Chapter Forty-Four
We take the food back to the resort, along with a couple of cans of Surfeza from the brewery. By the time we arrive, another storm is rolling in. The rain is fierce. We stare out the windshield, then at each other. George reaches for the take-out bag on the back seat.
“Picnic?”
I nod and crack open a can of beer to share.
We lay out the food on checkered wax paper.
I rip off a corner of the okonomiyaki pancake and hold it out to George.
He takes it from me with his teeth, his eyes fastened to mine.
I give him a piece of cucumber next, and he uses it as an excuse to suck my fingers into his mouth.
We eat it all with our hands, watching each other lick ponzu sauce and mayo from our thumbs. We feed each other tastes of gyoza and plump pink bites of shrimp. The windows are fogged. George’s gaze keeps sliding to my lips. It’s the sexiest meal I’ve ever had.
It’s still raining when we’ve finished, so we run hand in hand to the villa. I open the door, and no sooner am I inside than George lifts me off my feet, sweeping me up like a bride on her wedding night. He carries me upstairs, where he returns me to my feet.
It starts like a tango. His hand finds the middle of my back, at the bottom of my rib cage, with the barest of pressure, and I know exactly where he’ll lead me.
The kiss is soft and reverent, and somehow it’s even hotter than the ones that have come before it.
It feels like an undoing. When my tongue finds his, he takes things even slower, as if he wants to memorize every sound, every contour.
His fingers dip below my shirt, and I raise my arms so he can pull it off.
George undresses me in steps, slowly and smoothly, and it feels like a new dance we intuitively already know the steps to.
A streak of lightning spears the sky as George leads me to the edge of the bed and then sinks to his knees. I bring my hand to his face, brushing a defiant curl off his forehead. My fingers trace the hard line of his jaw.
“I didn’t imagine this was a possibility right now,” he rasps before kissing the inside of one thigh, then the other.
I lean back on my elbows as George brings his mouth to me and paints me in bold strokes with his tongue. After I fall apart, chanting his name, he explores his way up my body.
“I’m not sure what it says about me that I like this so much,” he says, kissing my tattoo. “My name on your skin.”
His glasses are off, and his cheeks are scarlet. It’s an important discovery—his skin reddens when he’s turned on. I pull off his shirt and trace a finger over his ribs.
“I like it, too. Mine on yours.”
He looks up at me through the dark fan of his lashes, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his lips. His hair is lawless. My heart skips at the sight of him.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I’m struck with a sudden jealous jolt for everyone who’s seen George’s swollen mouth and heated gaze.
I hate the other women who’ve touched his tattoo, who’ve felt the blunt ends of his fingertips on their skin.
I know there are dozens of them. But a wild, terrible part of me takes satisfaction in knowing every one has seen my name on his body.
A crack of thunder echoes in the distance.
We kiss as I attack the button on his jeans, rushing to get them off. Our lips briefly part so we can get them down, and then I’m fumbling for his underwear. I make it clear: I need him now. I pass him a condom and hook my leg around his hip.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I ask.
“You can tell me all of them.”
I drag my hand through his torrent of waves, and he turns his head to kiss my wrist. “I liked it back then, too. When we first got them. Do you remember that morning?”
His eyes flash. I think he knows what morning I’m talking about, but I add, “In the kitchen.”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“That morning, I thought, ‘Oh fuck, George is kind of sexy.’ ”
His brow crooks, and he presses against me. “Just the once?”
I shake my head.
George sinks inside me, retreats, and pushes in all the way. He begins to move, and my mind goes blank. Every part of me is throbbing. I pull him into me, wanting more, deeper, harder. He gets the idea.
“Tell me, Frankie.”
I shake my head, my eyes falling closed. I don’t want to talk. George slows, then flips us, so I’m straddling him.
“Tell me,” he says again once I’ve found my rhythm.
Somehow, it’s easier to collect my thoughts when I’m in control, when I can see how the way I move affects George.
The muscles in his neck strain. His fingers clutch my hips like they’re keeping him afloat, and power floods me with such force I feel like I could cast a spell.
“I heard you once when you brought someone home.” The woman was obnoxiously loud, even with my head smothered by a pillow. After her third orgasm, I sat up in disbelief. And then George’s groan vibrated through the wall. He stares up at me now, his gaze ravenous.
“I don’t think you realized I was there,” I say. “At first I was irritated, but then…it was hot.”
George sits up, resting his back against the headboard, and pulls me down onto him. I grip his shoulders.
“What was hot?” George asks as he pulls a nipple into his mouth, greedy. He must have more wherewithal than I do, because his thumb is moving between my thighs and all I can do is arch into the sensation, eyes closed.
“Tell me,” he says again. “Be specific.”
“The sound you made when you came,” I say. “It was just…so sexy.”
He curses, and moments later, he shudders with a roar like the one I heard that night. The sound is my undoing. We fall together.
· · ·
We spend the rest of the day like this.
No part of the villa escapes our wrath.
We rip the sheets off the bed. We make use of the desk in the corner of the room, and the mirror in the bathroom.
