THE SOUND OF Margot’s car pulling out of the driveway drifts through Luke’s open window. He’s still in the same place I left him, stretched out on his side, sheet barely covering his hips. I can see a dark trail of hair low on his navel. His bicep peeks out, full and firm, where his arm wraps around his pillow.
I’m still not sure whether I should go, and pace back and forth a few times, glancing over my shoulder at him. His hair is a mess and standing straight up from whatever he had in it the night before, and I laugh a little as I walk over and smooth it back down. One minute turns into two and my fingers slip through the strands, over the side of his face, past his ear and down, tracing his spine.
Luke has a great back. His shoulders are broad, lats flaring along the edges, long torso tapering in at his waist. He’s nothing but miles of smooth, tan skin and a map of dips and edges. He’s also warm and somehow manages to still smell good after all of the hand jobs and cuddling and sex-without-a-condom and sleeping intertwined.
I really don’t want to leave.
With the conversation with Margot still ringing in my ears, I drop the towel and climb back into bed.
I loop my arm around his waist and he stirs almost immediately.
“London?” he mumbles. He finds my fingers where they rest on his stomach and rolls to face me, sleepy eyes blinking open and then squinting at me in the bright room. “Hi.”
His hair is standing up and he has pillow creases across his cheek. “What is happening with your hair?” I say, reaching out to smooth it again.
“I was asleep,” he says, just before he smiles. “With you.”
I look at the mess around us and laugh. “It looks like a storm passed through here. Don’t you have to get to work?”
“I’m going to take my first personal day in a year,” he says. In a rush of movement he pushes me to my back to hover over me. His eyes make a sleepy circuit of my face and I just honestly can’t process the emotion there.
It looks so real.
“Did you shower?” he asks.
“I hope that’s okay. I felt sticky.”
I could be wrong, but he looks a little proud of himself.
“You can do anything you want here,” he says, and tucks his face into my neck and groans. “Fuck, you smell good.”
“I hope so,” I say, giggling as his stubble tickles my neck. “It’s your soap.”
He sucks at my throat and then pauses, lifting his eyes to mine. “Was Margot still here?”
“She just left. Is it a matter of genetics that she only made one piece of toast?”
Luke laughs at this as he moves to press more small kisses to my throat.
“Who eats one piece of toast?” I ask. “Do you Sutters have something against eating bread products in pairs?”
Groaning, he says, “Logan. I don’t really want to talk about my sister right now.”
He shifts, lowering his body so he’s pressed against me, hips already moving in experimental circles.
We’re both naked and the sensation is so startling at first—the gentle drag of skin on skin—that I suck in a breath. This isn’t our first time being naked together—not by a long shot—but it’s still new enough that it’s a shock to the system: so much of his bare skin connecting with so much of mine.
The room is cool; it’s near the back of the house and shaded by a couple of large eucalyptus trees that grow just outside the window. Even so, streaks of sunlight still manage to break through, and they catch the dust motes in the corner, warming the foot of the bed. They make Luke’s skin look golden, like he’s lit from within.
He seems to note this, too, as he looks down our bodies, at how we fit together, the color of his skin against mine. My breasts are so much lighter than the rest of me, the traces of at least three different swimsuits outlined by the sun. Maybe he’s used to girls who spray-tan or stay out of the sun altogether, but he seems to marvel at it, how the stark cream of my breasts contrasts with the rest of me.
He places a palm over my nipple and circles lightly, the friction just enough for it to tighten under his touch, have my toes curling against sheets. I’ve always liked my nipples played with—something he seems to have figured out already—loved the direct connection they seemed to have to between my legs. Each touch or pinch is like a jolt of electricity straight to my clit, and I can feel how wet I am already, that part of me slick and aching for more.
Seeing my reaction, Luke moans and says my name again, biting along my collarbones and back down to my breasts. He’s relentless, sucking on one while pinching the other, and it’s enough to have me opening my legs to make more room for him, pushing my knees up around his sides.
He moves up to kiss me, tasting my top lip and then my bottom, pulling away just hard enough for it to sting. My lips tingle, and as he moves down along my throat and between my breasts to my ribs, I reach up to feel them, how warm and slightly swollen they are.
“I swear I’m progressive and not a caveman and, thanks to the women in my family, I’m probably the biggest feminist around, but fuck, I like the way my soap smells on your skin.”