Dark Wild Night

  With my thighs pressed together and the stretch of my body around his I’m pressing up and grinding and making these wild, desperate sounds, feeling like I might shatter. I am light shot into a prism, scattering in a thousand directions. Oliver is riding me, hands curled around my hips as he pistons forward and back, hitting deep.

  I’m screaming into a pillow, arching at the sensation of his sweat hitting my spine, wanting to spread my legs to take him completely into me, but forced together to hold the pleasure in a tiny radius of contact.

  It’s too much.

  I need more.

  Oliver smacks my ass hard, grunting at the surprised clench of my body around his.

  “It’s good,” he grates out. “It’s fucking bliss.”

  I nod, pressing into him and feeling like I’m fraying at the edges when he takes my ass in his grip, short nails digging, hips moving wild and fast behind me. His hands spread me, thumb slides closer, circling and I don’t know . . . I like it but—

  “Shh, it’s okay.” He reaches for my face with his other hand, cupping my cheek and turning me toward him so he can kiss the side of my mouth. “You’ve never . . . ?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s okay.” His kiss turns wilder, an urgent match struck somewhere inside him.

  I press into his palm, desperate for more: for his kiss, his weight, the sound of him coming.

  “Whatever you want,” he says, his breath warm on my lips. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “I want to see you.”

  Oliver withdraws, rolling me onto my back again. His hands slide from my ankles to my knees and he cups them from behind, bending them to press them to my chest. His elbows come underneath, hooking, holding me open as he stares and then slowly eases back into me with a groan. The sound is pain and joy, his relief dragged along the edge of a knife.

  He fucks me tender then brutal, hips circling to make me scream before my hands are pinned at the side of my head and he hits deep in tiny, sharp stabs that shove the breath from my lungs in these blissful forced gusts.

  I am mesmerized watching him like this: my calm, gentle friend unleashed. My lover now, so tender with me, so brutal in his drive to make it good. He waits until I’m shaking, until my cries are cut apart by relief, and then he lets himself come again with his mouth open and groaning against mine.

  Sweaty, chest heaving, Oliver lands heavily on me.

  As soon as he rolls me to my side and tucks in behind me, exhaustion hits me like a physical blow. His lips press to my neck, voice thick with the approach of sleep. “I’m fucking exhausted, but I don’t know how long I can sleep knowing you’re in my bed.”

  I hum, smiling into the arm he’s tucked under my neck and wrapped around my front.

  “I’ll wake up wanting more,” he whispers with a tiny catch in his voice, part preemptive apology, part warning. His cock is still half-hard, pressing warm against my thigh.

  “Me, too.”

  I fall asleep feeling my breaths synchronize to the easy rise and fall of his chest behind me.

  * * *

  THE WORLD INVADES first with the sound of a car horn, then the wind, then the distant sound of waves. I open my eyes and relish the slow appearance of the sun in the eastern sky.

  I stretch in Oliver’s arms, too warm. Somehow I’m curled up facing him now. He was an octopus in his sleep, endless arms that gripped me deliciously when I tried to move even an inch away.

  I feel when he wakes—that tiny startled twitch in his arms around me—and quietly wait for it to become awkward: we left nothing hidden last night. His room smells heavily of sex and still we’re entwined, completely naked. There’s a condom wrapper somewhere near my left foot, another visible behind Oliver at the edge of the mattress.

  Last night comes back to me in scattered flashes of sound and sweat and sensation: the low hiss he made when he pushed inside. The rise and fall of his shoulders as he moved above me. The way his mouth covered mine, tongue skilled and urgent.

  I ache between my legs. My skin still feels the friction of his hands and mouth all over me. I knew sex could be like that, I just never knew it could be like that for me.

  He’s so solid beside me, so vital. The idea of moving out of the circle of his arms is almost as appealing as cutting off an arm or leg.

  What happens when emotion is too big, when it fills the chest and the veins and the limbs? I imagine sunshine filling me until I shatter—leaving starburst-coated girl shrapnel strewn across this bed.