The couch becomes our playground. The kitchen is home to another kind of feast. George goes down on me in the glass shower while I watch Mother Nature ravage the coast. The waves are gunmetal silver.
The sky is a palette of slate and black and yellow.
We’re frantic for each other, as if we have years of desire to burn through in one day. And maybe we do. At one point, my teeth ache with need, and I sink them into George’s shoulder. I spend an entire hour with my mouth on his scar, his tattoo, him. We use every item in the romance kit.
“What about you?” I ask him. We’re lying on our sides, naked, our fingers drawing lazy paths along curves and muscles. “Did you ever think of me before?”
A wicked grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Once or twice.”
“Is that it?” I ask, but I know he’s lying.
He shakes his head and traces a line with his index finger from my collarbone, down my breast, to my waist, and over my hip. “I imagined all of this. Seeing you. Touching you. Having you.”
I crush my lips to his, drunk on the power of this knowledge.
By evening, rose petals are all over the place. I find several in my hair and one pressed to my ass cheek like a pout of red lipstick. My body is flushed and pink. Sore but not sore enough.
George runs a bath, and we soak our weary bodies while the thunder rumbles and monstrous evergreens bow to the wind.
I’m purposely sitting on the other side of the tub, trying to maintain the pretense of bathing. But our feet are dancing together, the first dissenters in this charade.
I cross the tub, positioning myself on his lap, my thighs braced on either side of his. We get lost in kissing. I kneel above George, and he takes his time with my breasts. I run both hands through his hair, tugging on the curls, as he sucks and pinches.
“Tell me what you want,” he rasps. “Right now. Say the words.”
“I want you to touch me.”
“Here?” His thumb brushes over the spot that’s crying for friction, and my thighs shake.
“Yes.”
“Ask me nicely,” he says with a little smirk. “And I’ll do it again.”
George will push me, and I will push back. It’s a pattern I know well.
“George,” I say, looking him in the eye. “Do that again. Please.”
He does it again, watching me, biting his lip.
“More,” I tell him.
He pushes two fingers inside me, and my back bows.
George brings me to the very edge, but then he stands, lifting me onto the edge of the tub.
He places two hands on my knees, spreads my legs wide, and bends his head.
George likes spending time between my legs, and he’s very good at the job.
When I tell him that, he makes a satisfied groan and strokes himself while he finishes his work. The sight of it has me falling apart.
“When do you think we’ll stop?” I ask as I slide back into the water. “When do you think it will feel like enough?”
He kisses me. “Never.”
· · ·
That night, we lie in bed together, our hands clasped between us.
“Are you happy?” I whisper.
“No. Happy is too weak a word for how I feel.”
I feel my smile in every part of my body. This is what it’s like to truly cherish someone, I think. Everything I’m feeling is heightened because I know George feels it, too. His joy becomes mine. And his sorrow.
“I never imagined it would feel like this,” he says. His skin is pale blue in the moonlight, his eyes wells of glistening black.
“What?” I ask, my hand falling into his hair.
“Us.”
I can’t believe we could have been doing this for years. But then I think about what Mimi said the other day.
George needed to stretch his wings, to find his own place in the world. Same as you.
Maybe now is the exact right time.
“How will it be?” I whisper. “After you come back from Mexico.”
“How do you want it to be?”
“Just like this.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “How would you feel about moving into my place? If it’s too fast, that’s okay,” he hurries to add.
I shake my head. “No. I loved living with you. And I want as much time with you as I can get when you’re not traveling.” Being a couple will be something George and I have to navigate together, but sharing the same space is one thing we’re already good at.
“We can start a new collection of old plates,” he says. “Cook together. And I’d love for you to come with me when I’m on assignment. When you can.”
I can see it so clearly. Exploring the world with George. Shopping in markets and at food stands, new scents filling my nose. Scribbling recipe ideas in a notebook. Cooking. Tasting. Eating together.
“I’d like to explore more of this country,” I say. “I want to see all the places you love.”
“That,” he says, bringing my fingers to his lips, “sounds like an excellent plan.”
“I think it could work,” I say.
He squeezes me tighter. “I think so, too.”
“But what if it doesn’t? What if we kill each other?”
“We won’t fight.”
I laugh. “We will.”
He kisses my shoulder. “I swear I’ll be a saint.”
I turn in his arms. “How often do you think you’ll resort to quoting Christian Bale to win an argument?”
“We’re not arguing.” His grin flashes. “But fairly regularly.”
I turn around, nestling myself against him, big spoon, little spoon. “It’s not fair, you knowing all my weak spots.”
A hum vibrates in his chest. “It’s not fair, you being the greatest of mine.”
I bury my smile against his forearm, then anoint it with a kiss. “Let’s do it,” I tell him. “Let’s move in together. Let’s travel the world. Let’s burn the whole thing down.”
“What whole thing?” he whispers.
“Our friendship,” I tell him.
“Ah.” He tucks me in tighter and sets his chin on the top of my head. “Not to argue, but I see it differently.”
I laugh. “Oh really?”
“Mm-hmm. I don’t think we’re burning it down. Our friendship is the fire. I think we’re giving it oxygen.”