Skipped by the Altar, Taken by His Uncle novel · Chapter 11 of 24

Chapter 11: His Bed

He pulled the cord on the motor three times before it caught.

His hands weren't steady.

Mine weren't either.

I sat on the floor of the johnboat between his knees, his arm across my collarbones.

He steered us home against the current with the other hand.

Neither of us said anything for a mile.

The lock came up out of the dark, and the boathouse, and the porch light he'd left on.

He tied up badly. He had to do the knot twice.

On the dock he turned around, and I was right there.

He kissed me against the boathouse wall with the river slapping the pilings under us.

"Inside," I said, into his mouth.

"Inside," he agreed, and didn't move.

We made it up the path. We made it up the porch steps where I'd stopped him two nights ago.

He stopped there himself.

He held my face in both his hands, his thumbs along my cheekbones, and looked at me in the yellow porch light.

"Ask me," I said.

"Is this the deal?"

"No."

"Do you want this?"

"Yes. Tonight. Your room. Not mine." I put my hand flat on his chest, the way I had on the porch, and this time I pushed him backward toward the door. "My bed's narrow and my father's hammer is on the windowsill."

He laughed, helplessly, and opened the door behind his back.

He pulled the cord on the motor three times before it caught.

His hands weren't steady.

Mine weren't either.

I sat on the floor of the johnboat between his knees, his arm across my collarbones.

He steered us home against the current with the other hand.

Neither of us said anything for a mile.

The lock came up out of the dark, and the boathouse, and the porch light he'd left on.

He tied up badly.

He had to do the knot twice.

On the dock he turned around, and I was right there.

He kissed me against the boathouse wall with the river slapping the pilings under us.

"Inside," I said, into his mouth.

"Inside," he agreed, and didn't move.

We made it up the path.

We made it up the porch steps where I'd stopped him two nights ago.

He stopped there himself.

He held my face in both his hands, his thumbs along my cheekbones, and looked at me in the yellow porch light.

"Ask me," I said.

"Is this the deal?"

"No."

"Do you want this?"

"Yes. Tonight. Your room. Not mine." I put my hand flat on his chest, the way I had on the porch, and this time I pushed him backward toward the door. "My bed's narrow and my father's hammer is on the windowsill."

He laughed, helplessly, and opened the door behind his back.

His room was dark except for the moon on the river through the window.

I didn't look for a lamp.

I turned him by the shoulders and walked him backward until his calves hit the bed.

Then I reached up and pulled the pen from my hair.

It fell in a mess around my shoulders, and he made a sound like he'd been punched.

"I want to take your shirt off," I said.

"Then do it."

I did it button by button, the way I'd started on the porch and stopped.

He stood still and let me, his chest rising hard under my hands.

When the shirt was open I pushed it off his shoulders and let it fall.

His skin was warm, and I put both palms flat on his chest.

His heart was going like a hammer on a nail.

"Say what you want," he said, low.

"I want you to watch me."

"I am."

I pulled my T-shirt over my head and dropped it.

His jaw went tight.

"I want you on the bed," I said. "On your back."

He lay back, slow, propped on his elbows, watching me.

I toed off my wet sneakers and unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down.

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