Page 120 of Go Back to December
I scoop up the cock bag and throw it at him.
His laughter is breathless.
When I meet him at the pillows, he pulls my mouth to his. The kiss is all heat and salt. Sloppy with need. No finesse, only plain desire.
We exchange no more words.
We let our actions speak for themselves.
Edges dissolve into curves, inside out, and around.
Until we shatter in succession, like the final bursts of fire in the sky.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dawn’s pink light filters through the glass dome, coaxing us from sleep.
When we come together again, it’s more urgent, more tender than last night. Soon, the sun will yank itself up in the sky, our phones will blow up, and this moment we’ve created here will melt, like an igloo made of ice, not glass.
Baz circles me in his arms, my head rests in that perfect crook between his neck and shoulder, and he sighs his contentment.
“Rabbit, rabbit.”
He cocks his head. “Is that dirty talk?”
“Gross. It was something one of my teachers said. She had this ritual that whenever we began a new week or a new month, the first words we should say were, ‘Rabbit, rabbit.’”
“Did you go to witchcraft school?”
“Sadly, no. That would have been much more useful than calculus. I think the words were supposed to help you start fresh.”
“So she was bananas.”
“Completely. She had a pet ferret.”
He laughs and stretches, giving me a smile that is neither Sphinx nor sparkle.
It’s a little shy.
He’s working up to ask or say something important, and I don’t want the weight of it to smash this dream state.
“How long do we have?” I whisper.
“Not long enough.”
“We have to thank Annabel.” I pause. “She thinks you’re afraid to leave home.”
He hums as his long fingers slide through my hair. It feels so delicious that, for a moment, I’ve forgotten what I’ve said.
Which I’m sure was his intention.
Lazily, my fingers explore the soft spray of hair on his chest. “Are you?”
“Afraid to leave? No.”
His eyes slide to mine. “What about you?”
I turn my cheek back onto his chest. “I’m always leaving.”
