Page 70 of Backslide
I snicker.
“Shut up,” she says.
“Make me,” I say.
And she’s about to when, against her lips, I say, “One last thing…”
“Ugh! What, dude? So damn chatty.”
“Why are you making me call you Eleanor?”
“Oh.” Her smile drops just a bit. She scratches her neck, looks down. “It’s just… you’re the only person who calls me Nell. And not Nellie.”
“And you hate it?”
“No. That’s the thing. Not at all.”
15NELLIETODAY
I grant him permission to call me Nell, and then things go from PG-13 to R-rated.
He kisses me rougher now, harder, slipping his tongue into my mouth. He tastes like he drank that grape water too. His hands scrape down my chest, yanking my bikini top free. I arch against his palm, pinched and tight.
“Good thing I put my top back on,” I laugh into his mouth. “That was a waste of time.”
“Nah,” he says, all gravel. “I liked taking it off.”
His voice reverberates through me and I grind into him, feeling him go rock hard against me. Not everything from the past is smaller than you remember it.
And I don’t know if we’re making out like teenagers because that’s how it started or if it’s the frustration of twenty-plus years coming to call.
But the water is making me feel weightless, like we might just float away, intertwined. On an X-rated lazy river. His thumb grazes my jaw,then slides down my neck, his palm cupping my breast, getting waylaid there. I run my hands over his shoulders and down his sculpted arms, scratching at his back. I squeeze his thighs between mine.
I can’t be sure where I begin and he ends.
But it’s when I raise my hand to run it over his hair at the back of his neck that I yelp loudest—from a shock of pain.
Right. My arm is still injured.
“Are you okay?” he asks, out of breath. His brow is crinkled.
“I’m fine,” I say, catching a drop of water trailing down from his temple with my fingertip.
But something glitches in his expression.
“What now?” I ask.
He sighs. “I’m probably going to regret saying this, but… are you sure you’re good with this?”
“Have I not shown enough enthusiasm?” I laugh. “I’m literally topless on your lap.”
I lean into him, pushing my boobs against his bare chest as if to demonstrate.
He nods. Sweeps a palm across his forehead. Like he’s suddenly stressed. Why is hestressed?
“That’s true,” he says. “But you’re also under the influence of a muscle relaxer. That I prescribed to you.”
Is he fucking kidding me?I wonder. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I say.
