Wicked Sexy Liar

London

LOLA’S PHONE IS ringing—Lola’s phone is always ringing—and I grab it from the counter, carrying it down the hall. I can hear the familiar scratch of charcoal against paper as I near her open door, and find her hunched over her desk, finishing a sketch she was working on before she ran out for her deadline pick-me-up coffee.

I knock on the wall just outside her door before stepping in and setting her phone down in front of her. “You left this in the kitchen.”

She looks up from her drawing to squint down at the screen and then, deciding to ignore it, looks up at me. Doing a slight double take, Lola pulls off her glasses, whispering a quiet “You okay?”

I nod.

Lola knows that’s not true—I came home from the beach with red eyes, slipped immediately into my pajamas, and have barely said a word since—but she’s rarely one to outright push.

Back in the kitchen, I pour a bowl of cereal and return to my laptop, clicking through each page of Lola’s new website.

It feels a little like someone is sitting on my chest, and my eyes sting, but I’m not letting myself think about my fight with Luke.

I don’t want to deal with it right now.

My fingers seem to move on their own, entering code while my brain races ahead, imagining how this newest illustration will look as a thumbnail next to the others.

Although the film studio has a landing page for the movie adaptation of Razor Fish, the placeholder I set up specifically for Lola’s site with only her name, a short bio, and a registration link has racked up tens of thousands of hits since they started filming. Adding these last details—along with the idea of making the page live—is both thrilling and the slightest bit terrifying.

I absently stir my cereal as I scan the pages again, searching for anything I might have forgotten. After a deep breath of bravery, I call over my shoulder. “Hey, Lola?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come out here when you’re done? I want to show you something.”

I hear her chair scrape back from the desk, the sound of her feet against the hardwood, and then she’s there, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

“Hey, sweetie.” She starts to say something more when her gaze flickers up to the screen—I’m still working in the site dashboard so I know it doesn’t look very interesting at the moment, but she sucks in a breath. “Oh my God. Is this the site?”

I’ve shown her various graphics over the last few weeks, had her give me feedback on the layout, and discussed what she wants where, but she hasn’t actually seen anything yet, not all together like this.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “Are you ready?”

She nods quickly and takes the seat at my side.

“I think it’s good but if there’s anything you aren’t sure about, or want changed, just let me know.” I’m babbling nervously, but this moment feels so huge to me. “They’re all pretty easy fixes at this point.”

She squeals and claps, holding her breath as I click the home page, and she watches it load for the first time. Lola gasps as a simple Flash image—my initial idea for her site—fills the screen.

“Is that—?” she starts to say, angling my laptop toward her to get a closer look.

It’s one of Lola’s first drawings—from when she was only thirteen or so—of the character who would ultimately become the lead protagonist in her first comic series, Razor Fish. The sketch is simple, almost rudimentary, but as we watch, the penciled black-and-white image slowly morphs into a more complicated one. I hear Lola’s breath catch again as she registers what she’s seeing. Early drafts of her penciled art turn into ink versions, and then various colored images. More and more of her brainstorming panels are revealed, gathering detail as the Flash image accelerates and finally we’re staring at the vivid image the rest of the world has come to know: the current incarnation of Razor, the odd creature she created and who practically explodes from the movie poster.

“Do you like it?” I ask, glancing nervously back at her. My emotions are all over the place right now; I’m not sure what I’d do if she hated it. But I don’t have to worry. Lola’s eyes shine with tears and she leans over, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a tight hug.

“Are you kidding me?” She’s shaking a little and releases me so she can stare at it all over again. “I love it. Where on earth did you get all these? These early ones were all hand-drawn. I didn’t even know I still had them.”

“Your dad kept nearly everything you ever drew, and Oliver managed to dig up a lot of your early digital work,” I tell her. “Seriously, they’re your biggest fanboys. You’d be amazed to see everything they were able to find. I thought it might be cool to see the evolution, I mean Razor’s of course, but also yours as an artist.”

“This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” she says, swiping at her cheeks. “Is it done? I mean, can I show Oliver?”

