Page 53 of 32 Days in May

I suppress a shiver, sliding down lower, moving deeper into his touch. “Blame the patriarchy.”

Marco makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “You didn’t have to wear heels for me.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Of course I did. We went to a fancy restaurant. That’s what you do. What if someone had taken a picture of us?”

He lifts his eyes to mine, shining and playful, and gravely announces: “Never again.”

“Never again,” I agree.

We fall quiet while Marco’s hands steadily work at the tensed muscles of my calves. I want to ask him more questions—a million more questions—but I can’t think of anything right now. I don’t notice that my head has fallen backward or that I’m making a soft humming noise until his hands have made their way up behind my knees, my lower body entirely draped over his lap. His fingers still, and I lift my head back up, blinking my eyes open.

Marco’s watching me, cheeks flushed.

“What?” I ask, my voice little more than a whisper.

Then, as if we’re performing a practiced, choreographed dance, Marco leans in as I lift myself up. His fingers find my jaw and for a moment we linger, nose to nose.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, so quietly I may have only tasted his words. “Again.”

I can’t remember if I say yes or okay or if I slip my fingers into his hair and find his lips myself.

Then, every inch between us disappears, along with all my anxieties about time and place and who I am versus who he is. All of it falls away until the only thing I can focus on is the feeling of his mouth against mine, soft and persistent, the pressure of his body as we move against each other. Marco takes a firm hold on my lower back, coaxing me into his lap, his hands traveling the length of my spine in a feather-soft touch that has me melting. Electric desire moves between us, an infinite loop of half-rendered thoughts and feelings. I knew I wanted this—I just didn’t know how bad.

I shift to straddle Marco’s lap, his hands sliding back down to squeeze at the thickest, softest part of me, a growl lodging in his throat as I roll my hips against his, against the eager strain of him against his zipper. Then, with almost no effort, he shifts us, gently placing me onto my back so he’s over me, hands sliding up over my hips, my waist, my breasts.

Marco settles between my legs, easing me down further onto the couch, teeth nipping at my jawline, at the hollow base of my throat. I can’t keep track of where his hands have fallen, until they tease so very close to the tender edge of my inner thigh. As a moan slips from my mouth, his teeth snag my bottom lip. Blind desire eclipses everything, and I press into his denim-clad thighs rough against mine, bare and soft, as he brings his hips to meet mine again.

“Nadia,” he breathes, lips on my jaw.

We’re a cart careening down a hill; no brakes, no steering wheel, only momentum. I drag my hands down his chest, pulling the fabric of his shirt loose as I wrap my legs around his waist. Marco lets out another noise of encouragement against my neck, his erection pressing into the thin fabric of my underwear. My back arches instinctively as his breath hitches.

I press myself upward, trying to catch my breath. I’m losing my mind, unable to pull back and regain my usual control. I push my hands into his hair as his lips meet the exposed triangle of flesh between my breasts.

“How do I get this dress off you?” He pants against my skin, fingers skating along the elastic edge of my underwear.

“Like this.” I yank the material up over my thigh, then my hips, and finally over my head. I fall back down onto the couch, my breasts spilling sideways. Marco sits up and back on his heels, eyes dark with desire. He slides his hands from my knees up over my thighs, taking his time to feel the soft, downy flesh.

I hook my fingers into my underwear and push them down, kicking myself free.

A muscle in his jaw jumps. “Fuck.”

Like this—me naked and Marco fully clothed—there’s a power imbalance. Finally, he’s in my light.

He wants me. So badly. It’s written all over his face. And I want him, more than I would ever, ever admit. For months I’ve been dormant, asleep to myself. Maybe I’ve been asleep longer than I realized, because now, I feel like I’ve reentered my body and with every fresh connection of his mouth with my skin, I forget why I ever, ever wanted to be gone.

Wake me up, I think.

Suddenly, his lips are on the base of my throat. With a groan and a murmured encouragement, his tongue, tentative and slow, travels with restraint over my nipples, heavy-lidded eyes pinning me to the couch. He slides a hand up between my thighs, until I let out the tiniest gasp, head falling back.

“You’re quiet,” he whispers, tone wry.

“What do you want me to do?” I pant. “Sing?”

He chuckles, eyelashes fluttering as his mouth descends, hands working, until they meet somewhere in the middle.

Just when I think I can’t take any more, Marco pulls away, sitting back on his thighs—chest rising and falling, dark hair mussed and falling forward. He smooths it away from his face, biceps flexing, strangled, underneath his shirt. He’s hard, the outline of his dick visible through the material of his pants.

“What . . . ” He pauses to catch his breath, tongue catching on the corner of his mouth as his chest rises and falls. “What are the ground rules for this?”