Dad drops me at Matt’s house with pizza around dinnertime on Friday. We’ve done our Christmas shopping for Mom and now my reward for sonly diligence is some much-needed Matt time. He meets me at the side door, leaning out to wave to Dad as he backs out of the driveway.
“Hey, you.” His cheeks are elfishly rosy, his eyes bright.
“Started early tonight?” It’s a comment more than a question.
“I’m fine,” he says a little defensively. “I knew I didn’t have to pick you up, so what’s the big deal?”
“It’s okay.” I kiss him, because I can do that now. “I was just asking.”
He kisses me back intently.
“Did something happen?” I’m starting to understand his rhythms.
“You’re here now. So everything’s perfect.” His hands are all over me. I’ve barely set the pizzas down on the island. His touch sends shivers through me.
“Where’s your dad?”
“Working.” He kisses my neck, my jaw. He tugs my shirt up without even trying to unbutton the collar.
“Hang on.” I work the two buttons swiftly, then let him uncover me. “Aren’t you hungry, though?”
“Starving.” Matt’s mouth catches mine. It’s captivating, in every sense. But the smell of warm cheese and garlic surrounds us and my stomach growls nonetheless. Standing shirtless in the kitchen makes me feel far too exposed.
“Let’s eat,” I suggest, pushing at his shoulders.
“Or…” He grins and tries to kiss me again. I duck past his forays and put a couple of pieces of pizza on a plate for his dad. Best if I deliver it, with Matt in this state, so I slip my shirt back on and bring the plate to him in his office.
“Thanks, hon,” Mr. Rincorn says, distracted. I’m honestly not sure if he thinks I’m Matt, or if he just randomly calls people hon.
We bring the other whole pizza down to the basement and polish it off in record time. Matt pulls my shirt off again. This is what we do now, and as far as we go. Shirts off, kissing with tongue. Touching. We lie on the couch, skin to skin on top.
“How much have you had to drink?” I ask him. I wonder if it will have been enough that he won’t lie to me.
“Enough,” he says. “Just enough.”
When he drinks, his kisses turn sloppy. Is it wrong that it turns me on? How soft he becomes, and how his head lolls gently against my shoulder.
“You used to say there was never enough,” I whisper.
“You make it enough,” he says. “Being with you.”