He nods, and I feel the rub of his hair against my chest, the slight scratch of his stubble over my collarbone as he works his lips upto mine. I guide him to my entrance, and he slides into me at the same moment we kiss.
I open up.
Kissing him deeper, I slide my tongue against his desperately, lifting up and off the bed to eliminate any space between us. I dig my heels into the small of his back to bring him in closer, closer, so the sounds he makes would be embarrassing in any other context.
I kiss him like I’m drowning.
Like I might never see him again.
Luca rocks into me, shifting his hips and applying pressure in all the spots I need it most. We move together for what feels like forever, chasing the pleasure, a different sort of thing that’s not about the orgasm at the end, but about our bodies together.
Performing some sort of ancient ritual, we use our bodies to say what we can’t with our mouths. Sacrificing this moment to something more—something higher, something that might just be able to grant a wish.
I’m not sure what Luca’s would be, but I know my own, and I repeat it in my head again and again as I orgasm around him, gasping into his mouth. I say it even as our bodies writhe together, as he reaches down to apply pressure to my clit, when he shudders and comes inside me. Even as we lay together inthe silence, breathing hard, coming down from the strangest and most intimate sex of my entire life.
I repeat it in my head again and again as I fall asleep.
Let me keep this forever.
Luca
Easter has always been my least favorite of the holidays.
Just something about the ground being soft, the weather being not quite one thing or another, and the risk of snow encroaching on what is supposed to be spring—it makes the whole affair feel like an identity crisis.
But this year, I’m having a good time.
“So, explain to me what this ‘golden egg’ is,” Wren whispers, turning to me with a competitive gleam in her eye. The moment we got to my parents’ house, people were already split up into teams, discussing strategy. Callum and Sloane are whispering under their breath, Katie and some of the other cousinsconspiring together, and even Cal’s grandparents—flown in from Ireland—are asking if there’s an age limit to the egg hunt.
“Every year,” I say, pulling her to the side so the others can’t hear me explaining the lore, “my parents do this overly elaborate egg hunt. Clues inside the eggs leading from one place to the other, stuff like that. And every year, my mom makes a golden egg. It’s like the grand prize.”
Wren laughs and crosses her arms.
It’s amazing to me how quickly she can change her look from one vibe to another. Today, she’s wearing a sweet, pastel plaid dress with a white turtleneck. Her hair is up in a bouncy, curly style, with loose waves framing her face and a little white bow tying the whole thing back.
Actually, maybe it shouldn’t be surprising. Last night, while we talked about our experiences with Easter, she told me about how she’d learned to adapt herself while living with her dad. Picking up whatever style suited the moment. Often, that meant wearing pigtails and coming off as an innocent girl.
So it makes sense that she can go from wearing Doc Martens and a black choker to looking like the pastor’s daughter in a moment.
And I like it.
“Come on,” Wren says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “What can you possibly fit inside an egg to make it worth the trouble?”
“Last year,” Katie says, sidling up beside us and leaning in, “it was a trip for two to Alaska.”
Wren’s eyes go wide and she glances at me, apparently remembering my advice to her from Christmas—don’t listen to anything Katie says.
Except this time, she’s telling the truth.
I sigh. “I guess they’ve got money in their retirement.” They do—my parents have worked hard through life, and it helps that I bought them this house. The two of them have always been generous with their money, but this golden egg thing is too much.
When I told my mother that, she rolled her eyes. It’s not like anyone in this family couldn’t just pay for the golden egg prize themselves. It’s not about the reward, it’s about my parents’ love of competition, and wanting to see their grown children run around, fight with each other, and strategize to win.
In fact, finding the golden egg was the only part of our family traditions that Mandy ever took part in. Every year, she needled me to try and get clues from our parents. I’d tell her that whatever the prize was, I’d just get it for us too, but she said it wasn’t about that.
“Holy shit,” Wren mutters, turning to me with a spark in her eyes. “So, your familyisnuts. You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Aren’t all families a little nuts?” Sloane asks from across the room.
