Page 96 of Reckless Hearts
“That’s better than phone sex,” he says breathlessly as he opens his eyes.
“Definitely worth traveling for almost three days for,” I agree.
He leans forward to kiss me, the warm water continuing to beat down on us.
I’m only herefor five days, and it goes by far too fast.
My days are spent watching Marcus acting, and my nights are spent in Marcus’s bed.
I have a new appreciation for how hard Marcus works, for how amazing he is at his job.
On the last night before I leave, Marcus takes me apart with agonizing slowness, his touches reverent and intense. It feels less like sex and more like some kind of cosmic alignment.
Afterward, I lie with my head on his chest, listening to his heart beating as he runs his fingers through my hair.
Out of all the miracles in this world, the fact that someone like Marcus exists is still the one that astonishes me the most.
So many unspoken things lie between us. I need to talk to him before I leave. I can’t go home with this thing between us undefined.
But I can’t summon the courage to ask yet.
Instead, I pick up the remote control and flick to the Discovery Channel.
Marcus’s arms around me while I watch an interesting documentary on TV? This is the definition of my happy place.
The documentary shows the riflebird of New Guinea, with its shape-shifting courtship dance, where the male transforms himself into a glossy black oval with an electric blue mouth, performing a mesmerizing side-to-side dance.
“What the hell is that bird doing?” Marcus asks.
“Trying to attract a mate. Courtship rituals are like nature’s version of a dating app. Some species go for flashy displays, others for elaborate dances or gift-giving. It’s all about showing off your best qualities to potential mates.”
I don’t share the universal biological truth. The most beautiful in the species always have the widest mate choice.
“What are our courtship rituals?” Marcus asks lazily.
My heart thuds.
“We exchange text messages, and I fly halfway across the world to watch you pretend to be a nineteenth-century Icelandic farmer. In return, you listen to me ramble about endangered species without falling asleep,” I say.
Marcus huffs a laugh. “That sounds about right.”
I push myself up on my elbow so I can look at him properly.
It’s now or never.
“You said we were in a relationship at university,” I begin tentatively.
Marcus’s eyes are deep and dark. “Yes, we were.”
My heart is beating so fast now that it’s doing an impression of a hummingbird on espresso.
But I need to say this. I need to know.
“It kind of seems like we’re back in the territory of a relationship again,” I say, and it feels like I’ve stepped off a cliff and am potentially about to plunge to my doom.
Marcus tenses. His fingers, which are tracing lazy patterns on my skin, suddenly freeze.
I hold my breath, forcing myself not to fill the silence, waiting.
