Page 29 of Packing for Vacation

His laugh is soft and light and happy, his “God, I’m fuckin’ lucky,” making my heart twist in my chest. “I need you, babe. I’ve gotta⁠—”

“Yes. Do it. I need it, I need it,” I whine.

He growls, his hips snapping even faster than before, controlling the pace again, hammering into me. My orgasm starts a moment before he thrusts in knot and all, perfectly timed, and I’m so thankful that we’re in the middle of nowhere because I am loud. His knot swells as he collapses over me, his mouth on the nape of my neck. His teeth carefully bite without breaking the skin, the imitation of a bonding bite prolonging the rhythmic tightening around him. His cum fills me—I can feel the heat of it within—and I melt beneath him in one satisfied, well-fucked omega puddle.

“Thank you,” I whisper, loving the way his weight presses me down. He huffs against my hair, kissing my earlobe.

“My pleasure. Literally.”

Chapter Ten

Lizzie

Isit curled up on the sofa, the entire house bathed in gold light as the sun dips towards the horizon, a glass of New Zealand pinot noir in hand, as Scott busies himself in the kitchen. Before we left Matiu’s place this morning he’d done a supermarket run, packing a week’s worth of groceries into the back of the truck alongside his surfboard, the cold goods shut into a cooler for the trip.

“You all good?” he asks now over the sizzle of chicken in the pan.

“Yes, I’m perfect. I was just thinking about how I really should have purchased that very touristy Kiwi Dictionary I saw in the airport convenience store when I landed.”

“What word triggered that thought?”

“Chilly bin,” I say, attempting — and failing — to mimic his accent. He shakes his head with a smile, moving about the kitchen with practiced ease. From the smell of things, both Scott and Matiu know how to cook, making them even more perfect.

There has to be something wrong with them. The other shoe will drop at some point.

I push the negative thoughts away. I have no grounds to think such things, and there are plenty, plenty of people who live happy, loving, fulfilled lives. I deserve that too, and it’s not going to happen if I assume the worst of people.

“Are those old photo albums?” I ask, pointing to a low bookshelf that lines the wall.

“Yeah! Go ahead, have a look. There’s a lot with my family’s pack in there. If you see some questionable photography skills, that was probably me behind the camera. I had my own kids’ film camera growing up, it was my favourite thing to do when on holiday up here.”

“You liked photography? Do you still take photos?”

“Yeah, sometimes. I had a phase where I did a fair bit of nature photography, but nothing amazing. It just sits on a hard drive in my house.”

“I’d love to see them,” I say, turning the pages of an album. The plastic sticks together, peeling apart noisily. There’s a bunch of children in the pictures, dressed in obvious nineties clothing. “How many siblings do you have?”

“Four.”

“You’re the oldest?”

“Yep.”

“Same. But there’s just myself and my sister.”

It’s easy to spot Scott now that I know the birth order. His little brother is a clone of him, but his sisters must have different biological fathers from within the pack. “Is one of your fathers Māori?” I ask, spotting a man with brown skin and a pounamu around his neck who bears a striking resemblance to the youngest girl in the pictures.

“Yeah, he is. He’s Kai Tahu.”

“That’s his name?”

“His iwi. His tribe. He’s originally from the West Coast of the South Island.”

“I need to look at a map,” I say, before snorting. “I mean, obviously I know the West Coast must be west… This country has a lot of very simplistic place names, come to think of it.”

“The reo Māori names are better. The North Island is Te Ika a Maui — the fish of Maui. If you look at it on the map, you’ll see it’s in the shape of a stingray.”

I pick up another album, turning the pages quietly. Scott is older here, in his mid to late teens. I hold my hand over my mouth as I spot him in another photo, this time complete with thick eyeliner and straightened hair, wearing all black. Oh my god. “You were an Emo!”