Page 54 of 32 Days in May

I pop up onto my elbows. “What?”

“This—for this. What are the rules?” He blinks, eyes heavy-lidded with desire. “You can’t ghost me.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Sure.” He brings his mouth to mine, snagging my bottom lip with his teeth. “You’re a fucking heartbreaker. I don’t trust you.”

“Are you kidding me? Vampire. Gone in thirty days.”

I regret those words as soon as they leave my lips. Marco cocks an eyebrow, mouth pulling upward into a smile. “Why? Do you want me longer?”

The question grates. Enough. I sit up and reach for his belt buckle, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you?”

Marco rests his hand over mine, pressing my palm into his length. “Promise me you won’t sneak out in the middle of the night and delete my number.”

I bite back a groan at the feeling of him. “Promise me you aren’t just using me to fill some freaky void in your big, beautiful, empty life.”

“Specific,” he growls, unzipping his pants. Holy shit.

I sit up, pushing Marco back as he pulls his shirt over his head, unveiling the muscular planes of his chest. He’s built but soft, and I love the sight of his articulated, lived-in body immediately. His arms are thick and toned, his pecs muscular and broad. He looks like he could change a tire or smack an ass with authority. I want him to do both.

Without another thought, my mouth is on his, then his neck and his chest. His breathing is heavy and ragged as I push him back to the couch and straddle him. We break apart so he can work his boxers down over his thighs.

Then, he’s pressed against me, our bodies shaking with anticipation. Marco’s fingers dance down my stomach, his mouth quirking, eyes flashing with desire.

He pushes into me as I lower myself to meet him, as slowly as I can manage, a gasp snagging from me with every inch. He grips me tight, fingers digging into me harder and harder as he gives in and lets me take full control. We’re both a bundle of nerves, tightened and tightened again, so close to snapping.

Marco takes a palmful of my ass in each hand, head falling back against the couch, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“Give me a second,” he whispers against my damp skin, pressing his mouth into the base of my throat. I grip the couch behind him, thighs quivering. I need one, too.

We move from the couch to his bedroom upstairs, in an open loft over the kitchen, never breaking apart. His mouth and hands and eyes stay on me.

Marco’s bed is enormous. More pristine white, more luxe fabric. Eventually, we run out of condoms and move to the shower, where the steam cloaks us, obscuring our bodies. His chest is solid and warm, and I decide that pushing my fingers through the dark curly hair on his chest is my favorite sensation in the world. He holds me tight against him, then maneuvers us so my back is pressed against the freezing-cold tiles. He pins me there with his hungry, eager mouth.

Out of the shower, we collapse side by side on the bed. Marco’s hair ink black against the pillow, his lips swollen and red from the near-constant friction.

“You never answered my question,” he says, still trying to regain control of his breathing.

“Which one?”

“About your career—was your favorite part making art?”

I’m limp, exhausted, profoundly satisfied. My guard is down and for the first time in months, I feel like I’m one with my body. Is it possible Marco has melded me back together, cured me, penilely? Because right now, I’d tell him anything. I’d tell him about my diagnosis, my failing kidneys, my completely stalled out and empty life, my relationship with my sister that is alternately full of love and total shit. My cowardice in the face of my own mortality.

I’d like to start over, I could tell him. I could go completely insane and blurt out: I want to start over with you.

Instead, I let out another satisfied sigh, like a cat in the sun. I’m melting in the mattress, sleep coming for me quickly. Marco moves around me, tucking an arm under my head. I can feel the stubble of his beard against my shoulder and the soft dance of his fingers over my arm.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “It was.”

Thursday, May 11

When I wake up, I have to peel myself off Marco’s broad, sweaty back. We’ve kicked off the duvet and top sheet, both of us sprawled toward each other. It’s a miracle that we spent the entire night intertwined like this, my face buried in Marco’s neck, his arm slung over my chest. In the middle of the night I could feel him pulling me closer, kissing my shoulder blades, fingertips grazing my stomach.

Marco looks peaceful while he sleeps, olive skin flushed and bright against the ivory sheets around him. My hands and feet are swollen, and I quickly sneak out of bed and into the bathroom. Under the steaming-hot water, my thigh muscles ache with an unfamiliar strain. Like I climbed a fucking mountain.

When I come out of the bathroom, Marco’s in the kitchen, hair mussed in every direction, throwing together a pot of coffee.