I stand, and gesture for Lola to move into my chair, laptop in front of her. My hands are shaking from her reaction; it was even better than I’d hoped. “Almost. Go ahead and click through all the pages, make sure everything is where you want it,” I tell her, “and we can tweak anything that isn’t perfect. Then all that’s left is migrating it over to the new server and boom, LolaCastle-dot-com is live.”

Lola clicks around for a moment and shakes her head. “I can’t believe you did all this.” She turns and looks up at me. “I’m just . . .” she says, genuinely choked up. “You’re amazing.”

“It was nothing really,” I tell her. And I’m surprised to find—despite my nerves, despite everything that’s going on—that it’s true: working on her site wasn’t just fun, it was satisfying. It gave me an outlet for my feelings I’ve only ever found on a surfboard. “I loved doing it.”

“Which is exactly why you should be doing it for a living,” she says. “I know you love working at Fred’s, and I can’t believe I’m agreeing with your mom here, but God, you’re so fucking talented.”

I sigh. “Remember that guy Oliver gave my info to a while back? The one who asked him about his logo?” I ask, and she nods. “He owns a brewery and they’re opening a new location. I woke up to an email from him with a proposal to build his site, the retail page, and design all the promo materials. It’d be the biggest job I’ve ever done—huge—and I’d probably have to do it full-time to meet his deadline, at least for a while.”

“No more Fred’s?” she asks.

I shrug, wincing. “I’m going to quit Bliss first, but even so, I can’t imagine how I’d make it work.” The idea of not working with Fred makes my heart droop, but the idea of doing this full-time? I can’t even imagine how great that could be.

“Sounds like it could be amazing.”

“Sounds like being a grown-up,” I counter.

She puts her arm around my shoulder again and squeezes. “Imagine all the time that could leave for . . . other things.”

I reach for the laptop and tap a few keys. “I don’t think I’m going to have to worry about other things for a while.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened yet?”

I feel my shoulders sag with the weight of all that’s happened today, and slide back down to the chair at her side. I tell her everything; about how scared I’ve been to let Luke in, his saying he loved me, about the texts he didn’t see and how I blew up at him this morning. I mean to keep everything matter-­of-fact, but my voice comes out thin and wobbly.

Lola makes a tiny sympathetic noise and I look up at her. “Honey,” she says, reaching for my hand, “I think you’re a badass.”

I laugh and wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. “What? Why?”

“You put yourself out there. And so did he. You know, Luke was the perfect boyfriend. He was attentive and loyal—then the accident happened and it’s like he and Mia were such different people afterward.”

I nod. I’ve heard some variation of this from almost ­everyone who knew him back then.

Lola frowns, drawing her finger across a pattern in the table­top as she continues. “Mia stopped talking and Luke slept with one girl after another, but in a way . . . it’s like they did the same thing. They were both doing what they thought they had to to protect themselves. Something huge changed inside Luke after the accident: he put this wall around himself and wouldn’t let anyone in,” she says, and her thoughtful expression shifts into a smile. “Sound familiar?”

“A little,” I say, bumping her shoulder lightly. “He said falling in love isn’t about who makes you feel the best, but who could make you the most miserable if they leave.” I swipe the side of my hand across my wet cheek. “Which is basically what I told myself every day before I met him.”

“Is that still how you feel?” Lola asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t think he really believes it, either.”

Lola toys with a tiny sapphire pendant around her neck that I’m pretty sure was a recent gift from Oliver. “So tell him.”

“It’s so scary,” I say.

“Sometimes scary can be good. He said he loves you. He’s yours now, don’t you get that? You’re the one person who can be with Luke anytime you want.”

An explosion of fireworks goes off in my chest at the revelation.

He’s mine now.

I’m the one person—the only person—who can see him every hour, of every day.

If he’ll forgive me.

Lola continues, oblivious to the thunder going off inside me. “Or pull a Harlow and show up on his doorstep wearing nothing but a trench coat. Simple, but effective.”

“As hilarious as I suspect his reaction would be, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

“I’m just watching you freak out on about a hundred different levels right now, aren’t I?”

Laughing now, I sniffle and say, “Yes.”

