“Good,” I say, as I touch him the way he likes, hard and tight, with quick strokes. “Because you better be thinking of me.”

  “I am thinking of you,” he says, his mouth grazing my wet neck. Then he reaches between our soapy bodies, grasps my hand, and stills my movements. “But I’m also thinking that if you don’t stop touching me, I’m going to come in your hand, and it’s not a makeup hand job that we’re supposed to be doing. It’s makeup sex that I want.”

  “Makeup sex… I don’t think we’ve ever had that before. Because we’ve never had a fight like this before. Will it be epic?”

  “So fucking epic,” he says in such a sexy voice that heat rushes through my body and pools between my legs.

  With his hand tight around mine, I give him one more quick stroke, then let go. I smack him lightly on the ass.

  He opens his eyes, and laughs. “What was that for?”

  I waggle my eyebrows. “Because it was fun.”

  He pinches my butt in return, and I giggle.

  “Rinse off, and let’s get out.”

  Within minutes, we’re both in my bed, naked, dried off, wet hair dampening the pillows, music playing softly from my playlist.

  He clears his throat. “So, you wanted something just for you?”

  “Yeah?” I ask curiously because I don’t know how he could fulfill that request. But I’m not sure it matters, because he’s running his hand over my shoulder, kissing my tattoo, then trailing his fingertips down to my wrists, lacing his fingers through mine so excruciatingly slowly, sliding into the space between them, it’s like he’s making love to my hand. I close my eyes momentarily, letting the sensations wash over me. A spark of heat ignites in my chest, then jumps to my shoulders, down to my fingers and through my belly, finally making its home between my legs, as heat pours into every cell in my body.

  “I like that,” I tell him when I open my eyes, and if that’s what he had in mind, I’ll take it. Because I know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s never held hands in bed with anyone else, and certainly not the way he did with me just now, like it’s foreplay.

  “I can tell,” he says playfully, and brings his other hand to my thigh, stroking the outside of my leg. I arch my hips, wanting more.

  “Spread your legs,” he tells me, his green eyes dark and intense as he looks at me, only at me, and I let my knees fall open. He’s still holding one hand tight while he maps my skin, moving slowly, at a tantalizing pace, from my outer thigh to between my legs, then there, right there, where I am slick and wet for him. He rubs one finger against me, and I moan loudly. “I love how turned on you get,” he tells me.

  “I love how you touch me.”

  “God, I love touching you, Harley. I love everything about you and your body, and how hot you are. I love how you want me,” he says, his finger gliding across me, making me hotter and hungrier for him. I raise my hips for him, inviting him to thrust a finger inside me. But he shakes his head and captures my lips with his, consuming me in a devastating kiss, plundering my mouth with his tongue, rubbing his finger between my legs, depleting my brain of anything and everything but this moment in time, our bodies reconnecting, as he shows me he’s mine and I’m his.

  He pulls away, and his eyes are glassy. He’s just as drunk on me as I am on him. “Wow,” he says. “How is it that kissing you only gets better?”

  I shrug. “Because you like me?”

  “Wrong answer. I love you like crazy,” he says. “And I want to be inside you so badly.”

  He removes his hand from between my legs and slides his erection against me, and I scoot up on the bed because I love missionary position, and I don’t care if that makes me boring. I love when he’s on top and I can feel the weight of him on me, his hard body against mine, filling me, his arms pinning me.

  “No.” He shakes his head, gripping my hip bone between his thumb and the fingertip that’s still slick with me. “I told you I had something just for you. Something I’ve never done before.”

  I raise an eyebrow as he shifts me to my side so I’m lying on the bed facing him. He says, “We’ll do it like this, okay?”

  Heat flares through me like a comet, its tail burning bright and hot through all my organs. “Yes, it’s more than okay.”

