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He moves the hand that was in mine up to my cheek and I groan in an agonising way. He flashes a wary glance to the front door and then back down to me. He does this a few times. Then he scoops me into his arms bridal style, knocks the front door closed with his shoulder, and starts carrying me up the stairs.
“I might bleed on your arm,” I whisper.
He breathes out a small laugh but mainly he looks like he’s hurting.
He’s hurting because I am hurting.
At the top of the stairs he asks, “Which room is yours?” as if we haven’t been staring into each other’s windows for our entire teenage lives.
Both of our bodies are a bit tense now. I vaguely lollop my arm in the direction of my room and he carries me into it, fingers gripping into my thighs tighter than before. He cautiously settles me on my bed like a priceless one-of-a-kind artefact.
I roll onto my side as he crouches down next to me, and I wince as my stomach cramps.
“What can I do?” He’s stroking my cheek with impossible gentleness. “Is there any way to relieve it?”
Is this what men are like? Surely not. Maybe I am dead.
Then he asks, “Can I touch your stomach, River?”
My eyes flash to his and my head spins a little. It is highly unlikely that having a man spread his palm over my stomach is going to relieve the pain inside of me.
And yet.
“Yes,” I say quickly.
“Thank you,” he replies, and he gets to his feet, towering over me.
I roll onto my back and look up at him.
Slowly he pulls up his sleeve and he splays his hand a few inches above my stomach. The air between my tummy and his palm is pulsing aggressively with anticipation. His fingers are so long and his knuckles are so big that I have to grip my sheet to prevent myself from wriggling. I must be emitting all sorts of violently explicit pheromones because his jaw is clenched and throbbing.
He eases his fingers out across the white cotton of my shirt and then he gradually begins to press the large expanse of his warm palm against my lower stomach. The heat from his skin sinks in through the fabric and I can instantly feel it submerging into my body. I arch my back up higher so that he can touch as much as possible and his hand presses even firmer into me. I push my head back into my pillow and the soft surface plumps up indulgently around my cheeks.
When I hear the hard sounds of ragged breathing I flutter my eyes open. Tate instantly looks away from me, a deep blush spreading across his cheekbones. I look down at my stomach and I can see the tension rippling through the thick tendons of his forearm. The possibility that I am responsible for his flushed demeanour makes me feel sparkly all over.
“It feels okay now, Tate.”
My voice is all husky. It’s foreign to both of us and it startles him. He pulls his hand back like my body just burnt him and he holds it behind his head, giving me a satisfying display of taut abdomen.
“My mom will be home in a few minutes. Do you want to take the player?” I nod over to the corner of my room where my CD player is longingly looking out of the window over at Tate’s porch.
Tate lets out a long breath and shakes his head. He sits down next to my feet and the bed squeaks in delight. “I only want to listen if I’m with you,” he says quietly, hands gripping his knees. Then he looks up my body until his eyes finally meet mine. “Only with you.”
A warm feeling spreads inside of me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come over today, I was dying,” I say apologetically. I tuck my knees up so that I can hide my underwear.
He shakes his head, and a finger brushes up my calf. “I was being greedy, I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “You don’t have to come to see me every day anymore - it’s not fair to you. I’m going to start planning things. I want to spoil you.” Then he looks up at me with a playful smile. “Are you going to let me spoil you, River?”
I laugh delightedly under his attention but then a car drives past the window and it snaps us out of the moment.
It wasn’t my mom but it could have been.
He pulls the discarded cover from the side of my bed and tucks it snug around my body.
“I can’t believe that I’m in your bedroom,” he whispers tenderly.
“Don’t look at anything,” I whisper back. My eyes flick nervously to the stack of romance books by the door.