“If this helps you sort through what’s going on up here,” she says, motioning to the laptop before tapping my forehead, “then finish up. Email the brewery guy—because that’s for London, and London only—and then call Luke.”

I WORK ON the final touches to Lola’s site while I work up the nerve to talk to Luke. It takes a while . . . I’m not used to having to reach out, apologize, and ask for something like this.

Finally, I close my laptop when there isn’t any other work to be done. His number is at the top of my recent calls list, and I take a breath before pressing his name.

His phone doesn’t ring, and instead goes straight to voicemail.

With a hollow ache in my stomach, I make a few more calls, leaving a message for Jason, the guy who owns the brewery. But with nothing else to distract me from my moping, Lola suggests I run to the grocery store. We’re out of milk and bread and Lola’s favorite yogurt—all things we could go at least a few more days without—but when I open the bathroom cupboard and notice we’re down to the last roll of toilet paper, I admit defeat, grabbing my keys and heading out the door.

Lola and I used to do the grocery shopping together, but with work and deadlines sucking up most of our free time, we’ve started dividing it up. This time Lola’s made me a list, knowing that in my current frame of mind I’ll probably roam the aisles and end up at home with a trunk full of Lean Cuisines and wine.

I’m halfway through the list when my phone rings with an unfamiliar number. I frown down at it, before realizing it could be Jason, returning my call.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hey, Logan.”

I pull the phone away and blink down at the number again. “Luke?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I . . . I wondered if you could talk for a few minutes.”

“Um . . .” I look around me, still confused about where he’s calling from. “Sure.”

“First, I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry and—”

I stop in the middle of the produce aisle, interrupting. “I don’t want you to apologize, I shouldn’t have said that. It was terrible. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine,” he says quietly. “I understand where it came from. I know we have some things to talk over, and I was wondering if we could do that? If you’d be willing to do that.”

“I’d like to talk,” I tell him, my heart beating so hard I can barely form a response. “But what I—” I’m interrupted by a voice screeching through the intercom overhead. I wince at the sound, and then again when it seems to reverberate back to me, through the line.

“Wait, where are you—?”

“Are you—?” we both say, before a throat clears behind me.

It’s him. My pulse is a hammer in my neck.

I look down at my phone and then back up again, before finally ending the call and slipping it back into my bag.

“I’m so confused,” I finally admit, laughing.

“I came downtown to talk to you,” he says. “Figured I’d grab a few things while I worked out what I wanted to say.”

“Oh.” I wonder if this is part of the change Lola was talking about: that Luke—who barely answered texts before, let alone phone calls—would rather have an actual conversation with me than the impersonal blips of text messages.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

Luke takes a step closer and loops his arm around my waist, lifting me off the ground as he pulls me into a hug. He smells like soap and shampoo and I’m incapable of doing anything but cling to him. When he presses his face into my neck and groans, I feel the sound all the way down my body and between my legs.

“So am I.” He sets me down gently, and places a kiss on my forehead. “Hand me your phone.”

“Why?” I ask, but I’m already handing it over.

Luke puts his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close before snapping a selfie of us with his lips pressed to my cheek. He looks adorable: content, eyes closed, smiling into the kiss. By contrast, I look confused and mildly disheveled.

Releasing me, he says, “Because I need to program in my new phone number.”

I watch as he goes to my call log and assigns his name to the number. And only then does it occur to me: Luke called me from a new phone number.

“You got a new phone?” I ask.

He’s still typing his name and address and email information into the contact, but spares a glance in my direction. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Handing my phone back, he says, “Too many distractions with the old one.”

I swallow and feel the weight of what he’s said wash over me. “Oh.”

“I don’t really want that many women to have my number anymore,” he adds quietly. “It’s not really fair to them, because I have a girlfriend now.”

“Oh.” I seem unable to say anything else. Finally, I manage, “That makes sense.”

“And more important, it’s not really fair to you, since I know I wouldn’t want to have to put up with that.” He tilts his head, catching my eye. “Still okay?” he asks.

I’m pretty sure I’ve never been more okay in my life. I take two steps forward to close the distance between us, and kiss him. My hands slide over the flat planes of his stomach, his ribs, the wide expanse of his chest. My fingers ghost over a nipple and his lips curve up into a smile.

