Losing It

He swims to me. Wraps his arms around me. Brings his lips to mine.

His tongue slips into my mouth.

My fingers dig into his hair. It’s still dry. His top half is still dry.

I need to change that.

I step backward, pulling him with me.

He falls with me.

Dives under the water with his lips pressed to mine.

We surface, break, gasp for air.

“I’m going to get you back for that, angel.” His fingers skim my lower back. Under the water, his touch is smooth. Slick. Frictionless.

It’s not enough.

I want to feel more of him.

I want every sopping wet inch of him pressed against me.

But, God, I really need the reprieve of the pool.

Even with most of my body submerged, I’m melting. The sun is oppressive.

I motion follow me. Swim (well swim-walk) backward. Until I’m under the shade of a palm tree.

He stays a few strokes behind me.

Then comes closer.

Close enough to kiss me.

But he doesn’t. He just keeps his body near.

His proximity makes me buzz. It always does, but it’s different today. After last night. After being one with him.

My skin flushes at the memory.

“Where are you going, angel?” He brings his lips to my ear.

“Thinking about what I want to do to you after this.”

“Yeah?”

I nod. There’s so much. A lot is dirty, yeah, but it’s more than that too. “You’ve done something to me.”

“Go on…”

“I’m insatiable.” I press my cheek against his, so I can whisper. The skin-on-skin contact makes me shudder. He makes me shudder. “I want you all day.”

“We can go all day.”

God, it’s tempting. But this is nice too. Lounging in the cool water, desert in front of me, Sin City behind me. And Wes… just here.

I want all of him I can get.

His body, mind, heart, soul.

And, well, there’s something we haven’t discussed.

Maybe he wants to keep it to himself. But I want to help.

For once, I’m going to push instead of folding. That’s what he needs. And I lo—

Well, I’m still not sure if I love him. But I do care enough to push.

“We will.” I break our touch to swim to the far corner of the pool. It’s distant enough to offer some privacy. Not as much as I’d like, but some.

Wes follows.

I press my back against the concrete wall.

He copies my posture. Places his body next to mine, his legs brushing mine, his arm around my waist. “You do look different.”

“Like I’m finally a woman?”

He chuckles as he brushes a stray hair behind my ear. “Like you were properly fucked.”

“Do I really?”

“Yeah.” His lips curl into a smile. “But I’m a little biased.”

My chest gets light. Then my limbs. He has such a beautiful smile. I want to stare all day. But I want to talk about this too. “I was thinking—”

“I’ll go right here, but we’ll probably get arrested.”

“Probably.”

“You’ll get kicked out of med school,” he says.

“Yeah.” I mean, he’s right. Getting arrested, especially for public indecency, will completely fuck up my life. But I still cringe at the thought of med school. The thought of quitting?

It’s terrifying.

But in a freeing way.

Like zip lining or sky diving or some other extreme sport.

I don’t want that life.

I’m not ready to say it out loud yet.

But in my head…

I don’t want to go to med school.

My heart thuds against my chest. My breath catches. My shoulders tense.

At the moment, scary is winning.

But I’ll get there.

I will.

“I… um… I was actually thinking about your mom.” I press my lips together.

His gaze shifts to the pool. “Quinn, why—”

“Well, if you don’t want to talk, that’s okay. But if you do, I… uh… I want to be here… to listen. If that will help.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Thank you.” I mean it as a confident statement, but it comes out more like a question.

“But I—”

“It’s an offer, not a demand.”

“You sure?” He presses his palm against the wall, under the water. “I can do a lot of shit but diving into my head isn’t on that list.”

“I don’t know. The sketches you’ve been showing me are amazing.”

“Yeah.” His cheeks flush. It’s slight, but it’s there.

Holy fuck.

I’m making Wes blush.

It’s hard to believe.

He’s a confident sex god, but I guess he’s as nervous and inexperienced as I am when it comes to this kind of intimacy.

“It’s such a fucking mess,” he says.

“Your mom?”

“My head.”

“That’s okay.”

His eyes meet mine. “Is it?”

He’s asking more than that. Asking if I could love someone who was still a mess.

But that’s a stupid question.

“We’re all a mess.” I turn so I’m facing him. “You think I have it together?”

“Well…”

“Hey.”

His laugh is soft. Loving. “You wear it well. I don’t.”

“Yeah, but you still…” God, I don’t know how to explain it. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. About life. And plans. And knowing myself and what I want and what I’m doing. I’m not good at it. But I’m getting there. It’s kind of like organizing your closet.”