“That’s better.” He lowers me onto him. A hiss whooshes out of me. It is just as otherworldly. In fact better.
“Ah you,” he sighs and leans me back on the piano. He moves slowly at first, then his tempo changes, faster, rhythmic. I grip the ivory and roll my hips with his. I focus only on the way he pulses inside me and on the off-key piano prelude that at least to me sounds better than Beethoven.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wonder
I storm through my apartment like ICE is chasing me while Aiden and Benson wait in the Aston Martin to take us to Powell’s. Reagan is still at Hotel Lucia with her parents. I shower in seconds, strangely relishing the way the hot water stings against Aiden’s love bites. Then I skip to my room for my first shag pack ever. I put on my mum’s 1950s peridot dress. She was wearing this the day she met my dad. I’ve always wanted to wear it but no occasion ever felt right. I throw my new graduation camera around my neck, leave a note for Reagan and run out to meet Aiden, tripping twice.
I slide next to him in the backseat. His posture is tenser than I’ve ever seen it. As though all his muscle bands are pulled taut by his very blood. His eyes are tight but the moment he sees me, they relax a fraction.
“You know, I could have bought you some clothes, Elisa, and avoided all this shuttling.”
“And have you spend more money on me? No, thank you.”
He skims my arm with his fingers. “And I probably couldn’t have bested this dress. You look beautiful.”
“Thanks. This was my mum’s.” I fluff the full, twirling skirt. “I thought it would be fun for dinner, although vampire that you are, you probably don’t eat.”
He leans in my ear and whispers. “Oh, I eat. We can go home right now and have a thorough study of my dietary preferences.”
Oh my God, he cannot be talking about that right now. “Anything to get out of going places, Aiden.”
“Anything.” His fingertips skim along my hemline, lingering on my thigh. I start reciting the periodic table to distract myself from the tightening in my belly and the treacherous moisture in my knickers. Lucky for my faculties, Benson starts driving. Instantly, Aiden’s hand turns into a tight fist and rests on his knee. The deeper we get into the heart of downtown, the more rigid he becomes. His fist never relaxes.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Peachy,” he says in a tone that can only mean “no”. He turns to Benson. “Benson, we have Elisa in the car. Let’s watch where we’re going here. That asshole in the white van is driving in two lanes.”
“Yes, sir,” poor Benson answers, staying firmly in his own lane.
“And Blondie over there is texting. Stay on the left.”
“Yes, sir.” Benson looks like he’d rather be riding with Blondie.
I’ve never heard Aiden so abrupt with Benson. Usually this dragon-speak is reserved for graduates in absentia. Feeling responsible for Benson’s day taking a turn for the worse from the moment he was tasked with finding an ivory centifolia rose, I decide to put my new camera to work and distract Aiden.
I snap a picture of his sharp profile, his eyes scanning the world as though he looks past it to the very edge. The moment the camera flashes, his head whips toward me. Hypervigilance glints in his eyes for an instant, then they relax. It’s so quick I can’t be sure I really saw it. I lower the camera slowly but he smiles.
“Are you checking to see if I can be photographed?”
“Definitely.”
My favorite dimply smile returns, and I take another picture. He shakes his head. I keep snapping, his expression changing from smile to laughter to a raised eyebrow that says plainly “enough or else”. By the time we reach Burnside Street, I have lost my camera privileges. But at least now I have parts of him for posterity. I gasp as I realize that, apparently, I want the same thing as he does: an image for always.
Every ounce of warmth leaves my body as the world outside dissolves into the image of PDX from my nightmare. End this. End this now if you want to survive in twenty-nine days, that small voice wails like a harpy. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium 4.003. Lithium 6.94…
“We’re here.” Aiden caresses my knee, drowning the voice. The heat of his hand thaws the ice.
“Are you okay?” he asks, the deep V folding between his eyebrows.
I nod, burying my face in his neck, his scent calming me more than the periodic table. He wraps his arm around me and tilts my face up.
“What’s wrong?” he says, his sentient eyes scanning mine.
I kiss his cheek. “Not yet, please.”
He whispers in my ear. “You promised you would tell me.”
“And I will. But right now, I want to enjoy this very expensive day you bought for us. And take more pictures.”
He nods and hands me my camera, eyes still on my face. I snap another picture of him and one of Powell’s doors with a big red sign: CLOSED FOR A PRIVATE EVENT.