  I close my eyes, mentally drawing the way the sun slants across our bare legs instead. I count to ten, and then twenty, focusing on pulling air into my lungs. It will never be what it was before. Oliver and I are forever changed. Something clicks inside me, something permanent and concrete, and it’s both thrilling and terrifying. . . .

  I’m wildly, deeply in love.

  He lifts his head from where it was buried between my neck and shoulder, kisses me, and whispers, “Good morning, Lola Love.”

  I pull the sheet up over my mouth. “Morning.”

  He kisses me again through the sheet. “I love you still.” He pulls the sheet away, kissing my chin, and watches me as his smile straightens a little but doesn’t leave his eyes. “Whatever else you’re thinking . . . that’s not changed with the sunup. I loved you before last night. I’ll love you tomorrow. I’ve just said the words now.”

  I saw my teeth across my lip, feeling the sunshine fill my chest and bleed up into my eyes.

  “I’ve wanted to fuck you long before last night,” he says, playful smile back in place as he climbs over me, spreading my thighs with his knee. “And now that I’ve had you, I want it even more.”

  This is a sentiment I can easily reciprocate: “Let’s fuck for the rest of the day.”

  His laugh is a happy, warm sound. “Week.”

  “Month.”

  “Year.”

  He’s said it. It’s longer than I’ve ever been with anyone else, so easily assumed. We stare at each other, neither of us saying it. It’s too soon, even with all of the declarations rising like smoke in the air. But the longer Oliver looks at me, the more I know he’s thinking it.

  Life.

  “All right then,” he murmurs.

  I answer against his mouth: “All right then.”

  Chapter TEN

  Oliver

  A  N ALARM ON Lola’s phone goes off halfway through her first cup of coffee. I tried to keep her in bed for the agreed-upon duration, which I considered an ironclad contract, but eventually we both needed a bathroom, caffeine, and food.

  “Oh, shit,” she says, reaching for it and opening the calendar app.

  We’re sitting side by side at my dining room table. I’m in jeans; she’s in nothing but the shirt I wore yesterday. It’s long, but not so long that I can’t see all of her, especially with one of her legs on the ground, our ankles pressed together, and her other leg in my lap. Caffeine is slowly bringing my brain to life and I still feel warm and slow, like well-worked clay. I really don’t want her to have to leave quite yet.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I have this thing I’m supposed to do at eleven.” She frowns, and I look up at the clock. It’s nearly ten.

  “ ‘Thing’?”

  “It’s a chat with the UCSD Arts publication.” Steam rises up from her mug and twists in the space between us, dissolving in a beam of sun overhead. “Shit. I completely spaced it,” she says, and then more to herself, “I never forget this stuff.”

  I set down my cup and lean forward, taking her free hand in mine. “Can you do it from here? The Wi-Fi can be a bit spotty, but my laptop’s in my room. You’re welcome to it.”

  She’s already shaking her head. “It’s a video chat,” she explains, pointing to her hair. Lola’s hair is naturally smooth and straight. Right now it looks like it might house a family of small birds.

  Laughing, I lean forward, kissing her nose. “I have to get to the
shop this morning to check on Joe, anyway. Maybe we can meet up for a late lunch?”

  Reading my expression, Lola pushes closer, tilting her head to my mouth, speaking between each kiss: “I’m not sure how long I’ll be.” She pulls back, rubbing her thumb over my stubble. “I have to shower and then I have a call with Benny after—but I’ll text you when I’m done?”

  “Yeah. Text me.” My words are tight, and I lean back in, kisses growing more desperate. “Stay here again tonight. I need . . .”

  I need to drink, and drink, and drink of her. I’ll never get my fill.

  A rush of breath escapes her lungs and she pushes off her chair and onto my lap, whispering against my mouth. “I don’t want to leave,” she says, and her hand slides over my bare chest. “Let’s go back to bed.”

  My jeans have slipped so they’re barely hanging on, and all I can think of is how easy it would be to push them the rest of the way down, lift my shirt up, and make her come, right here on my kitchen table.

