Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(60)

The answer comes back shortly. Something wrong?

I glance over at Blake. He’s driving. For the first time in…I’m not sure how long, he looks completely calm. As if he’s finally in place.

And for all the turmoil I feel inside, I sense it too. That hint of calmness, as if in a sea of things that have gone wrong, this one thing is right.

Nothing, I text back. I just realized you were right.

<3! She sends back.

And for now, that’s exactly what this is. A little texted heart, two characters. Fragile and all too breakable.

16.

BLAKE

We don’t talk much on the remainder of the drive back. This thing between us is too new to be pinned down with words. But it’s contained in the feel of her hand on my thigh as we drive. The squeeze of her fingers on mine. It’s the look in her eyes, every time I glance her way—liquid, alight, as if she’s filled with the luminous light of a thousand stars.

It’s beautiful and unsettling all at once, because I know how she feels about constellations.

By unspoken consent, I go straight to the converted garage. She gets out when I do and comes to stand by me.

“Hi, Tina.” Somehow, the moment seems to stretch. I pull her close, let her body fold into mine. She comes, molding against me. She told me once our lives fit together as well as Legos and puzzle pieces, but our bodies have no such problem. We work together.

I want her. I want this. Her voice is a low, sensual caress, and I’m on fire, burning for her.

She looks up at me. “Blake…”

I set a finger on her lips. Not to silence her; to feel them, soft against my skin. To sense the warmth of her breath so that when she says yes, I’ll capture the feel of it on the palm of my hands. I imagine, briefly, that I can catch hold of it and keep it. Maybe if I do, I’ll be able to pin it down.

“Why are we still outside?” she asks.

“Because.” I take her hand in mine. “Your pulse is racing. Your hands are shaking. I want you to feel safe.”

“Nothing is safe anymore.” But her hand squeezes mine. “I thought I could avoid getting hurt. I thought I could avoid caring. But I can’t.”

She sets her other hand on my chest.

I wish I could lie to her. I wish I could tell her that this is nothing, that she’ll never be hurt. I wish I could say that even though I’m going to take over for my dad in two weeks, we can still be something.

But I remember Peter’s funeral all too well: the crowds. And yet…not one person from outside work. I don’t even think I’ll be able to hold on to myself when I go back. I can’t promise to hold on to her.

“How can I make this better for you?” I ask.

Her hand slides down my chest. “This is going to hurt no matter what we do. It’s never going to be safe. But maybe we can have something. A memory that we can keep safe, no matter what happens.”

“I don’t want a memory,” I tell her. “I want the whole damned two weeks.”

I want more than that. I want so much.

Her hand slips down another inch. Her finger bisects my chest, cleaving a line through my abs. She hooks it in the waistband of my jeans and pulls me closer.

“If we start now,” she says in a low voice, “it can be two weeks and eight hours.”

The night seems very dark despite the lamp lighting the street. I can hear the weeds in the empty lot rustle in on a night breeze. All my senses are catching fire. The sensation of her hand, warm against my skin, inches from my groin. I slide my arm around her, pulling her close to me for a hard kiss. Her lips open to mine.

And then there is no night. There is no lamp. There are no weeds to rustle. There’s just me and her and this shattering kiss. There’s only our hands, wrapping around each other, touching, wanting. Our bodies, closing the distance.

She doesn’t uncurl her finger from my jeans; instead, she undoes the fastening. She takes hold of the zipper.

“I’m undoing this on the count of three,” she says. “So if we’re not inside by then…”

I pick her up. She lets out a little gasp, but leans against me. Her weight is welcome. It’s wanted.

“One,” she says.

I take her across the street.

“Two.”

At least she’s counting slowly. I struggle with the gate. We pass the clothesline strung in the backyard, laden with shapes that are indecipherable in the dark.

“Three.”

True to her word, she’s unzipped my jeans by the time I’ve managed to unlock the door. By the time we’re inside, shutting the door, her hands are on my bare hips, sliding under my boxers.

“Tina. Wait.”

I can’t see her face in the dark.

“Two weeks,” she says. “And eight hours. I don’t know what I’ve been waiting for.” And she slips to her knees. She takes down my boxers, and takes me in her mouth.

I go from semi-erect to sledgehammer hard in the space of a few seconds. Her mouth is f*cking hot; her hands slide up my thighs. She teases me with her tongue, tracing the head of my penis, then taking my full length again.

“Holy f*cking shit.” My hands tangle in her hair. “Tina. Jesus.”

She pulls away briefly. “Don’t tell me to slow down.” Her voice is shaking. “I want to do this.” And then her mouth is on me, hot, sending pleasure shivering up my spine.