Fluffy(73)

I look at his midsection. No withering going on there.

“You're choosing cheese over this?” I gesture to my body, licking the corner of my mouth to catch another taste of chocolate.

“I'm choosing cheese and you. It's not a competition,” he says, though his words are muffled. “Mmmm, though. This is delicious.”

Befuddled, I mirror him, trying mint and cheese.

It's good. The chocolate lingers on my tongue, the cheese rich and creamy. Mint gives it a burst of energy.

He comes up behind me, hands on my shoulders, and twists to kiss me.

“You taste like basil.”

“You taste like mint.”

“The combo is really interesting.”

“We need to test this more.”

“But no peanut butter, Will.”

His laugh is potent. Strong. Like the flavors in my mouth, it combines disparate elements and turns them into an alloy that is better than the individual parts. Sexy and real, Will is in my kitchen, hip against the island, noshing on leftovers after we took our bodies to an ultimate level of intimacy, higher than skin and bones alone can achieve.

And this is the next level.

Milk tastes pure when it washes down chocolate. Everyone knows that, the cool baptism of the liquid passing over my teeth, down my tongue, swallowed into the belly. Will finishes his glass and leans forward, palms flat on the counter, chest rising and falling as he watches me with an intensity that belies the hour. People shouldn't be so awake after giving each other so much of their biology.

He had my blood, my bones, my tendons and arteries, my nerve clusters and nipples, my tongue–my whole being entwined in his. He played me to pleasure until every cell sang, a rhythm and frequency Will invented on the spot, sexual improv at its finest.

We should be loose and sleepy in bed, breathing into the new space we made.

Our eyes lock, and before shyness can stop me, I say, “This is so much better than any of the thousands of daydreams I had about you.”

His shoulders drop. “Whew.” Hand pressed against his heart, he licks his lips. “I wouldn't want the real Will to disappoint after so many years of being Fantasy Will.” One fingertip draws a line from my collarbone down to my shoulder. “What did you imagine?”

“Everything.”

“Everything? You daydreamed about having sex with me?”

“When I was younger, I thought of it as making love. Not sex.”

Mischievous delight fills his eyes. “When I was eighteen, there was no distinction.”

“What about now? What was that?” I nod toward the bedroom, heart booming in my chest.

A long, slow breath, brought in and out by emotion, threads its way through time. “That was making love. The first time, at least. Sex the second. The third time, it was – ” He squints one eye, as if deliberating.

Playfully, I smack him. He grabs my wrist with a light, happy touch.

“How about you tell me every dream you ever had, and I make them all come true right now?” he whispers in my ear.

“Now?”

“And tomorrow. And the day after that.”

“Every dream?”

“Yes.” His eyebrows go up. “You have a specific one you're thinking about?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

I stand on tiptoe, my lower lip brushing against his earlobe, the scruff of his chin scratching my neck as I say the words, “I love you, Will.”

Instead of tensing, instead of pulling away, instead of making all of the heartbreaking choices he could possibly enact, Will moves slowly, tenderly, until our eyes meet.

Fingers settle under my chin, his eyes studying me. The words are out there now. Too early?

Or too late?

“It's crazy, Mallory, but I feel it, too. I love you. It seems like I've loved you forever and am only now discovering it. But I do. My heart fell for you long before my stupid mind caught up.”

I love you. The three simplest words.

The three hardest words, too.

As he gathers me in his arms, the press of his erection against my hip a startlingly fine sensation, his lips more intense as they kiss me, I realize that the space we make together will work like this every single time.

We invent it anew.

Again.

And again.

And oh, yes–again.





20





One year later

It’s the Dance and Dairy festival, the one I missed last year for the high school reunion. And the best part of this annual ritual, something I adore and will exploit for every single one of the eight concerts on the town common, involves deep-fried-Twinkie-and-pickle sundaes.

That’s right.

No, I’m not pregnant. I just love the cart that comes to the common and parks next to the seasonal stage for bands and sells fried-Twinkie-and-pickle sundaes.

I served my two-hour shift at the Habitat for Humanity table, recruiting two new volunteers for a house being built in Stoneleigh. Duty done, it’s now time for pigging out.

“Mallory! Will!” Philippe is on the stage between dance performances, waving madly at us. Dressed in his master of ceremonies outfit, he looks oddly elegant for the setting, complete with a top hat and red cummerbund.

I wave.

Will cuts him a look I don't understand.