We're walking a very thin and jagged line over here, folks. I can't wait for you all to see what I have planned for this story and this couple.
I know that you'll call me when the time is right, but I want that time to be tonight. "I Think About You" by Geographer
Claire
"Stop," Quil whispers for the tenth time this lovely, angst-filled Christmas morning.
"Can't help it," I whisper right back, pressing my thighs together.
We're surrounded by Christmas wrapping, bows, and broken strings. There is a mound of Quil's favorite chocolate next to him from his stocking, and more than a few pieces are already missing. Mom and Dad have already moved on to the kitchen, preparing our traditional post-present brunch. Callie's still on the floor surrounded by her own pile of gifts, as oblivious as ever to the sexual tension on this couch.
When I went on birth control a few months ago, Bethany told me to expect a decrease in sex drive.
Quil's still waiting for that.
I've accepted my hand.
I would also accept Quil's hand. Or mouth. Or male appendage.
I was sort of hoping when he stayed over last night (overlooked on Christmas Eve, forbidden every other night) he'd try something.
If my hot and spicy dream was any indication, nothing was tried except Quil's patience.
"Go take a shower or something," Quil mutters tersely, standing to gather balls of discarded wrapping, and probably also to escape my squirming. "We're leaving after breakfast."
Quil always prefers to give me presents in private, so every year, in the time between when we visit with my family and when we go see the Pack, we spend the afternoon at his place. Just the two of us.
Maybe Quil's seeing it as a challenge in self-restraint, but I'm seeing it as an opportunity.
Quil has lived in the same house since he and Embry were twenty-three, and Quil even managed to scrape together enough to buy it when his landlord wanted to sell a year ago.
Currently, the carpet is ripped up in the living room, new vinyl flooring halfway finished between there and the kitchen, and paint splotches polka-dot the walls. He vetoed my suggestion of marigold yellow for the living room, but he did pick a lighter shade for the kitchen. Which isn't that big of a win, because the kitchen was already yellow.
I set the small present on the coffee table and go to take off my coat.
A strong presence encases me from behind, and breath tickles the hairs on my neck as warm hands come to my shoulders.
"Let me help," he murmurs.
My heart hammers wildly as he slips off the coat, and if I wasn't so keyed up, I think I'd be annoyed with myself at my actions. How quickly I go from normal to touch me.
"Sit," Quil says, moving away from me to hook my coat by the door. "You want a drink?"
"Soda, if you have any left."
I study the wrapped presents remaining under Quil's tree. A few for his mom, probably; one each for Embry, Bethany, and Sadie (I helped picked hers out). One for the Dirty Santa the Pack does every year.
And one for me.
This is a rule of ours: one gift, experiences only. Quil's usually pretty good about sticking to it—but if he sees something he thinks I'd like, he'll still get it for me just because.
He comes back with two diet colas and pops his open right away. I set mine on the table, not very thirsty anymore.
"Can we just do it?" I blurt.
He coughs around a mouth full of liquid, channeling Bethany Call very effectively. His ears turn stop-sign red. "Claire, we're not having sex."
Now is my turn to blush. "I meant the presents, Quil." For a change. I reach for his present on the table and push it into his chest. "Open it."
Setting his drink aside, he clears his throat. His eyes stay on me as he pulls the ribbon loose. "Hint?"
I've considered this. "You'll like it."
When the lid is finally free, he drops his eyes. I have the pleasure of watching his face light with joy. The corners of his mouth twitch like he's fighting a smile. The smile always wins out, and I love when it does.
He holds up the confirmation letter I printed. "You thought I'd like skydiving?"
I know him too well to be deterred. "With your best friends? Yes." Because of my tiny bank account, Jacob and Embry had to buy their own tickets. They didn't care.
Quil leans over, pressing a messy kiss to my temple. "You were right. I love it. Thanks, Claire Bear."
Before I can return his affection, he's on his feet, moving to the kitchen. With an Olympic National Park magnet, he slaps the paper on the fridge.
He moves across the room, humble but confident. He doesn't need to be showy about his body because it's perfection. Even if he wasn't a wolf, he'd still be buff from his work at the station.
Fantasies of that body, naked, flash into my mind, and okay, wow, Quil can't even say the word sex without my mind going there. I really am hopeless. I press my thighs together to try and calm the pressure between them.
Quil, kindly, ignores this and moves to the tree instead. He moves all the presents I speculated were mine and grabs a tiny one behind them. Hidden from view in case I tried to peek, I guess.
Which I have never done. (More than twice.)
I clutch the box, studying his face for clues. But he's impassive, shielding me from seeing either excitement or fear.
"Hint?"
He smirks. "You'll love it." Smartass.
With an eye roll, I pull the lid off. It takes me several seconds to discern the contents. A check on top, written out to the State Department— what the fuck? — along with a packet of papers and an appointment confirmation.
My eyes well. "You applied for a passport for me?"
He smiles, reaching to wipe a tear already falling. "I filled out the application for you, but you have to submit it in person. That's the appointment. On Tuesday."
"This is a thing." I want him to know that just because I'm crying tears of joy doesn't mean he's getting away with breaking the rules.
"A thing that lets you have experiences," he emphasizes. I open my mouth to retort, but he gently slides his palm to my mouth, shutting me up. "And look, you have an appointment. That's an experience."
Getting a passport has been on my To-Do list for a while now. But between school and studying and general life, it's slipped further and further down, until I forgot altogether. Quil hasn't, though.
I've loved Quil for as long as I can remember, but this is the first moment where I really feel it. I'm falling in love with him. The forever kind. The "accept the imprint in all its shapes and forms" kind.
