That seems to be all the encouragement Luke needs as he does it. He lets go. He moves slowly at first, giving me time to get used to him and move with him, but it’s only a couple of seconds until we move rhythmically and instinctually together. I thrust with him, my hips arching up and rolling into every long stroke. Luke tries to stay in control, but I don’t want that. I don’t need it. When I dig my nails into his shoulders, he pumps harder, filling me completely as we both drive each other to oblivion—giving, taking, clenching, thrusting, arching, pulsing, and aching all the way.
I have never felt this perfect with anyone. I’ve never fit with anyone like this, never wanted to fit with anyone like this. I’ve never given up my body, never surrendered the places in my chest that Luke is filling now too.
He keeps going, wildly, barely contained, and I’m just as wild beneath him until I feel my climax coming. It still surprises me again, bursting over me with a force that just about propels me straight to the nice spot I imagined before—the spot between the sky and outer space. Although, maybe I overshot things a little because I definitely see stars and maybe a black hole or a nebula or a planet or something too. It’s hard to tell because, behind my eyes, the lights are strobing violently.
Luke shudders above me just as I’m coming down from my high. He pumps hard, and the feeling of having him finish inside me is so intimate that it makes my cheeks heat up with more than just sweaty pleasure. I hold him while he shudders and groans above me, and when he doesn’t trust himself to stay quiet, he takes my lips, and we swallow each other’s moans of pleasure into complete silence while our bodies ripple and quake together.
This.
This was.
This was…wow! I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to put words together into a complete and coherent sentence again.
Especially not when Luke swings me to the side and wraps his arms around me. His chest is wet and slick, but that’s okay. I think my back might be as well. He’s overly warm, but that’s also okay because I’m on fire too. His breath is all over the place, while my lungs refuse to cooperate with my brain’s signals.
Is this the right time to confess I’m not a cuddler? Yes, yes, of course it is because I can also acknowledge that right here and now, I’ve changed my mind about that.
I imagined myself picking up my clothes, slipping into them, and leaving Luke’s room just as silently after, but I never imagined doing this—our bodies pressed together like this. Heavy limbs, hot skin, rapid breaths, happiness, and pure contentment. Feelings are dangerous, but I can’t make myself get up and leave. I promised myself I’d be gone by what? Two in the morning? Three? I know I’m a liar because I’m going to push this to the very last minute possible, and not just because I want to do what we just did. Again, and again, and maybe again. Also, it’s not just because I want to start running through items on the mental list of all the ways I’d love to learn and experience Luke’s body and how I’d like his body to learn and experience mine. Yes, because of that, but also because of this.
As if he understands what I’m saying and feeling without a single word passing between us, Luke’s arms tighten around me just a little bit more.
CHAPTER 20
Luke
There’s an aching hole in me, and it’s like a bottomless pit—a black cavern. One of those scary, mystical holes that people are both fascinated by while instinctively shying away from, except it’s not fascinating. It’s just painful. It’s awful and terrible. I never imagined it would even start to close up, and I almost can’t remember a time when I didn’t know it was there.
But now?
Now there’s something starting—a change taking place.
I thought it would be big and gaping and empty forever.
But now, it’s like a little bit of goo, something mushy, or a sort of plug has started to form over a fraction of the hole, and it doesn’t seem so big and gaping and endlessly empty anymore.
Now, it doesn’t seem so bottomless.
That’s it—just that.
CHAPTER 21
Feeney
I don’t mean for it to happen every single night, but of course, it does. The nights become ours, where our bodies grow familiar with each other, and touch comes to me like second nature. Luke is patient, and he’s always gentle. I’m always silent, whispering his name at the very end, just for him, into the darkness of the room. I’d call them stolen hours, but they don’t feel stolen. They were a conscious decision. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything wrong or that all I live for are those hours either. I don’t let it become all of me. I’m still me, and Luke is still Luke. We’re still two separate people. Even if we are changing on the insides—our hearts softening, the sensation of comfort greater, and a new sense of ease and weightlessness in our steps—we’re virtually unchanged on the outside.
I don’t have many bad habits, so if this is one, then I guess I can afford it.
I’m not going to New Year’s Resolution my way out of it.
At midnight every night, I tiptoe into Luke’s room, close the door, lock it, climb into his bed, and let him hold me. He also lets me hold him, and for a few hours each night, we banish each other’s loneliness. Maybe we share more than that and like each other a little, even if we don’t talk about it. We had our big talk about feelings and where we stood before we started this, so we’re both carefully avoiding having another.
After, when the yearning, aching, searching, sweating, whispering, soaring, crashing, and coming down is over, and we’re both sated, I sleep, wrapped in Luke’s arms and entangled in sheets and heavy, warm limbs until four in the morning. I said three, but that was an ungodly hour, so four it is. His phone alarm vibrates on the nightstand next to my face, always silent, but it wakes me up immediately. Most of the time, Luke doesn’t even wake up. I always shut the alarm off, reset his for six, and slip out of bed. My room is waiting for me every time, dark and quiet. The sheets are usually cold when I slip in between them, and sometimes, I’m able to fall back asleep while other times, I just lay there with my thoughts, missing Luke until I hear him get up for the day.
I don’t go into the kitchen and make him breakfast because I don’t even think he eats breakfast. The coffee pot is never used when I do crawl out of bed after he leaves the house, and I don’t tell him to have a good day. I don’t text him during the day. Ever.
I don’t do anything that would give us away.
And no, it’s not because I’m ashamed. I thought I’d feel a lot of guilt, but I don’t. It’s not because we’re so worried about giving ourselves away that we walk on eggshells. It’s just…I know I’m not Luke’s girlfriend, and I’m not his wife. I’m not not his girlfriend, but the word sounds hollow and silly. I feel like so much more and so much less that I don’t know what word to use. I hate labels and definitions, and so does Luke. What we’re doing can’t really be defined. I can’t just throw a few cheap words out there to describe my feelings, and I know Luke can’t either, so we don’t name it. For now, we don’t change what we’re doing. I’m there for him at night, and he’s there for me. During the day, I’m there for Shade, and when Luke is home, he’s there. It works.