  He hitches up my thigh, rests it on his hip, then moves closer to me, rubbing his hard cock against my center. I shift so my knee is draped further over his leg and I’m even more open for him. Then he slides into me, slowly at first, inch by inch until he’s all the way in. He groans loudly, and I draw a deep breath, savoring the intensity of him filling me.

  He grips my hip tightly and starts to move inside me. It’s a strange position, side by side, face to face. There’s not a lot of room to spread out or move around. But that’s the point, I’m learning—you need to stay close to stay connected. It’s terribly intimate, and he’s so deep inside, but he’s taking his time, each stroke, each move like he wants to make it last.

  Time ceases to exist, and all there is, is us. Coming together. His body in mine, his heart on his sleeve, his emotions written all over his face. Every time with him is better than the last, but this is so much more. It’s more than sex, it’s more than love, it’s a way back to each other, as we promise that sex between the two of us is only between the two of us.

  The moonlight slants across my room, casting his face in shadow, and the faint sounds of music form the backdrop.

  And it’s perfect, so perfect, because this feels like everything that matters in the world right now.

  “I like this position, Trey,” I tell him.

  “I fucking love it,” he says, his voice all ragged and husky, as he thrusts inside me. “I love it so much.”

  Soon we start moving our hips together, and he’s rocking into me, and I’m arching into him, and all the while, he’s looking at me, then kissing me, my neck, my hair, my face, my lips.

  “Have I told you how much I love being inside you without a condom?”

  “No. How much?”

  “You feel so amazing, Harley. You are so wet and tight, and I love all that heat of yours around my dick. God, it’s so good. It’s so good with you,” he says, breathing hard, and soon his moans intensify, and he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. “I want you to come so badly,” he says, but I’m not there yet—I’m still just in the moment, thrilling at the sensations.

  He slows down, forcing himself to stall, squeezing his eyes shut, as if he can hold back for me.

  “It’s okay. You can come,” I tell him.

  “No. I want you to.” He opens his eyes, breathes in deeply, and smiles. “My mission is singular. I’m making you come, Harley. Tell me what you want me to do to get you there.”

  I trace his lips with my finger, loving everything about him and us right now. Every. Single. Thing.

  “Touch me while you fuck me,” I tell him, wriggling even closer, though that will make the order tougher to execute. But he doesn’t care, because he’s up to the task, slipping his hand between our bodies, sliding his thumb across my clit, rubbing me as he thrusts inside me.

  “Like that?” he asks.

  I nod and gasp, and the sensations start to roll through me, little sparks of flame jumping from nerve ending to nerve ending, setting them off like sparklers burning brightly in the night. Each one flares, igniting the next and the next, until everything is blazing brilliantly.

  In seconds, I’m moaning and writhing, and he’s moving his thumb faster, all while pumping deeper into me. I rock into him and close my eyes, and the build starts to overtake me, bursting through my entire body.

  “Yes,” I say loudly, and for one of the first times, I think I might actually be shouting. Waves of pleasure drench my body, every inch of me, my skin tingling, my blood ignited, my breath and bones all bathed in this absolute bliss.

  “Oh fuck, that’s perfect, Harley. I’m going to come so hard now,” he says, driving into me, his thrusts hitting me so deeply that I swear it feels like I can come again. And then I do, and it’s not as intense as the first one, but it seems to go on and on like waves and I’m awash now in complete and utter ecstasy. The man I love is mine, all mine, and I have him in a way that no one else has, and no one else ever will.

  “Oh my God,” he says as he slows, burying his face in the crook of my neck. He starts kissing me, planting sweet, sloppy, sexy kisses across my collarbone. “That was amazing.”

  He looks woozy, and it’s a look he wears well.

  “Hi,” he says, after he pulls out.

  “Hi.”

  “Can I just say it?”

  “Say what?”

  “That was the best ever.”

  I smile. “It was. But don’t get any big ideas and start fighting just so we can do it like that.”

  He brushes his nose against mine. “Hmm… I think that’s the perfect send-off into sleep. Though I can’t promise I won’t want to do that again in the middle of the night,” he murmurs.

