Never Enough(40)

"Don't stop."

There's not a fucking chance of that. I grab my jeans and shove them under her hips without stopping, and in moments we're collapsed onto the floor, her back arched and hips up as her hands claw the carpet and I fuck her as I've never fucked anyone before.

It's fast and hard and deep and raw. Marisol sparks some sort of pure, primal, animal desire in me, something bone deep that I can't even name but that I can sure as hell feel, like electricity through my veins. I grab her hip and her shoulder and simply drive myself as deep as I can and she moans explosively, so loud I'm certain they can hear her in the hall.

"Gavin," she whimpers, and a thrill races through me at the way she says it, her head to one side, her eyelids fluttering.

"Say it again."

"Gavin," she breathes, her eyes unfocused. "This feels so fucking good."

I'm on the brink, gritting my teeth together because it's nearly impossible not to come in a hard rush when she says my name like that, but I can tell she is too.

"Again," I tell her, because I fucking love how she says it, because I want to hear it as she comes.

"I'm gonna come," she says instead, her voice barely a whimper. "Don't stop, don't stop, please don't stop oh my God, Gavin-"

Her whole body tenses and Marisol shouts into the carpet, squeezing me like a fist as she comes, her whole body rocking at once.

I explode. I shout her name and come like fucking Vesuvius blowing apart, thrusting until I can't anymore, until I'm so spent I'm trembling and I can barely move.

I feel as if I've broken to pieces and been glued back together and I'm not quite sure it's done right, and for a long second, I'm not even certain where I am, except atop Marisol. The nape of her neck is in front of me so I kiss her there, then turn my head toward the mirror.

She's looking at me, eyes half-closed, and she gives me a slow, lazy smile. I find her arm with my hand and follow it to hers, lace my fingers through hers, and then give up on moving for a bit.



       
         
       
        





36





Marisol





"So are we going bowling?" I call, flopping back onto a couch. I'm finally dressed again, because we've got to eat, but I'm still feeling impossibly lazy, like even standing is more effort than I can put in right now.

"I told you, there's no bowling in Malibu," he says, walking out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

We got... somewhat sweaty, so we both took showers. Though I don't know why he's bothering with the towel.

"Did you actually check?"

"I did," he confirms, walking around the huge bed, clearly looking for something. "That's something normal couples do, yeah?"

"I haven't been bowling since I was ten."

"Then you've clearly had boring boyfriends who don't know how to show you a proper good time," he says, still looking. "Do you know where you threw my shirt?"

"Didn't you bring another one?"

"That's for tomorrow. I'm looking for the Pixies shirt I was wearing earlier. Nevermind, there it is."

He grabs that, jeans, and boxers, and walks back into the bathroom. I frown, and a few minutes later, he comes back out.

"Did you really just go get changed in the bathroom?" I tease.

He stops short, then looks sheepish for a moment.

"Force of habit," he says. "I've shared a lot of hotel rooms with other blokes."

"It would be pretty weird if I saw you naked," I deadpan.

"Can I do nothing without commentary?" he teases.

"Not that."

He holds out one hand.

"What about take you to dinner?"

I take it, and he pulls me up effortlessly, the muscles in his arm bunching. Something warm prickles up my back.

"Depends on the dinner," I tease.



We drive out of Malibu proper and up a canyon road, Gavin's fancy car growling and purring and hugging the turns as he plays me Bon Jovi and explains why it's terrible.

I argue that it's catchy. He tells me why it's bullshit. I hum Livin' on a Prayer over him until we're both giggling like children, headlights glowing on the road in front of us, the canyon deep and dark below us.

I think these moments are my favorite.

When we reach the top there's a tiny hamlet, just two buildings and a post office, but one of the buildings is an old-fashioned burger joint, and Gavin pulls into the parking lot.

"Come on," he says, grinning. "We're having a date." 