“I’m trying to keep this grocery-store-appropriate,” he growls, reminding me of the last time we were in his bed, with the weight of him moving over me, sweaty and intense. “You’re not making it very easy.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, even as I push up onto my toes to get closer.

He bends to meet me halfway, lips moving with mine, familiar and warm, sucking at the bottom and then letting me have a turn sucking his. He gives me the tip of his tongue in tiny licks, through smiling kisses and quiet sounds as his hands move down my back and over my ass, pulling me into him. I want him in my bedroom, walking backward while I push forward to the bed, climbing over him, feeling his sun-kissed, smooth skin sliding over mine, heating with friction. There are too many clothes and too much space between us, and it’s only when someone bumps into us as they reach around for the baby carrots that I remember where we are.

We register this in unison, and Luke takes a step back before clearing his throat.

“So.” I smooth my hair, willing my body to back down and relax. “Groceries.”

“Right. Groceries.” He takes a deep breath to compose himself before his eyes go wide and he points to my cart. “Wow, that is a lot of produce.”

“Lola’s a healthy gal.” With shaky hands, I pick up a carton of strawberries, check the date, and add it to the pile.

We take a few steps and I glance down at Lola’s list. I’m oddly distracted and can’t seem to focus on anything but the fact that Luke is at my side. “Yogurt,” Luke says, grinning as he guides us down the next aisle.

“Right.”

“So what have you done today?” he asks, and I laugh.

“I finished Lola’s site and did some adult thinking.”

Although I’m bending down to read some labels, I can sense that he’s turned fully to face me. “More ‘adult thinking’? I did a little of my own today.”

It feels like my heart has just calmed down after kissing him in the produce section, and it takes off all over again as I quietly explain. “Besides the obvious,” I say, “I was thinking about a new job.”

He tries to play it cool by pretending to join me in reading the nutritional information on a yogurt container. “Really?”

I hum in agreement. “This guy Oliver knows contacted me about doing some work.”

“A site?” he asks, unable to keep up the act, pulling my arm so I turn and look at him. I can feel the tension of the conversation growing between us, the question about what happens when he moves to Berkeley.

“A site, yeah, and designing all of his promotional items. It’s a pretty big offer.”

I watch him swallow as he nods a few times. “Like . . . how big?”

“It would pay me more than I make all year bartending.” Luke goes completely still when he hears this. “So after I tried to call you”—Luke startles at this—“I called and quit Bliss. But I might also have to quit Fred’s. That’s the part that’s holding me back. It’s good, but . . . I don’t know . . .” I flounder, repeating the word again: “Big.”

“Big can be good,” he says.

He tilts his head for us to keep walking, and we move side by side down the aisle. Luke senses my need to change the subject and tells me more about how his sister ran into Lola and they ended up talking about us for a half hour. We decide they’re all a bunch of busybodies but we love them anyway, and have made it halfway around the store before I realize that at some point Luke has abandoned his basket entirely, and his groceries are lined up in the cart right next to mine.

And it’s not even weird.

In the cereal aisle I reach for a box of Rice Krispies while he picks out Corn Flakes, and we move on.

A row of Pop-Tarts catches my eye and I stop, picking up a box of blueberry and putting them in with the rest of my things.

“Those are my favorite,” he says.

I wink at him. “I know.”

He looks at me, confused. “How did you know?”

“There was an empty box in your recycling and another in the cupboard. You’ve probably gone through it by now, even just eating one at a time. Still weird, by the way.”

He gives me the strangest expression but doesn’t comment as we finish up Lola’s list and grab a few more things for him. We turn in unison near the cash registers, getting in line to check out.

“You know,” he says, “we’re really good at this.”

I tilt my head to look up at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

“This domestic stuff. Look how good our apples look next to each other. My shampoo next to your tampons? It’s like they were made to be together in this cart. We haven’t argued over what kind of tuna fish to buy and we agree that Ruffles are better than Lay’s. It’s just—it’s nice to know.”

I smile up at him. “ ‘To know’? To know what?”