  “I can’t say I’d object.” I turn over and scoot in close, tucking myself into him so we’re spooning, and we fall asleep just like that.

  9

  Harley

  When morning comes, he’s wide awake and showered, parked on the end of my bed, drawing.

  I yawn. “What are you working on?”

  “Cherry blossom tree. It’s gonna be hard as hell, but totally badass. By the way, do you like sandwiches?”

  “I love sandwiches, and you know that.”

  “Then get your fine ass in the shower, because I’m taking you to Ben’s Arcade and Sandwich Emporium.”

  My eyes light up. “I’ve heard it’s amazing and that the Brutus is delish.”

  “It’s made with Caesar dressing. Now go, because I have an appointment to see a tattoo artist down the block from there who’s going to give me some tips on this design, so let’s get lunch first.”

  An hour later, I’m dressed, blow-dried, and walking into the combo sandwich shop and retro arcade. The sounds of Pac-Man or Pac-Woman gobbling ghosts and fake guns shooting down spaceships bounce past my ears, a kaleidoscope of noise, theme songs, sound effects, and quarters sloshing into machines and landing on top of more silver coins. It’s Saturday afternoon, and the place is packed. There’s a counter for popcorn, fries, burgers, and Cokes with two gangly college-aged students running it, slapping up basket after basket of fries on the counter for gamers. The crowd is a hipster one. It’s as if everyone got the memo to wear faded black pencil jeans, high-tops, and band tees.

  I never used to feel like I fit in. Back in high school, and even in my first year of college, I felt like a liar. I might have been a student like the rest of them, but I was a call girl at night, with a clandestine life, a secret wardrobe, and another name. Here, today, I fit in perfectly, and I love it. I no longer feel like a girl leading a double life.

  I am one girl; I am whole.

  I survey the menu above the counter—it has all my favorite kinds of sandwiches on it. “Have I ever told you that sandwiches are my favorite food in the whole world?”

  “Only twenty times. That’s why I brought you here.”

  I laugh, and then it’s our turn, so I order the Brutus.

  We make our way to a table in the back, but Trey points to the Frogger machine. “Want to go for a round? I’ve been watching this video-game show, Let the Wookie Win, so I’ve got all my Frogger skills down.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Frogger tips on a web show?”

  “Yeah. Watch,” he says, sliding in a quarter, then proceeding to dart and dodge around every truck, car, and cab on the street in the game.

  “I had no idea you had this hidden talent,” I tease, and he loops his arm around my neck and kisses my forehead, and for a moment, I feel like we’re just a regular guy and girl having lunch on a Saturday, our only care whether we’ve studied for our tests on time. And yet, it doesn’t entirely feel like an illusion, because we both know the score, we’re not fooling ourselves. We’re allowed to do normal things, aren’t we? Just because we’re going to be parents in seven months doesn’t mean we can’t play arcade games, right?

  We finish the game, and he beats me handily. When our food order is called, he grabs our sandwiches and we sit down and eat.

  “So, what do we do now?” he asks when he’s done with his sandwich.

  “Well, generally speaking, we bus the tables and toss out the napkins,” I say, teasing him.

  “Haha. Funny girl. What are we going to do about the baby? Are you going to finish school? Work full-time? Drop out? Get a shack in Jersey?”

  I’m surprised by the simple directness and thoroughness of the questions. How he asked without any preamble or awkwardness. How it seems like he’s thought this through and considered these things. Most of all, he asked without freaking out. My guy is making progress, majorly.

  I snort. “Hopefully not the shack in Jersey.”

  He comes over to my side of the booth, taking my hand in his, grasping it for emphasis. “I want you to finish school, Harley. You can’t drop out.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “We have to be smart, then, about everything, and I have an idea.”

  There’s a nervous look in those green eyes.

