
"I can't kiss you."
"No, you can't," he says, his mouth hot against my neck. "We're doing all we can."
"But it's just over a year," I tell him. "If we’re still waiting, it's just over a year."
"We're still waiting. Of course we are. We're almost there."