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.