Page 40 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“I—I don’t know,” I lie.“Everything feels intense when you’re that age, I think.”

“Hmm” is all he says in response, leaving me to interpret that single syllable in only a hundred different ways.

“Teach me some Dutch words,” I say, eager for a subject change.That seems like a much safer conversation. “I want to impress everyone in class.”

“Well. This is de rug.” He splays a hand on my back, and I repeat the word. “Some of these are very similar to English. De arm”—he touches my arm—“de hand”—grazes my palm with his fingertips—“de voet.” With that one, he gives my foot the lightest tap.

I can’t help laughing. “So I’ve been speaking Dutch my whole life.”

Then he moves backward from de voet, up to my left ankle, touching the top of my sock. “De enkel.”

“Now you’re just fucking with me.”

His voice is pure joy. “Oh, I’m very serious.” His fingers move to my shin. “Het scheenbeen,” he says, and it takes me a few tries to get the pronunciation right. “De knie,” he continues, and even though it sounds almost the same as in English, suddenly I’m not laughing anymore. With my chest to the table, he has to reach around to find my knee, his fingers skimming along my jeans and drawing out a shiver. “Ticklish?”

I shake my head. “De knie. Keep going.”

There’s a pause on his end as he drops his hands, and it takes me longer than it should to realize why: the body parts directly above my knees are ones he’s definitely going to skip.

“As we already covered: de rug.” In one fluid motion, he whisks his thumb up my spine like it’s made of silk. “De wervelkolom.”

For a while my muscles demand his full focus, the heels of his hands chasing down an ache I’ve never been able to reach for myself. It’s as though he knows exactly what’s twisted and tangled up inside me, and if he could just find it, just wrap his hand around it, he could soothe it with a single stroke.

He’s at my neck now, his breathing pattern growing steadilyquicker. Fingertips press in on either side as his exhale rolls across my skin.Christ, it’s almost too good. He rubs me there for a long moment, until my lungs rush to keep up with his.

“What’s next?” I ask, not expecting the rasp of my voice.

“Right. The back of your neck is, quite creatively, de nek. De hals: the throat.” A clearing of his hals as he pushes back my hair to graze my ear, and even that brief touch drags a sigh up my throat. I muffle it just in time. “Het oor. And then we have het hoofd.” The pat he gives my head does nothing to calm the thudding of my heart.

This game wasn’t safe at all.

He works his way back down the column of my neck, down my spine, and it occurs to me that he could pull away at any moment. He could stop, and he probably should, since I’m not paying him and this can’t possibly be a good use of his time.

But he doesn’t. Either he truly believes my muscles need the attention or he wants a reason to keep touching me like this, a ridiculous thought when we’ve only just dipped a toe back into friendship. My body is simply broken, I conclude, just as his thumb digs into a spot between my ribs.

Andoh.Right there.He dips in again, kneading the muscle back and forth until I have to grit my teeth against the sensation.Fuck, I’m not strong enough for this. I can’t pretend I’m not slowly turning to putty with him working my body like every time he gripped a paintbrush was child’s play compared to what his hands can do now.

His touch turns languid, like he could keep going and going, keep stretching my tightest spots until I snap. I’m shuddering, trying to keep my gasp locked away, but the pressure is so gorgeously intense, so unexpected—and then I can’t fight it.

Imoan.

“Was that okay?” he asks, a hint of concern in his voice. “Do you want it a little gentler?”

“No, it’s fantastic.” I’m starving for air, bracing myself for him to do it again. Desperate for him to. “Harder. Please.”

With more force, he pushes deep into my skin as another throaty sound falls from my mouth. It’s just this side of painful, but somehow that’s even better, especially as he alternates between hard and soft, giving me a moment to catch my breath before he starts again, fingertips tracing some invisible map. The lavender oil should be stronger than any of it, but I’m still too aware of his scent. Peppermint shampoo, though it’s been hours since he washed his hair. Something earthy. Something citrus.

Then I sense him leaning over me, his forearms flat against my back. There’s a new heat, a new weight—all of that skin searing mine—and I’ve never been more grateful that he can’t see my face. He even lets out a sound of his own—a rough grunt, like he’s trying to keep himself from showing the effort of it all.

It shouldn’t be sexy, that sound. It shouldn’t rumble through my whole body, settling low in my stomach.

Butgod, the way it drags me back in time.

Now I’m remembering how quiet he used to be when we were together, even when we were alone. We both were, likely a combination of secrecy and the comfort we hadn’t yet found in our own bodies. Only on rare occasions—the back seat of my car, for instance—did he let himself go. Velvet moans and my name murmured like a plea when I kissed down his chest, teased the waistband of his boxers.Can Iandare you sureandyes. I’d never imagined how it would feel to undo another person like that, to get to see them at their most vulnerable.

Gently, he brushes aside my hair so he can give more attention to my neck, a sensation that has the effect of beaming a pulse directly between my legs. He’s massaging behind my ears, beneath my jaw, but I can feel his hands on every outstretched limb. Every place that craves his fingertips.

For a moment, I let myself give in to the fantasy, because certainly there’s no harm if it stays inside my head, where I want himloud. I want those expert hands on my hips and thighs. I want his weight on top of me, a hot mouth on my skin while he pushes my body to its limits.

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