cheek into my palm. I bite my lip, unsure what to do or say. He takes the lead, pulling back his hips to glide forward, the two of us sighing, a shudder running down his spine.
I grab his backside and grind against him from below. He twitches inside of me, and I almost come. Wanting to get his mind off of whatever is chasing him, I whisper, “If I let you in on one of my fantasies, will you promise to make it real?” He’s asked often, slipping in the question whenever he can, hoping to catch me off guard enough to share my sometimes filthy and always indecent imaginings, but I’ve held out.
His shoulders flex and his nostrils flare, that haunted look from before now pure desire. He winks at me. “I promise.”
I drag one hand up his back and grab his neck, then whisper in his ear. With each dirty word, he rocks inside of me. With each description, he growls until we’re losing ourselves again. I don’t get embarrassed. I don’t get shy. Love and trust have erased my boundaries.
Afterward, in the snug tent, with Sam spooning me from behind, I struggle to fall asleep. This was the best night of my life, the most amazing I’ve ever felt. Still, there’s one lie left between Sam and me, one I’ve been clinging to. The lie of Pininfarina. He brings up my siblings from time to time, joking about their names and my less-interesting one. I go with the flow, never rising to the bait. He knows there’s something off with the way I skirt the subject. He can read me like that. But if I tell him my real name and he Googles me and sees the Public Speaking Incident in all its glory, I might drop dead from shame. It makes the Hot Soup Incident look like a Disney movie.
What began as a little white lie to escape my past is a ten-ton elephant now. I’m in love with One-syllable Sam, and he doesn’t even know my name. His chest expands against my back, breaths steady with sleep, but my eyes are still wide.
Seventeen
Nina
Like that, baby. Oh, yeah. Fucking perfect,” Sam says from his usual position behind me.
Over the past few weeks, he’s become my sous-chef in the hostel kitchens. He chops and cleans and often leans into my backside while I’m at the stove to show me just how hungry he is. Food gets the man excited. Tonight, he talks dirty in my ear while I stir my Indian curry, scents of cumin and coriander filling the air. “Like that, baby,” he says again. “Stir that sauce. Oh, yeah.” When I laugh and elbow him, he tugs my hips into his.
I almost burn dinner.
“If you two stop rubbing against each other for a minute, the rest of us might get to eat. Preferably without throwing up.”
I lean around Sam’s shoulder. Leigh and Paige are at the table in this oddly decorated kitchen, the enduring theme being floral on floral. Floral wallpaper, floral photos, floral floor tiles, and a large wall clock by the door stenciled with—you guessed it—flowers. The well-equipped kitchen and clean rooms are why it’s listed as the top place to stay in our guidebook, not the decor. “Patience, Leigh,” I say. “Fine cuisine takes time.”
She snarls at me and turns to Paige across from her at the table, both of them wearing old-school rock shirts. “We should’ve gone to McDonalds,” she says.
I can see their legs from here, their ankles hooked together sweetly.
This is our first night in Christchurch. Our first night with Leigh and Paige since traveling on our own, and I’m happy for the distraction. Since our most recent tent evening, I’m more consumed by Sam than ever. My love for him has reached epic proportions of the fairy-tale variety. Look out, Cinderella.
That haunted look he wore after we first made love hasn’t reappeared. The fear or uncertainty or whatever it was seems to have vanished. Still, we don’t talk about the future much, aside from discussing our career stresses. We don’t discuss us much. He tells me all the time how happy he is, how special I am, and how these have been the best weeks of his life. I don’t know if that spells love, but it sure spells more than “friends with benefits.” I’m ready to burst, wanting to tell him how I feel, but the longer we don’t talk about us the harder it gets to