Page 42 of Que Será, Syrah

“It’s a three-day relationship that results in six deaths.”

“So? What’s your point?”

“It doesn’t end well—that’s my point. Don’t you think we should at least try and find something a little more hopeful to model our relationship on?”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure. Who says we can’t? We can be the Romeo and Juliet from the Taylor Swift song, that doesn’t end so badly, does it?”

“I don’t know,” I answer cautiously. “How does it end?”

“Really? You don’t know that either? How’s that possible?”

“Guess I’ve never been much of a fan,” I tell her.

She leans in close again, smiling as she goes up on her toes—taking the initiative to kiss me this time—as she murmurs, “Well then, I’m clearly going to have to broaden your horizons. But for right now, listen up; it’s simple. Just say yes.”

Chapter 10

Allegra

We’re on each other instantly. From the moment we get inside his apartment, even as Clay is turning towards me, after locking his door, we’re already reaching for one another. His mouth is hot and demanding on mine as he crowds me against the wall. I brace my hands on his shoulders, give a little hop, and climb him like a tree, wrapping my legs around his hips, angling my face, deepening our kiss. He slides his capable hands beneath me to help support my weight. But my dress is short and I’m nearly naked under it, so the result of this seemingly chivalrous gesture is that his hands are all over my ass, palms cradling my bare cheeks in a way that makes me shudder with heat.

I’d packed light when I left Europe to come home; and I didn’t bring a lot of clothes—have I mentioned this? And this dress, while pretty, had seemed a little too summery when I’d first put it on. Not to mention a little too casual for a Saturday night, even in downtown Oak Creek. I’d second, third, and fourth guessed my decision while I was getting ready, nearly taking it off several times. But there weren’t a lot of options. And right now? I’m so, so happy with my choice.

My attempts to grind against him draw a rough chuckle from Clay’s throat. I’m already close to unraveling, and I’m pretty sure he knows it. His fingers slip beneath the edges of my thong to tease and caress me, coming tauntingly close to where I want to feel his touch, only juuust missing the mark. Which leaves me whimpering with need.

The taste of his mouth is a revelation. Memories from that night on the river—that I’d thought had been drowned by a case of wine and held under by the weight of years—come bobbing to the surface. The way he smelled and tasted, the sound of his voice, the heat of his skin, it’s all coming back to me now. I was shocked tonight when he explained who he was, when I finally realized why he’d seemed so oddly familiar when we—quote/unquote—first met a week ago.

I still can’t believe that I did not instantly recognize him when he pulled me over. And yes, I’m sure jetlag had something to do with it, but if he hadn’t told me, would I ever have put two and two together? I can’t be sure.

Learning that he hadn’t immediately connected the dots, either, only makes things worse. Were it not for the serendipitous circumstance of my having an out-of-date picture on my license, we might have never figured things out! Which only fuels my sense of urgency. We came so close—too close!—to losing each other forever. I need him now!

I wrench my mouth away from his long enough to gasp, “Take me to bed. I want you naked.” I want you in me. “Now!”

“Mmph,” he mumbles, his response lost as I seal his mouth once more. I assume we’re in agreement, however, since he immediately hefts me more fully into his arms, pivots away from the wall and lurches through his apartment until we reach his bedroom.

I’m breathing hard as I get my legs under me, and so is he. We disengage reluctantly, each of us taking a single step back, away from one another. An extremely shaky step, on my part. I’m lightheaded, probably from lack of oxygen, and so concerned that my knees are about to give out, that I quickly lower myself to the bed—and then watch transfixed as he quickly toes out of his shoes, peels off his shirt, and begins to undo his pants.

He's lean and sleekly muscled. His chest is lightly furred, his abdomen is bisected by a narrow strip of dark hair that runs from his sternum to his groin. There’s so much yumminess there, that I can’t stop myself from staring. Damn. My mouth is watering. My hands are itching. I want to lick him all over, touch him everywhere.

“What are you doing?” he asks, as his hands stall on the fly of his jeans.

Reluctantly, I raise my gaze to his face, only to find him eyeing me critically. “What?” I’m surprised into asking. Does he not like that I’m staring? He doesn’t seem like the shy type. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Exactly.”

“Huh?”

He gestures at me impatiently. “You, too: naked, now. Strip.”

“Oh. Right.” I can’t keep from grinning as I hurry to comply, kicking off my own shoes, pulling my dress off over my head, unclasping my bra. I love that he’s as eager as I am.

Or maybe even more eager. Because, before either of us have removed our underwear—black boxer briefs on his part, a lacy thong (as previously mentioned) on mine—he joins me on the bed. Rolling me into his arms, surrounding me with his heat. His lips find mine and we’re kissing again, hands roving everywhere, skimming over each other’s bodies, stoking the fires that—swear to God—feel like they’ve been smoldering for years.

I moan in appreciation when he pushes my thong aside and slides his finger over my pussy.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs between kisses. “Do you always respond this quickly? Or is this just for me?”

“Do I…?” I blink in confusion. I can only assume he’s talking about the night we met, but unfortunately, I can’t remember all that much about it. “Why? Is that what you remember?”

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