What to say, what to say? There are no words to describe the next few days. Nothing that can truly encompass what it's like to make love to someone who so ardently adores you. Bliss is not enough. Joy or satisfaction is not enough. No words will ever be enough, never again.
We ruin his shorts that first day, slick with sweat and blood and barbecue. Monty moans and whimpers and gasps like I've stolen his soul when he finishes, stuttering in pace and clamping onto me for dear life. And when he can breathe again he pushes his mouth against mine and murmurs how much he loves me.
We have sex standing up in the kitchen, in the shower, on the couch, in a towel on the bed. We do it on one of the rocking chairs out on the porch, and I scream so loud that the birds jostle from the nearby trees by the dozen. Each time is as hot and intoxicating as the last, as painful and as gorgeous as the first.
We do leave the cabin each day. We go hiking and meet a couple, Marjorie and Vance, that offer to take us out on their boat. We float around lazily on the lake top in borrowed yellow donuts floats, lounging in the sun and kissing in the water. We go down to Banks, with old town charm and against the enchanting backdrop of mountain crevices that scrape for the sky. We eat like wolves and tip over a canoe we stole and laugh well into the early hours of the morning. We drink like pirates and dance to old records we find beneath the t.v. stand and sleep until the afternoon.
We are savages, our appetite curbed by nothing at all, except the time spent with each other.
CJ's texts are more sporadic than mine are. Granted, we're both in places that don't have the greatest reception. But I still text him.
At least, I did. But when I finally tell him where I am and who I'm with, the texts stop coming in.
And I'm feeling guilty. So guilty that a permanent weight has taken up pressing down on my chest, and hasn't moved since.
But he doesn't deserve to act like that, right? I made it clear from the beginning that I didn't want anything serious. It's not like we're in a relationship and I'm cheating on him.
Should I have told him before? Somewhere, deep inside, I knew he deserved to know, but can't place why. And not even because we were sleeping together before we left. It's more like he deserves to know because of who it is.
I go back and forth internally for the next few days, worry myself to the point where even Monty takes notice. On our second to last day, he pops down next to me on the floor with two fresh beers. I'm stress eating boiled peanuts like a crazed person and watching a show about guys who clean up turned over semis out on icy roads. The program is only making everything worse, watching men perform a job that is literally my worst nightmare, and when Monty shuts it off I scrunch my nose in disdain.
"What is it?" he says, setting the remote down on the glass top of the coffee table. He slings an arm on the couch behind me, then leans forward to kiss my neck.
"CJ," I say, sprinkling a crushed up shell into my pile. "He stopped texting me after I told him I was here with you."
Monty watches me suck hot peanut juices off my thumb, jiggling my foot madly. "Is it really his business?"
"I don't know," I say, wishing Star was here to give me some words of wisdom, or maybe slap me until I have some sense. "I haven't decided yet."
"What do you want him to text you for, anyways?" he says softly, drinking. "Are you not having fun with me?"
"Shut up," I say affectionately, because at this point he knows I'm as crazy about him as he is about me. Monty grins, tickling my side.
"Will you stop? I like hearing you say it." He pushes his lips against my ear, his growing mustache tickling the lobe. "I always say nice shit to you."
"Um, you always say dirty shit to me," I say, reaching for another peanut. It's true—every opportunity he gets, whether we're lying in bed or sunning down at the docks on the lake, he's whispering about how good I look, where he wants to touch me, or some explicit position he'd like to put me in. It's like this weekend away has opened up something that I never knew existed in Monty, floodgates of vulgarity and horniness all centered on me. It's exhilarating, but a voice in the back of my head won't let me forget that he was likely doing the same to Ashley not one month prior.
"You like it," he says, tugging strands of my hair.
"I love it," I correct. "I love you."
It slips out, and though it's been implied over the last few days, neither of us has said it aloud yet. But I don't care. His face smooths to a gorgeous smile, a new light igniting in his eyes.
"Ok," he says dreamily. "I can die happy now."
"You're not gonna say it back?"
"Don't rush me," he says, and he sticks his index finger in my mouth.
YOU ARE READING
Summer of Us
Romance*COMPLETED. HIGHEST RANK: #8 in guybestfriend (10/6/19). Upon returning home from college for summer break, Ava finds that her hometown has changed just as much as she has. The popular boy next door is suddenly bearable, her family has learned to li...
