Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

I feed him another slice, golden and dripping juice.

“That’s what it felt like,” I tell him. “Like there’s a deep-seated need, something in my bones, something missing. And then you take a bite and there’s an explosion of flavor, something bigger than just the taste buds screaming, yes, yes, this is what I need.”

I hand him another piece of mango. He bites it in half, chews, and then takes the other half.

“That’s what it felt like,” I say. “It felt like I’d been starving myself. Like I…”

He opens his eyes and looks at me.

“Like there was something I needed,” I say softly. “Something I’ve needed deep down. Something I’ve been denying myself because I can’t let myself want it.” My voice trails off.

I’m not describing the taste of mango anymore. My whole body yearns for his. For this thing I’ve been denying myself. For physical affection. For our bodies joined. For his arms around me all night.

It’s going to hurt when he walks away.

But you know what?

It’ll hurt more if he walks away and we leave things like this, desperate and wanting, incomplete.

My voice drops. “It’s like there’s someone I’ve been denying myself. All this time.”

“Yes.” His voice is hoarse in response. “That. Always that.” And he slides his arm around me, pulls me close, and kisses me. He tastes sweet like mango. Like he’s bigger than my taste buds, like he’s precisely the luxury I have been craving. I let my eyes shut and tilt my head back, falling into his embrace.

And I know, despite all the constellations placed in the sky as warning, why all those Greek maidens gave it up in the end. It’s because all the pain is worth it for this one moment.

His tongue is sure against mine, touching me with insistent strokes. His hand clamps around me, holding me in place. And he holds me like I matter, like I’m the entire world.

“I can’t touch you,” I say. “My hands are sticky.”

“That,” he says, “is what washing machines are for.” He reaches out and takes hold of my fingers and then, very deliberately, he wipes them on his shirt. The sun is hot against my shoulders; Blake is sweet to the taste and tempting to the touch.

I’m not sure how long we stay there, kissing in the sun and the wind, stopping only long enough to feed each other bites of fruit. Long enough for me to touch him all over, to feel his body hard and lean through his shirt. Long enough for me to lose all sense of safety.

The air smells of new beginnings—crisp and clear, untouched by any worries. He touches me like the middle of the story, strong and sure. But despite the mango on his tongue, he tastes almost bittersweet, because the end is coming. It’s coming, but it’s not here. Not yet.

“Let’s get home,” I tell him. “Let’s go home and find a bed.”

I won’t be home until tomorrow morning, I text Maria as we turn up the freeway heading back to campus.

The answer comes back shortly. Something wrong?

I glance over at Blake. He’s driving. For the first time in…I’m not sure how long, he looks completely calm. As if he’s finally in place.

And for all the turmoil I feel inside, I sense it too. That hint of calmness, as if in a sea of things that have gone wrong, this one thing is right.

Nothing, I text back. I just realized you were right.

<3! She sends back.

And for now, that’s exactly what this is. A little texted heart, two characters. Fragile and all too breakable.

16.

BLAKE

We don’t talk much on the remainder of the drive back. This thing between us is too new to be pinned down with words. But it’s contained in the feel of her hand on my thigh as we drive. The squeeze of her fingers on mine. It’s the look in her eyes, every time I glance her way—liquid, alight, as if she’s filled with the luminous light of a thousand stars.

It’s beautiful and unsettling all at once, because I know how she feels about constellations.

By unspoken consent, I go straight to the converted garage. She gets out when I do and comes to stand by me.

“Hi, Tina.” Somehow, the moment seems to stretch. I pull her close, let her body fold into mine. She comes, molding against me. She told me once our lives fit together as well as Legos and puzzle pieces, but our bodies have no such problem. We work together.

I want her. I want this. Her voice is a low, sensual caress, and I’m on fire, burning for her.

She looks up at me. “Blake…”

I set a finger on her lips. Not to silence her; to feel them, soft against my skin. To sense the warmth of her breath so that when she says yes, I’ll capture the feel of it on the palm of my hands. I imagine, briefly, that I can catch hold of it and keep it. Maybe if I do, I’ll be able to pin it down.

“Why are we still outside?” she asks.