He bends, kissing my cheek. “To know we aren’t just amazing in bed together, or at a bar together, but actually together together.”

“It is.” I turn into his kiss, letting our lips simply press together as we look into each other’s eyes. I can feel his mouth turn into his smile, and watch as his eyes curve into my favorite, playful expression.

“I love you,” he whispers when he pulls back only a couple of inches, and then kisses me one more time. My throat tightens with the need to say it back.

But not here. I can feel the person behind us watching, can feel how we must stand out in the bright, impersonal light of a grocery store. I can’t look away, though: Luke Sutter is a motherfucking wonder right now, and Lola’s words ring through my thoughts. She’s right: He’s mine now.

The cashier begins scanning things from our cart, and the moment quiets, sweetly. I pay for my groceries and he pays for his, and then together we push the cart out to my car.

“Would you need to go to an office for this new job?” he asks, bending to push a bag toward the back of my trunk. I pull another bag out of the cart and he reaches for it, quietly telling me, “Let me.”

“No,” I answer. “All the programs I need are on my laptop, so I can work from home. Maybe at a coffee shop once or twice a week for a change of scenery.”

“What you’re saying is, you could live anywhere?” he asks, and the question is full of hope.

“I could.” A storm of birds is flapping around in my chest.

With the last bag unloaded, he looks down at me for a moment before leaning in, kissing me softly. It’s the faintest, slowest, most featherlight kiss I’ve ever had, and I want to ask him for about a hundred more.

Can I ovulate from a kiss?

“That’s good to know,” he says, and then points the cart in the direction of his car. “See you at Fred’s tonight, Logan.”

FRED IS BEHIND the bar when I get to work, and I feel the first real pang of sadness at the possibility of leaving, even to do something I love. I don’t have a particularly close relationship with my own father, so getting to hang out with Fred most nights has become something I really look forward to.

Nana would have loved Fred.

Most only-children bear the burden of being their parents’ entire focus, carrying the weight of their collective hopes and dreams on their shoulders. My parents—particularly my mom—discovered early on that I wasn’t the perfect little Mini-Me she’d always wanted, and opted for disapproval rather than trying to relate to me. I wasn’t outright rebellious, but I wasn’t a people-pleaser, either, and I spent most of my teen years being reprimanded for one thing or another.

My grandmother, on the other hand, just got me, and even though I’m sure there were more times than not where my headstrong personality made her want to sell me to the nearest traveling circus, she knew that the traits that made me a challenging teenager would make me a confident, independent woman.

I do a lot of thinking as I start my shift, about what I should do with my life and where, about how many changes could be on the horizon. I keep going back to my conversation with Luke at the store, and it feels heavier, more impor­tant with every passing hour. Luke seems to have settled on moving to Berkeley, but we haven’t really talked about it yet. Something in my chest curls in on itself at the idea of being away from him, even now. San Diego has always been my home—even when I was only here visiting during the summer it felt that way. Could I leave it now?

There’s a big game on tonight and the place is packed. I see a lot of regulars, and even more new faces. It’s a good mix: some younger, some older, and a few in between. I keep track of the drinks of the people sitting at the bar, and carefully monitor a particularly rowdy group of sorority-type girls in a booth near the jukebox.

Luke comes in around ten, slipping up to the bar while I’m covering for one of the waitresses. He’s laughing with Fred when I join them, and he reaches out, snags one of my belt loops, and smiles, so fucking wide.

My entire body is full of tiny bombs that detonate when he gives me that smile.

“Hey,” he says.

He’s changed into a pair of dark jeans and a blue T-shirt that stretches tight across his biceps and across his lats. I run my hands up his sides, feeling him. His hair is soft and falling over his forehead and his smile straightens into hunger when I say, “There you are.”

“Can I drive you home?”

“My car is here,” I remind him. “Don’t you have work in the morning?” I put a coaster in front of him, reaching into the cooler to grab a cold pint glass, and begin filling it with a new IPA I’m sure he’ll love.

He catches my hand for a second as I place the glass in front of him, just long enough for his fingers to ghost over my wrist. “You’re the one who closes here and gets up with the sun to go surfing. I want to come home with you. I haven’t been in your bed yet.”