  She grinds into me, sliding wet across my button fly.

  “Get up on the table,” I say into her open mouth. “Let me kiss that little cunt.”

  She pulls back, blushing. Her lip is trapped between her teeth. “I like the way you say that word.”

  “I can tell. It makes you get all squirmy and bashful. . . .” I lick her mouth, saying, “Not entirely sure yet—need to do a few more studies—but I believe there’s a direct correlation between me saying it and how fast I can make you come.”

  I notice she hasn’t, in fact, climbed up on the table. Slipping my fingers under the shirt, I rub my hands over the warm, soft skin of her waist.

  “I know you’re sore,” I tell her. “I’ll be sweet, I promise.”

  Her phone goes off again and we both grow still.

  “Alas: real life invades,” I murmur.

  Lola pouts. “I really hate interviews.”

  “And here you are, getting better at them every day.” I help her up, standing after her and holding her face, kissing her once. “Just let me know when you’re done.”

  I go for a long ride after Lola leaves, taking the road that leads down to the beach and biking the trail as long as I possibly can. Although we slept in tiny bursts broken by two more rounds of frenzied, wordless fucking, I’m full of an energy that feels nearly limitless. I go from Pacific Beach to Carlsbad, legs pumping, heart propelling blood in enormous, victorious spasms.

  I hurt when my mum left. I was angry and sullen, and upset with the world for a long time. I hated my dad for leaving me. I couldn’t imagine that I would ever experience true contentment or joy, but now I have both. The store is situated. My home is mostly paid for. The love of my life slept in my arms last night—in my bed, where I hope she will stay forever. I want for nothing.

  * * *

  THE BELL RINGS over the door to the shop as I step inside, and a strange calm settles over me. It’s barely half-past eleven and the aisles are pretty packed for a nonrelease day, people spilling off the couch in the front reading nook and crowded around the pinball machine near the back. Joe is at the register, a line of customers behind him.

  He nods in my direction but everything from last night is too fresh, and I’m not sure I’m ready to put my game face on, especially with Joe. For all his flaky mannerisms, I’m often surprised by how acutely he pays attention.

  I return Joe’s nod and round the counter, stepping into the back office and hanging my jacket on the hook. Only now that I’m here does it occur to me that I’m not clear what the rules are. If I’m reading things correctly, Lola and I are together—I’m just not sure who else is supposed to know that. Lola isn’t guarded in a stereotypical way; she shares things, but she does so in inches rather than miles, and not always immediately. It’s entirely possible she’ll wait to tell Harlow about this until whenever she happens to see her next. Lola isn’t exactly a close-the-door-behind-him-and-call-the-girlfriend-to-dish kind of woman.

  Which puts me in a weird spot: If I tell Finn, and he tells Harlow, and Harlow hears it from Finn before she hears it from Lola, Lola will be in trouble and I may be, too. If I tell Ansel, and he mentions it to Mia, which he definitely will, there is no way Mia won’t call Harlow immediately.

  So there is absolutely no way I can let on to Joe what is going on: Joe hearing about this before anyone else would make Harlow’s head explode. Not to mention the Not-Joe is Always Right Tumblr he’d probably start and fill with illustrations of every time he told us to “just bang and get it over with already.”

  Luckily I have experience hiding this . . . though who am I kidding? There’s not a single person—except perhaps Lola—who didn’t realize I’m wildly in love with her.

  I head out to the front of the store and begin helping customers. One of my regulars is searching for the newest issue of Hawkeye, but when I check I see we’ve sold out. There’s a man in his forties looking to sell a box of miscellaneous junk he got at a garage sale, and after poking through it, I know there’s nothing I’m interested in buying. I help a couple looking to buy their first big comic together, and I sell them Captain America 61. Released in 1947, it depicts Cap and Bucky discovering that the Red Skull, believed to be gone, is indeed still alive. Classic.

  And through it all, I can feel Joe watching me.

  The crowd thins a bit and I walk to the counter, reaching under for a rag to wipe down the pinball machine.

