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Earlier, his words were the key to unlocking my need for him. Now, my words seem to be that key for Sawyer. He steps toward me, draws my face to his, knots his fingers in wind-blown strands of hair, and kisses me. Ferociously, feverishly, he kisses me. Again and again, deeply, with sunburnt lips and dessert-stained breath and his soft tongue that tangles with mine.
“I can’t promise you anything, Sawyer,” I say, coming up for air.
“Just promise me you’ll try.” There’s hope there, in the gravel in his voice, the rise and fall of his chest, the way he brushes wild strands of hair back from my face.
When I nod and whisper “yes,” a grin spreads across his face, reaching all the way to his eyes. My back’s against the railing, with his arm drawing us together as our lips collide again. And everything about this feels right: the way my heart and head feel so much lighter than they did this afternoon; the way he holds me like I’m his favorite thing and he can’t bear to let me go; the way my body melts into his.
He’s growing hard against me, his sweatpants offering little in the way of disguising the feel of him, or— yeah, no, they’re not disguising the look of him, either.
I nibble at his lip, giggling. “This is a family-friendly vessel, sir.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” He pulls his hips back, bending forward, and rests his head on my shoulders. “I am at the ready.” His body shakes with answering laughter, and I collapse into one of the chaises beside us. He sinks into the neighboring chair and tugs his sweatshirt down over his groin.
“That was really excellent wordplay, Sawyer.”
“You should hear what I was going to say about seamen,” he deadpans, and suddenly we’re howling. Tears stream down my face, and I even snort once, which causes him to crack up even more. When it finally dies down, he reaches across the space between our chairs and holds my hand again. His fingers are warm between mine, and his thumb draws gentle circles on my skin.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at the stars, but my eyes are set on him. Finally he swallows and says into the perfect night air, “There are so many fish in the sea, but I think you’re the most fin-tastic.”
“That was an ex-squid-sit joke. Whaley, whaley good.”
He flashes me a half-smile, stars reflected in the dark pools of his eyes. “What you said last night at dinner… that your parents feel that if you’re going to write, it should be something important.”
The complete change in subject catches me off guard. “Yeah?” is all I can manage to say, unsure where he’s going with this.
“They’re wrong. Romance is important. Giving people that outlet to feel happy matters. Being able to make people experience joy from words on a page is a gift. You’re incredibly talented, Gwen.”
If I had a pen in my hand, I could string together flowing prose and flowery language, fragrant with meaning and appreciation, a bouquet of gratitude too large to hold. But it’s just me, out of my element, out here with someone who matters to me, who’s praising my work, and I barely manage a “thanks.”
“Should we head back?”
I could ask for a detour to his room. Could ask for another encore of last night and this morning. I’m trying, he knows it, and I’m sure we both want to. Instead, I bob my head once and walk back to the suite with his arm wrapped around me, and it feels equally intimate.
We brush our teeth side by side, and by the time I’m finished getting ready for bed he’s got the sofa bed opened for me and is trying to make himself comfortable in one of the chairs, his hoodie and T-shirt folded neatly on the other.
“You can share with me,” I whisper.
“I definitely should not,” he growls, his voice low so our grandmas don’t hear, and I feel myself blush.
“Can you sit with me at least, for a little?”
He looks at the bed, then at me, then back at the crisp white sheets. He lowers himself into the corner of the bed on top of the blanket, and I don’t know which one of us he doesn’t trust enough to allow himself to slip under the covers. It’s probably me, biting my lip, staring at his tanned chest as I crawl toward him. He drapes an arm over the back of the couch: an invitation to curl up next to him, and I RSVP a very obvious yes.
His heart beats a steady rhythm under my ear, its pace quickening slightly before slowing again once I’m snuggled next to him.
“If you’re too hot like this—”
“No,” he says. “It’s perfect.”
And we stay like this for a while, wordless and wonderful, my fingers gliding across the hard plane of his torso, his fingers sliding in smooth strokes up and down my arm.
Earlier, I was fine. But earlier, I had distractions. I had dinner and games and a romantic stroll under the stars and a chorus of crashing waves to distract me. But I haven’t figured out how to handle the stillness, and now it all washes over me again. It comes in waves, flooding my senses. Grief is a bitch. Sawyer wraps both arms around me and rests his chin on my head, and for the second time today I’m crying into him.
“It’s okay. Let it out.”
I do. I let it all come pouring out of me. Even the part that’s the hardest to say. “I’m so scared of being alone.”
His arms tighten around me, and I feel his Adam’s apple bob. “You’re not alone. You don’t need to be.” He pulls back and tucks my hair behind my ear, then guides my face to look up into his. “I know it’s not the same, Gwen, and no one could ever replace her, but you’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere.”