He says it without a hint of trepidation, and suddenly it’s all I can think about.

Luke in my bed.

Luke naked in my sheets.

Luke with his head thrown back against my pillow when he comes.

My voice is noticeably shaky when I tell him, “Okay,” and nod to someone trying to get my attention at the other end of the bar. “Go play with your friends so I can work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, picking up his beer and standing. “And Logan?”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“You look beautiful tonight.”

IT DOESN’T ESCAPE my notice—or Fred’s, for that matter—that I track where Luke is all night. He talks animatedly with his friends and even joins them in a game of pool, but keeps checking his watch, meeting my eyes when he looks up to find me watching him, too.

My breath catches every time. I’m nearly drunk with the giddy feeling that rises like carbonation in my chest and the words that seem intent on making their way up my throat.

I love you.

I blink away and back down to the credit card I’m supposed to be using to start a tab, and have to clear out the sale and start over.

About an hour later I watch one of the sorority girls leave her group and wander into the back room. Luke’s not really paying attention—his eyes seem fixed on the screen above the pool table as he appears to argue with Not-Joe about the game—so he doesn’t immediately react when she slips into the chair next to him. She leans in, saying something in his ear, and loops her arm through his.

I didn’t even know I was holding my breath until he looks over at her, shifting just enough to put some space between them and removing his arm from her grip. Luke shakes his head and, without any more attention given to the moment, turns back to the television. He clearly didn’t do it for my benefit—he doesn’t even look to see if I’ve been watching.

My hands tremble as I wipe down the counter and glance at the clock, counting down the hours until I can take him home, and kiss another set of words into his skin: I trust you.

IN THE END, I do leave my car at the bar and let Luke drive me all the way back downtown. I don’t really want to be away from him; things between us feel settled but not. When is he moving? What will I do?

He holds my hand as he drives, we listen to quiet music, and an easy sleepiness takes over the space between us.

Upstairs, we brush our teeth side by side. Luke brought a toothbrush with him, and when I see him pull it from a small duffel bag, I tell him the story of finding Ashley’s at Justin’s house. His reply is to spit, rinse and wipe his mouth, and press a wordless, lingering kiss to my temple.

“What a bag of dicks,” he says when he’s pulled away.

“I’m going to rinse off really quick,” I say. And I do mean quick. I get in the shower before it’s all that warm, soap and shampoo at the speed of light, and practically sprint to my room in a towel.

And Lord. Nothing looks better than Luke naked in my bed.

He’s between the sheets already, his clothes in a neat pile on my desk chair. With unblinking eyes, he watches me drop my towel and tie my damp hair into a bun on top of my head. His eyes move down my neck, stalling on my breasts.

“Do you sleep naked?” he asks.

“With you I do.”

He nods, rapt, and I pull back the sheets, climbing over him.

He’s mine now.

I sit up over him, and feel like we’re swimming in a tiny pool of light from the small lamp on the bedside table. His face is just barely in the shadow, but my entire torso is illuminated, and he reaches up, hands cupping my breasts. Between my spread legs, I feel him start to harden more.

“Logan?” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

His thumbs slide slowly toward my nipples. “Are you my girlfriend?”

I nod, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth as he watches his thumbs draw slowly expanding circles around the tight peaks. Warmth floods my body, longing, and I bend down, kissing him once.

“Did you miss having a girlfriend?”

His brows pull down as he considers my question and he cups my breasts again, gently squeezing. “Not in the way you mean. I like being in a relationship, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be with anyone before you.”

The question seems to come out of nowhere: “Do you ever miss Mia?”

He looks momentarily confused.

“I mean, do you ever—”

His eyes clear in understanding and he interrupts me: “Do you miss Justin?”

I laugh. “It isn’t the same. He cheated.”

“People get over each other for different reasons,” he says patiently. “Just because Mia didn’t cheat on me doesn’t mean I still love her the way I love you.”

I watch my fingers run over the smooth skin of his chest. “I know.”

And I do. But it helps to hear him say it.