  “Place has been crazy lately,” Joe says, pulling a stack of twenties out of the register to face them.

  “Yeah, was thinking of bringing someone else in.”

  He pauses for a moment and looks up. “Someone else to work here?”

  “Sure.”

  Joe perks up. “Would I train them?”

  He follows me toward the back, and I look at him over my shoulder. “Sure.”

  “So, I’d be in charge. Second in command, even. Wong to Doctor Strange.”

  I laugh. “Absolutely. Robin to my Batman.”

  “Batman? Let’s not get too far ahead of yourself. Foggy Nelson to your Daredevil. The movie.”

  I stop near the back and start straightening a shelf of Choose Your Own Adventure books. “Sure,” I say again with a shrug.

  Joe knocks on the counter, loudly. “Okay what is up?”

  “Up?” I repeat. “Nothing’s up.”

  “Ben Affleck’s Daredevil? You’re just going to let me throw that out at you?”

  I move back to the front of the store. “What? It was an okay movie.”

  “An oka—”

  The bell over the door rings, cutting him off, and I hear one of our regulars up front call out to Lola.

  My body goes tight, heart taking off in a sprint.

  It’s one thing to decide I’m not telling Joe, or Finn, or Ansel, or even letting on to anything, but am I expected to act like nothing happened? Is that even possible? I feel like one look at her and all of last night will be written all over my face.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I see Lola’s hair is pulled into a dark ponytail that swings behind her as she walks. When she isn’t in a hurry, her stride is even and serene and her hair rests gently down the middle of her back. But when she’s moving like this—with purpose—it swings behind her, propelled by the sway of her energy.

  She’s headed straight toward me, and she’s definitely moving with intent.

  I turn fully to face her. “Hey, how did the video chat go?”

  Casual, calm. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

  Joe watches as she breezes by him, ignores my question, and stops just at my feet before reaching for the back of my neck and pulling me down to her. With a tiny sigh, her lips meet mine and all other sound in the room is sucked out in one giant rush of air. My blood heats, and lust flashes through me, hot and dizzying.

  Lola smells exactly like she always does—the sweet honey scent of her soap—and her lips are just as soft as they were when I kissed her goodbye through the open window of her car only hours a
go. My brain spends so much time wondering at these things that it takes a moment for me to realize that Lola is kissing me. Now. Right here, in the middle of my shop.

  Fuck it.

  My hands push into her hair to tilt her head, my tongue slides against hers, and it feels like the perfect way for us to announce what’s happening. I only wish everyone was here to see it, to get it over with in one fell swoop.

  A throat clears somewhere nearby, and when Lola takes a step back the rest of the world slowly comes into focus. Joe is leaning against the register, ankles crossed, with his eyebrows raised to the ceiling.

  Lola smiles and looks up at me with the adoration I feel for her mirrored in her eyes. “Can we talk for a minute in your office?” she asks, breathless.

  She follows me to the back, and her presence behind me feels radioactive, buzzing. I want to turn and kiss her as we walk. It’s a heady infatuation, that need I have to touch touch touch until our skin is sore and the need for food and water takes priority. I crave it, I crave her.

  Inside the office, she closes the door behind her back and leans against it, grinning at me. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I’m not sure I’ve ever smiled so wide; it feels too big for my face. “Nice show out there.”

  She gives a little one-shouldered shrug. “Thanks.”

  “I wonder if Joe will ever move from that spot now that you’ve shocked the life out of him.”

  Laughing, she says, “We’ll have to tell the others soon, I guess.”

  She looks around the room, and I try to see it from her eyes. She’s been back here only a couple of times, and in the past few months the space has become my little, calming cave. Before we moved into the shop, it was a pretty fancy boutique, and some of those original fixtures remain in the back office. The walls are painted a soft cream and there are outlets where glass chandeliers used to hang from the ceiling. A row of mirrors lines the back wall but is partially covered in boxes I’ve yet to unpack. Even so, it makes the space feel larger than it is. My desk is situated along the long wall behind me, facing the door, and a small row of windows cuts a dusty sunbeam across the room.