  10

  Trey

  Funny, how we try to plan for things and anticipate the perfect moment, and then life comes and knocks our plans down. But then a moment circles back around that becomes even more perfect than we could have planned—and this is so much better than a Bed Bath & Beyond card or the T-shirt I wanted to buy her.

  Because this is real and natural, it’s what we have to do and it’s the next step. “Harley, will you move in with me?”

  She furrows her brow, leaning away from me. “Wow. I didn’t expect that.”

  “Well?”

  “I live with Kristen,” she says, pointing out the blatantly obvious.

  It irks me slightly, but I push forward. I’m not backing down. “Harley, we’re having a kid. And you act like moving in together is weird?”

  “We have a lease and stuff.”

  “I know. But it ends eventually, right?”

  She nods. “December, I think.”

  “Move in with me then. You need to finish school, and there’s no reason for us to have two places. I know you’re not hurting for money in the short-term, and neither am I, but at some point, we have to be smart, right?”

  “Are you asking me to move in to save money?”

  I shake my head and laugh. “Seriously?”

  She shrugs, but her cheeks start to flush, and she knows she asked a silly question.

  “I’m asking you to move in with me because I’m insanely in love with you. And for the record, I was going to ask you before you told me you were pregnant. This is something I want for us.”

  “Really? You were going to ask before?” Her lips start to curve up.

  “Yes.” I trace her top lip, mapping the beginning of her smile with my fingertip. “So is that a yes?” This time I’m not going to freak out. I’m not going to shut down. I’m going to face the future like a man, and I’m going to be the man she needs.

  She nods happily. “Yes. You are always a yes. End of the year, let’s move in together.”

  Then she kisses me, sealing our deal, and doing that thing she does to me with the slightest touch.

  Turn me on.

  She turns me on always. Constantly. I groan as she nips my lip lightly, and then kisses me in a thoroughly sweet but intensely seductive way. She breaks the kiss to whisper in my ear, “You taste like a yummy sandwich.”

  I laugh. “So do you.”

  “I want more.”

  “More sandwich or more me?”

  “Both, in general. But right now, more you,” she says in a low voice as she presses her lips against my jaw and runs a hand down my arm, making me harder.

  “Now, you’re not playing fair. I have a meeting in ten minutes, and you’re killing me, but I have to take a rain check.”

  Ilyas strokes his beard absently as he shows me the needle he uses for thin branches. “See? It’s like a sewing needle,” he says. Ilyas is built like a football player, inked like a biker, and he speaks with an accent that’s some combination of Greek and Russian. We’re in the back of his shop, and the front is filled with customers. He employs several artists, and they’re hard at work on this busy day.

  “Like this?”

  I press the needle against my forearm, demonstrating.

  “Yes. Exactly,” he says, nodding.

  “And that’s how I do the leaves?”

  “That is precisely how you do the leaves, yes, but first you have to see the leaves,” he says, closing his eyes, drawing in a deep breath and widening his hands in front of his face. “Like a vision. You see them, you draw them, and then you ink them.” Yeah, so he’s also a combination of artsy and precise too. “It is best when they are delicate. Have you seen ugly tattoos of trees? Fat, nondescript branches? Splotchy leaves? Hideous blossoms?” He spits on the black tiled floor, disgusted by even the mention.

  I nod. “Yeah. I’ve seen some like that. I don’t want to do ones like that.”

  “No. You don’t. You want to make transcendent ones. You want a tattoo that is like a painting. That moves someone, like a museum piece can do. Do you know how to do that?”

  I flash back over the tattoos I’ve designed, the ways clients have responded, the remade heart on Harley’s shoulder. I grab my phone and show Ilyas a picture of her heart-and-arrow tattoo.

  “That is very good. Hector said you had great talent. And to make this cherry blossom, you need vision, a needle, and a steady hand. And practice. I want you to draw and draw and draw, every day and night, until the cherry blossom feels like a part of you. Like a part of your heart.”

  I nod.