Page 63 of Bloom

I write: YOU CAMPBELLS ARE VERY DEMANDING.

And then Ginny says, “Who are you texting this late?”

“Uh, um,” I falter. “A friend from school?”

He replies: YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW DEMANDING I CAN BE. BUT YOU’LL LEARN.

That’s when I know I can’t wait for her to fall asleep.

“I’m dying to start my new book,” I tell her. “Will the light bother you?” I ask this only because I know it will. Ginny’s read some study about how light during sleep throws off your biorhythms and decreases your functional IQ. She won’t even allow a digital clock in here now.

She tsks. “You know I can’t sleep like that.”

“I’ll go downstairs,” I tell her, and she smiles at me so gratefully that I kind of feel like an asshole for lying to her. Not enough of one to stop me, however.

I get downstairs and tiptoe in through his open door, closing it behind me.

He’s already in bed. “Thank God,” he groans. “Come here.”

I walk toward him almost shyly, and when I get to the side of the bed he pulls me down and rolls me beneath him. It takes that much time for my nerves to evaporate, lost in a haze of want.

“Do we need to talk about this first?” James asks, his eyes flickering to my mouth before they return to me.

“Not unless you need to,” I whisper.

“I don’t need to,” he says, lowering his head. He runs his fingers over my cheekbones as his lips graze mine. He’s careful – restrained - with me, as if I’m spun from something fragile.

His mouth moves over me, soft, fluttering kisses, a promise of things to come. They aren’t enough. I strain for more, arching against him, desperate for the delicious weight of him as he lowers on top of me.

It’s a relief when his control begins to slip, when the sweetness grows heavy. When the hand at my hip finally slides beneath my tank, grazing my skin, pulling his name from my lips with a needy exhale.

His hand cups my breast and it’s my response that seems to change things, that makes him abandon his patience and restraint. His breath rasps as he finds my mouth again, as he grabs the strap of my tank top and yanks it down. His hand slides inside, the rough pad of his thumb brushing over me before he pulls the other strap down and lowers his head, replacing fingers with mouth and tongue and teeth.

My hands go to his hair as I gasp his name but instead of continuing he pulls away entirely.

“We have to stop,” he pants, flinching as if in pain.

“Stop? Why?” I breathe. I think I could come just thinking about the way he pulled the straps of my tank down if I contemplated it long enough. Stop? Now?

“I promised myself … ” he begins. “It’s enough just to spend time with you. It doesn’t have to be more.” But the quick pace of his breath belies his words. As does the erection currently wedged hard against my leg.

“But - do you not want more?” I ask. It’s an effort not to sound anxious.

He sighs and presses his mouth to my neck, planting a soft kiss there. “You have no idea how badly I want more,” he says, his voice low and quiet beside my throat.

“Then don’t stop,” I urge him.

“Elle,” he says hoarsely, “I’m trying to do the right thing here and you’re making it so hard.”

“Yes, because I don’t want you to do the right thing,” I argue. “And because it’s not the right thing.”

He rolls off of me, gently pulling my tank back up. “Last night was too much. It would have gone too far and I just … can’t. After you left, I promised myself that I wouldn’t get carried away again. And I already have. I’m already not thinking, I’m already practically ripping your top off and rationalizing it to myself,” he says.

“I loved that,” I whisper. “I want you to not think.”

He closes his eyes and exhales. “Let me be with you just like this for a while first,” he says. “Please.”

I agree, because there’s not much else I can do. A part of me would like to prod further, because my guess is that this is somehow related to the age difference, but then he turns toward me and captures my mouth, and I can’t quite think well enough to form the question.