30
CAMILLE
Drew’s kisses are little droplets of fire on my neck, torturous and addicting. I want more with each touch of his lips, my body rising to meet his mouth. Tired of slow, I hook my right leg around his waist, urging him down until I’ve got him cocooned.
Drew lets up then. Balancing his weight on his elbows, he stares at my face and sweeps the hair behind my ears. His expression is one I can’t decipher, but the way his heart is pounding against his chest makes my spirit soar. Our beating hearts become a unified metronome, bringing forth the silent words I haven’t been able to conjure.
It’s declaring I liked coming home to him.
I loved it.
I loved coming into a home—as temporary as his apartment is supposed to be—to find him on the other side of the door. With dinner on the table, because he knew me well enough to know I took care of others before myself. With conversation over food, about everything and nothing.
I would love to visit every tourist spot in the city with him, as cheesy as they may be.
Not just in the city, but in the world.
I admitted to him I was scared, but was it enough? Does he understand what he meant to me back when we were kids, and what he means to me now? Because at this time I myself don’t understand.
So I give him the next best thing.
“Let’s go to bed,” I whisper.
Without taking his eyes off mine, he carries me to his bed. Sitting up, slipping my arms out of my dress sleeves, I expose my black lace bra. I pull him to me, guide his hands to the fabric of my dress. He shimmies it down my body, exposing my belly and my matching panties. I watch his fingers trace my breast, palm my stomach and the curve of my thigh.
The other two times we’ve found ourselves in his bed, it was hurried, playful. We were almost reckless, throwing ourselves at each other and the unknown we didn’t want to face.
Now it’s different, and every cell of my body is certain Drew knows it, too.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“We can still take it slow. We have all the time in the world—sort of.” His smile is almost sheepish, and it’s adorable and sweet.
“No, we don’t, and it’s okay.” My hands wrap around his hips, exposed with his jeans unbuttoned and slung low. I pull him toward me, his hips finding that exact spot where I’ve needed him all night, all these days. My eyes flutter closed, and shuddering with the sudden burst of my need for more, I grind against him. Drew moans, the satisfaction in his voice so evident. I know he’s smiling.
“Camille,” he whispers in my ear. “I want to be inside you.”
His words electrify every one of my nerve endings; my hands are exposed wires that need grounding. I grab his ass and begin to slide his jeans down. His fingers hook the edge of my panties, cup my ass, and squeeze, making me gasp. His lips trail down between my breasts, to my belly button, then down, between my legs—
I can’t catch my breath as he navigates his tongue in all the right ways. My body simmers, bubbles make their way through my bloodstream, and I can’t help it. I buck, I wiggle. A harried moan escapes my lips. “Drew,” I plead, because while I want this—him, down there—I want to see him, his expressions.
Drew, in tune with my voice and my needs, kisses me sweetly above my mound, eyes up at me. This should make me shy and hesitant, but it doesn’t.
It’s Drew.
This man whom I cherished as a girl. This man on whom I had an insatiable crush. I can’t seem to shed these feelings for this man, and as much as I deny it to myself, there has never been anyone else.
I urge him upward and he reaches beyond me, to the bedside table, and retrieves a foil packet. I sit up, knees spread, my eyes devouring the specimen that is his body. A body that in the last two weeks has given me so much pleasure.
A body that is sure to have everything good inside. Because if what he’s shown me so far—his kind heart and his fierce loyalty—is simply a preview, the rest of him must be amazing and special.
And the truth dawns on me then: his outside isn’t enough for me. I need to know everything inside him, too, no matter how long it takes, how far away he is, or how hard it gets.
No. It’s not that easy.
We have days left. Seventeen, to be exact.
“Cami.” Drew’s face is fraught with concern. He pulls me to him, to a sitting position, so I’m straddling him and in his arms. His sex is hard against mine, but patience has taken precedence. “We don’t have to.”
“Are you crazy? I want to. I want this so much.”
He laughs. “Then what’s wrong?”
“I just . . . I don’t want you to go.”
His face falls. “I don’t want to go either, not because of the work, but because I don’t want to leave you.”
“Will you come back?” My voice is a child’s whine. I need reassurance. I don’t think I can go on without it.
“That’s the plan.”
But it’s not the extent of my questions, so I take a deep breath. “To me. Will you come back to me?”
“Oh, Cami.” He buries his face in my neck. “You are never going to lose me. I love you. I loved you when we were kids, and it never really went away.”
His lips crash against mine, hot, wet, needy. I part my lips and accept his tongue. As we kiss, I wiggle and grind down, wanting every cell pushed up against him.
“I want to make love to you,” he says. The preemptive words turn up the volume of my senses and it works like a tease. I’m impatient as he makes room between us, and by the time he unwraps the condom and rolls it on him, I’m restless, biting my lip in anticipation. Finally, he lifts me so I’m on my knees. “Touch me. Guide me.”
This act would be my decision, my plan. This would not happen by accident, would not be thrown upon me blindly. I hold his thickness underneath me and guide him to where I’ve wanted him. I manage the weight and depth, test, lift and lower. I watch his eyes shut, showing restraint and control.
Showing me his love.
I give in then. I lower myself, accommodating all of him, every inch of his girth. I kiss him, so full in every way. This time, I’m not afraid of it. I want him, this, us.
I do have the heart space.
“Go, baby, go,” he moans into my mouth. His hands find my hips and raise and lower me, awkward at first. I adjust the height of my knees, and as he leans back, I rest my hands on his shoulders. Soon I find the groove on my own. He meets me with a slight upward thrust of his hips. A humming noise escapes from my throat, matching Drew’s ragged breathing. The slap of skin quickens and intensifies, and I become combustible, as hot as an open flame.
“Drew,” I think I say, but I’m not sure what comes out of my mouth is intelligible. I’m at full boil, top covered, with nowhere to go but up and out of the pot, until the pressure is too much. Until I tell myself that it’s okay.
It’s okay to want this. It’s okay to let go.
I feel myself spill over from the inside as I say Drew’s name one last time. Heart pounding, my body thrums and beats, and Drew lays back and pulls me onto his chest. He grunts, thrusting, finishing, and satisfying every part of me that wanted to see this expression, of my love completely happy. Still inside me, he kisses me sweetly, nibbling on my lower lip.
My love.
The words come from the air, from memories of calling him that at fourteen. But this time, it’s grown up, it’s serious. And it’s real. “Drew?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, too.”
May 26
Dear Drew,
I guess I’ll let you to call me baby.
I love you,
Camille
P.S. You so rocked dinner. Recipes, please!