It builds. Faster.
I want him closer. I want him deeper. I want him, want him, want him. His eyes close and so do mine, and we finish as we started. Together.
Chapter eighteen
Josh’s stomach rumbles against my ear. The room is black. I unfurl from his body and lean towards the hotel’s digital clock. It’s nearly two in the morning. Josh feels me stir. “Tapas,” he mumbles. “We haven’t had tapas.”
“I think we missed dinner.”
“’s okay.” He hugs me against his chest. “Too tired to get up anyway.”
“We’ll just have to come back.”
“Tapas and cerveza. And then we’ll make love on the altar of the Sagrada Família.”
I pull away, he tugs me close, I pull away. “Be right back,” I say. “Bathroom.”
After I pee, I return for my toothbrush and toothpaste. He follows me in, and we brush our teeth. We can’t stop smiling at each other. I can’t believe that adults get to do this every day. And I don’t even mean sex, though it’s wonderful, but things like this. Brushing our teeth at the same sink. Do adults realize how lucky they are? Or do they forget that these small moments are actually small miracles? I don’t want to ever forget.
We climb back in bed and make sleepy, happy, minty-fresh love. He’s careful to make sure that I’m taken care of first before he collapses against me. Moonlight shines in through the windows, and I trace the outline of his tattoo with an index finger.
“You’ve never told me about this,” I say.
“You’ve never asked.”
“I love it.”
I didn’t mean for that to slip out in such a gushy way. Josh laughs, but it’s the tired laughter of relief. “Thank goodness.”
“Tell me the story.”
He shifts into a more comfortable position while carefully keeping me nestled against his body. “When I was sixteen, St. Clair convinced an artist in Pigalle that I was eighteen. Except he didn’t really convince him. He was just so pushy and persuasive that the guy gave up. It was definitely illegal.” I laugh as he continues. “St. Clair can persuade anyone to do anything. He’s, like, drowning in charisma. It’s so unfair to the rest of us.”
“Eh,” I say. “He’s okay.”
Josh pauses. And then I hear a smile in his voice. “This must be how you felt when I told you that you’re hotter than your sisters.”
I laugh louder this time. “I suppose it is.”
“Anyway, it was just the two of us, and I was the only person who got one. It was a few days after my birthday—”
“Like now!”
“Like now. I’d decided on my birthday that I’d get a tattoo, so I designed this one for the incredibly inspired reason that…it seemed cool at the time.”
“It is cool.”
“I consider myself unbelievably lucky that I still like it.”
“Oh, come on. You have taste. You’d never put something lame on your body.” I pause, a new thought occurring to me. “Do you want any more tattoos?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someday I’ll get a big garden rose on my other arm.”
“Ha-ha.”
“I would.” And he sounds hurt that I don’t believe him. “I want a lot more of these nights with you, Isla. I want all of my nights with you.”
When the sunlight streams in through the windows, it’s the happiest morning of my life. We’ve shifted in the early hours, but our legs are still hooked together.