Page 48 of Breakaway
"Which makes you the title holder by default and by merit."
The ceviche arrives. Eight-one. We agree without debate.
"Agreed on first pass," he types into the Notes column. "Suspicious."
"Why is agreement suspicious?"
"Because we have never agreed on a number without a fifteen-minute argument. Consensus without conflict suggests one of us is compromised."
"Or the ceviche is an eight-one." I raise an eyebrow at him.
"The ceviche is an eight-one. But I'm flagging the consensus."
The server refills our wine. The ceiling fan turns. Nobody in this restaurant is paying attention to us. I keep noticing. I keep noticing how little effort it takes to be with this man here.
We walk back along the beach road and I can hear the waves through the palms to our left.
The villa is small and white with blue shutters and a balcony that fits two chairs and a railing. His suitcase is open on the floor by the window. My camera bag is on the dresser. The sheets have not been made since the first morning because we keep getting tangled in them and then leaving for the beach before either of us remembers.
He walks to the balcony and leans on the railing with both forearms. I lean next to him. His hip against mine. No gap. No distance to manage.
"I want to rate the island," he says.
"You can't rate an entire island."
"The beach is a nine-one. The restaurants are an eight-three average. The villa is a seven-nine."
"Docked for what?"
"Water pressure."
"The water pressure is fine."
"The water pressure is a six. I have been telling you this for four days."
"What's the overall?"
He turns his head. The ocean is dark below us and his eyes are close and steady and his face is one I only see when we are alone.
"The overall is a ten," he says. "Definitely a ten."
I kiss him. Slow and open and his mouth is warm and he tastes like wine and salt air. His hands come up to my jaw and hold me there.
"Inside," he says against my mouth.
We leave the balcony door open. He pulls my shirt over my head. I pull his over his. He walks backward toward the bed and pulls me down onto him and his skin is warm from the day's sun and I can taste the salt on his collarbone when I press my mouth there.
His hand goes to the back of my head. His fingers push into my hair.
I take my time. I kiss his chest. His ribs. The muscle along his stomach where it tightens under my lips. I mouth the skin below his navel and his hips lift and the sound he makes is low and patient. I hook my fingers in the waistband of his shorts and pull them down. His cock is hard against his stomach, the head slick. I wrap my hand around the base and stroke once, slow, watching his face. His eyes half-close. His lips part. His hips push into my grip.
"Wes," he breathes my name.
"I'm here."
I lower my mouth and take him in. His exhale is sharp and his hand tightens in my hair. I take him deep, my lips at the base, my throat opening around him, and pull back slow with my tongue flat along the underside. He is thick and warm and the taste of him is clean and salt-sharp and I want to stay here. I want to learn every sound he makes when there is no time limit and no wall between my mouth and his body. I take him deep again and his thigh tenses under my palm and his hips rock up.
"Fuck. Your mouth." His head drops back and his chest is flushed and his hand in my hair is pulling without pulling.