“I’ll fuck up sometimes, I know I will,” he says with a tiny, flirty smile. “I’ll forget important dates and buy the wrong brand of tampons when you send me to the store and eat the wrong number of Pop-Tarts and most likely say unintentionally sexist things you’ll need to point out, but I won’t—I promise—ever be unfaithful.” His hands slide up my hips to my waist. “I’m not built that way.”

I kiss him for that, straightening over him again and running my hand down his bare chest. And then I feel my brain hitting the brakes, slowing further as I watch my fingers follow the map of muscle on his body. My fingertips explore the dips and swells, the long lines of his ribs wrapping around his sides.

He’s mine now.

No one else will touch this bare chest.

No one else will enjoy this transition from chest to stomach, from stomach to hips.

No one else will feel the soft trail of hair just here.

He twitches in my hand as I grip him, whispering my name, sitting up beneath me and sucking at my neck.

No one else will touch his cock.

No one else will make him come.

No one else will hear him say I love you.

Luke’s lips move up my neck to my jaw and he lets out a helpless sound as I stroke up, and down, bending to nibble on his bottom lip.

A quiet groan rumbles down his chest. “What are you thinking about? You’re being so quiet all of a sudden.”

“I’m thinking that you’re mine,” I whisper.

He pulls back, looks between our bodies, at my hand fisted around him. “Fucking all yours.”

We watch what I’m doing for a few more beats of silence.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asks, looking back up at my face.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Touch me, kiss me.” He lies back down and shrugs a little against the pillow. “I don’t know. I want to do it all.”

My stomach tightens from the way he watches with wide, intense eyes.

I shift closer, feeling his cock slide over me and he hums, smiling. “This works. You could get yourself off like this and let me watch you come.” His grin widens. “I sure do like to watch you come, Miss London.”

I smile down at him, tracing the line of his collarbone with my fingertip. “You’re my favorite.”

His eyes widen playfully. “Your favorite of anyone?”

Something fills my chest, climbs up my throat. I nod, unable to agree out loud because it’s true. He is my favorite person in the world. “You’re so sweet to me.”

“Well, I would hope so. I love you.” He smiles again when he says it, and the way his eyes turn down a little at the corners just as his mouth turns up makes my heart trip over itself.

“I know you do. I feel it.” I bend, kissing him. My heart peeks over the ledge and sees nothing but wide-open air. “I love you, too.”

He stops breathing, his thighs tense beneath me. “You don’t have—”

I cut him off. “I’m not just saying it because you did. You know I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it.”

It hurts and it soothes just watching Luke struggle with this much emotion. His eyes are tight; he swallows a few times.

“Yeah?” he manages, finally, but his voice still comes out a little strangled.

I nod. “I love you.”

I know without a doubt I never felt this sort of bone-deep comfort with Justin, and even his widest smile never made me melt the way a single, flirty glance from Luke can.

His eyes search mine for a few, jagged breaths. “London?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you move to Berkeley with me?”

My blood turns to smoke, muscles dissolve. I knew this was coming, at least the inevitable choice of moving together or navigating the distance.

He’s watching my mouth, not for my answer but because I’m smiling. I can tell he doesn’t know what it means, though, and his eyes grow anxious.

I lean in, kissing him.

“No, babe, stop.” He holds me back with one hand curled around my shoulder and my heart trips. He called me babe. Not the intentional teasing of Logan or Dimples, but something instinctive, something that rolled reflexively off his tongue.

“Be real with me right now,” he continues. “The idea of being up there if you’re down here . . . I can still choose UCSD.”

I meet his eyes and they’re not smiling, but they’re clear. I see for the first time that his left eye is a little lighter than his right, and it occurs to me that I will never forget this detail about him. Every time we are together, we are collecting these things that make up this amazing Us, and this one makes my throat grow tight with suppressed tears.

He called me babe.

His eyes are two different colors.

He wants me to move with him to Berkeley.

“I’ll move.”

His eyes flash wide. “What?”

“I’ll move to Berkeley with you,” I tell him. “I want you to go to your first choice. I don’t want to be apart.”

“You’ll live with me?”

My chest flips at this enormous detail. “Yeah. I mean, assuming that’s the situation you meant. We can get separate places instead.”