Inside there's kitsch covering every wall, red-checked tablecloths and an actual jukebox in one corner playing at top volume. I'm half expecting the waitresses to be wearing poodle skirts and roller skates, but they're dressed normally.

We sit in a booth and Gavin looks around, eyebrows raised.

"It looks as if 1950s America vomited and it pooled right here," Gavin says, though he's clearly entertained. Sometimes he finds America ridiculous enough to be funny.

"Gross but accurate," I say, following his gaze.

We order burgers and fries, split a milkshake, and he makes me laugh so hard it nearly comes out my nose. The place fills up slowly, but after a while it's actually pretty crowded. The jukebox is loud and full of oldies, and even though this place is a little silly I think I really like it.

Or maybe I just like being here with Gavin, sharing milkshakes and listening to Daydream Believer on the jukebox, like he's just asked me to go steady with him.

Then he catches me rearranging the sugar packets in their holder, because I like it better when each color is grouped together, and he asks if I also arrange my french fries in size order.

I throw a sugar packet at him. He ducks.

If anyone recognizes us, they don't show it. There's a few times I think people might be snapping pictures on their phones, but I can't be bothered to care.

We drive back the way we came, though this time I'm trying to explain the Fast and Furious franchise, and he's remaining unconvinced of its cinematic genius.

"Let me get this straight," he says. "You think The Simpsons is too stupid but you like these movies?"

I open my mouth. I close it. I open it again.

"Everyone needs a guilty pleasure," I finally say. "They're... good for what they are."

We come to a stop light on the coastal highway, and Gavin looks over at me, takes my hand in his, and kisses it.

"Have I told you I quite like you?" he asks.

It's simple, sweet, and makes my heart explode into a big cloud of rainbows and butterflies. I start laughing, pull our hands to my side of the car, and kiss him on the knuckles.

"I think you may have guessed," he admits.

"I quite like you as well," I say.



The next morning we walk down to the beach and sit on the sand. I dig my toes in and lean back on my hands, the sun hitting my face, and let my eyes close. We don't have long, because soon we've got to head back into the city so I can take my shift helping my parents look at apartments, but right now, right here, this is nice.

"Maybe I should take up surfing," Gavin muses next to me, sitting on the towels we borrowed from the hotel.

Borrowed is a strong word. Gavin took them when I wasn't paying attention, and even though he's sworn up and down to return them, I know full well they're not intended as beach towels.

"Can you even swim?" I ask, flicking a stray piece of dried seaweed off the illicitly-gotten towel.

"Course I can swim," he laughs. "Britain's an island."

"It's not so small an island that you could walk to the coast," I point out. "I thought Mountford Wye was pretty far inland."

"Well, there's lakes and all that. Plus, this innovation known as a swimming pool."

"Don't get cheeky," I laugh. "You're the one who said you could obviously swim because Britain's an island."

"I think I'd quite enjoying surfing," he says. "And then I'd blend in seamlessly with the local culture."

"You called Americans colonials the other night," I point out.



       
         
       
        

"It would take a bit of practice."

I just raise my eyebrows, grinning.

"Hang ten, bro," Gavin says.

He's got the worst American accent I've ever heard. I snort-laugh.

"These gnarly waves are totally radical, dude," he goes on, elongating his vowels and enunciating his R's as hard as he can. He sounds like he's doing a bad impression of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon.

I'm laughing so hard I almost can't breathe.

"Let's cruise down the strip and check out some awesome babes."

I try to inhale and snort.

"I don't know what you're laughing at," he says in his normal accent, grinning. "This is what you lot sound like."

I wipe a tear from my cheek and finally inhale.

"Please say gnarly waves again," I gasp.

"Let's hear your British accent then."

I shake my head.

"It's only fair," he says. "Come on, look how much fun you're having."

He has a point. I catch my breath and clear my throat.

"Wot's awl thees then?" I start.

We both dissolve into laughter.

"That's terrible!" Gavin gasps. "Go on."

I make myself stop giggling and take a breath.