“No,” he blurts, quickly shaking his head. “That’s what I meant. Living together.” His head jerks back in sudden skepticism. “Wait. Seriously? You’re serious?”

I bite back a giddy laugh. “Yes, I’m serious.”

“You love me and you’re moving with me?”

I can barely handle his adorable mania. Bending, I slide my lips over his. “I love you and I’m moving with you.”

Speaking against my mouth, he mumbles, “Holy fuck. Now we’re going to have sex for the first time in this bed. How am I going to last long enough to make sure you come first?”

I laugh harder, and he shakes his head, rolling on top of me, settling between my legs. “I’m serious. I’ve never been so excited,” he babbles. His cock presses against my clit and I can barely focus on what he’s saying; he’s so warm, so rigid. “My heart is about to explode. I’m inarticulate. And my penis is too happy to adequately satisfy you right now. I get live-in London. I get shared-bed London. I get to—”

I stretch to cover his mouth with mine, arching my hips, and his cock is there, just there, and when I shift, the tip moves inside. His surprised inhale is jagged as he slides into me so easily, and without any more negotiation he’s moving, curling his hips over me, demanding and greedy. I feel him there—I feel him everywhere—and the intensity of our decision, the idea of having a bed that is ours, a routine that is ours, a love that is ours makes my body hypersensitive, my skin feel tight and too hot. I push up into him, working my body on his, wanting him deeper and faster, harder, too. Last night was all about slow: he kissed me everywhere, made love to me in nearly every position I could imagine, but tonight we are fast, immediately sealing the deal we’ve just made.

He rises up over me, cupping my bent knees and spreading my legs wider, opening me completely to him. Nothing is more intimate than how he watches, how he stares at where he disappears inside me over and over and over. I reach down, touching him, touching myself, feeling it all: wet and heat, hard driving into soft.

I raise my eyes to his face and realize he’s looking right at me, gauging my reaction to all of this, and I know now what’s more intimate than the way he watched himself moving in me, it’s this: Luke studying my face while he makes love to me. His eyes are glued to mine as the pleasure starts small and then grows, and grows, until I feel it hooking me, dragging me to that point of no return and I’m unable to look away, and nothing—nothing—is more exposed than staring right into his eyes as I let myself fall to pieces. Luke’s lips part in awe and he nods in encouragement as pleasure takes over my senses and I beg him quietly, senselessly—

I’m

Luke, it’s

it’s so

close oh, fuck, I’m close

—his eyes narrowed nearly in pain as he concentrates on getting me there. But my orgasm fully crashes into me and each of my sharp sounds of relief causes a tiny bit of his brow to relax until he’s smiling, grinning so wide, nearly laughing at how I clutch at him, at how wild I am. A million tiny explosions pulse between my legs, up my back, in my throat as I’m crying out, a garbled mess of words.

I stare up at him, going limp, and his mouth opens wider, like he wants to say something, but instead he just bends, kissing me—messy and bobbing as he moves with renewed ­intent—and that elated smile straightens into focus.

Hands tightening on my knees, he spreads my legs even wider, hips pumping. I lift from the bed, squeezing him, wanting to wring every bit of this out of him. He’s so hard, fucking me so wild, I feel it somewhere deep and tender every time he stabs forward but if I could get him deeper inside me, I would. I reach for his hips, urging him into me, and Luke throws his head back as he comes, calling out a disbelieving, “Holy—holy fu—oh, holy fuck,” and then he stills, jerking above me.

He stops, chest heaving as he looks down at me in wonder. Slowly, he releases his hold on my knees and plants his hands on the mattress on either side of my waist. I feel the silence crash down, realizing how vocal we’d both been, how completely lost in the act.

My legs are sore from being spread so wide, and I carefully wrap them around him, using them to pull him down against me. His forehead rests on mine, eyes closed as we catch our breath.

“Holy shit,” he says on a gasping exhale. “Goddamn, woman.”

“Luke?”

Eyes still closed, he smiles a little. “Logan?”

My hands come up his neck, cupping his jaw. “In case I didn’t make it clear earlier, I’m crazy in love with you.”

His eyes open, meet mine, and his smile grows. “Finally.”