I'd be scared to death to fall so hard if I didn't already know Quil will keep me safe the entire way down.
I mumble something underneath his palm, but it's unintelligible.
He drops his hand. "Huh?"
"Will you kiss me?" I say again, quieter. I want to look at his lips, maybe his shoulders or chest. But I need to see his eyes more. They're nearly black, always, a dark brown color he got from his mom. And they glow. Like coals in a fire. The heat is always there, so close to the surface it's impossible to keep down.
He makes me feel like that all the time.
And when he leans in, slowly enough to drive me just a little crazy, I start to think I make him feel the same.
Quil's lips are soft enough to cause my eyes to flutter closed. It's not anywhere close to our first kiss, where I thought I would spontaneously combust from the sudden heat.
This is a slower build, and I can already tell he has more control than last time. I sink into him, and both his hands come up to cup my face.
Just his mouth on mine makes me dizzy, and I can only imagine what I'll feel the first time we take it further. A moan tries to escape at the thought, but I'm able to contain it. I have to be able to kiss him without trying to jump his bones.
I rest my hand on his waist and pull back. That was a kiss. Exactly what I asked for. Even though my blood is singing, I totally have control.
Quil pulls my head back to him, switching the angle and teasing my lips apart. His tongue, soft but insistent, runs across the soft inside of my bottom lip.
Control. I can keep control and make out with him.
And I do.
For about five seconds, until one of Quil's hands drops from my face and caresses my side, slipping to my lower back.
The funny thing is, he's still kissing me gentle, holding me gentle. Even his fingers, which somehow found the sliver of space between my leggings and sweater and are now rubbing maddening circles on the skin there.
But his mouth, his touches, his tongue are making me not so gentle. They're making me a little wild. He calls me a wildfire, but I wonder if he knows how much power he holds to set me ablaze.
Case in point: somehow my hand has migrated from Quil's hip to Quil's belt.
He finally pulls back with a chuckle, his lips reddened as they stretch into a smile. "Merry Christmas, Claire."
With one final kiss to my temple, he pulls my hand away from his pants like I didn't try to cop an uninvited feel. He starts to smooth my hair, mussed from his hands, but I scoot away, barely managing not to grind on the couch like a cat in heat.
I'm officially embarrassed by my hormones.
Quil chooses not to comment, instead grabbing the remote and flicking to a station featuring an all-day marathon of A Christmas Story.
It takes me a few minutes to find the right question. "How did the others do this?" My eyes are trained on the movie because I can't look at him right now.
"Do what exactly?" His arm is slung across the back of the couch above my shoulders, but it still feels too close. I can't even handle a simple kiss—one that I asked for.
"Be around each other without… giving in. Is it this strong with everyone?"
He pinches his lips between his teeth, and I feel his eyes on me as he leans forward to turn down the volume. "The imprint… it makes everything more intense, from what I've seen through Pack mind. Kissing, touching… coming." Not helping not helping not helping. He laughs nervously, pulling his arm up a fraction, away from me. "So I'll say, yes, it's like this with everyone. But it's probably worse because of your—"
"Don't—"
"Age," he finishes anyway. "It's just different, okay? But we're learning how to do this together."
His gaze softens enough that I'm finally able to meet his eyes. He's concerned, but I also see something else smoldering. Firsthand understanding. He's right here with me.
He laughs more earnestly now. "You know Seth and Katie had to sleep in separate rooms before they got married? They wanted to wait, and they almost couldn't. Leah played referee."
A smile tugs at my lips. "Did she ever catch them?"
His grin turns wolfish. "A few times. And Katie walked in on Leah and Adam once, too."
"What about Jake and Nessie?"
Quil tugs my feet into his lap, kneading his thumb into the arch. At first I think this is going to be just as bad, stir me up just as much, but when he keeps talking, it eases. "Jared almost caught them one time. And I think Marie's seen them a time or two."
My eyes go wide. Kids are a whole other variable I hadn't considered. "What about—"
"Embry and Bethany are really good about locking the door, but they also make sure Sadie knocks. Apparently, there was a close call one Christmas." As if remembering what day it is, Quil pulls out his phone and sends a text. Definitely to Embry to remind him about that moment.
His eyes light up when he talks about Embry. There's a possibility they're related by more than just Pack. They could be brothers. Quil hasn't brought it up in a few weeks, since he told me he slugged Embry. But I know he's thinking about it, especially when he starts making heart-eyes at his phone the way I make heart-eyes at my surfboard.
If it were me, I'd say screw the test and claim it as fact. Found family is better than blood half the time anyway.
I eye the passport application, still in my lap. I slide it onto the coffee table and slouch further into the couch. "There's not just a… a handbook or something?"
"No," Quil answers honestly, pocketing his phone. "I know you wish there was. But I promise not to let you lose control."
Right. Because I'm the only one in this scenario who's capable of that.
I start to pull my feet from his lap, but his strong grip wraps around my calf, holding me in place.
"Claire," he groans. "I meant us. I won't let us lose control. This is just…" He sighs, running a hand through his tousled hair. "God, I know I'm gonna fuck this up, but I have to say it."
When he looks at me again, his gaze pierces me, weighs me down until I couldn't look away if I tried. "You're the most important person I have in my life, Claire. And I know you think you're ready. Maybe you are; I can't read your mind. But I want to make sure. I'd rather you be mad and frustrated than happy and have regrets."
My heart softens. "I won't regret you."
"If you won't regret me now, you won't regret waiting, either. Trust me on this. Please."
And just like that, I do. It's that simple. That's partially where my smile stems from. The other part?
I hold out my palm. "Five dollars, please. You f'ed up."
It gets easier after Christmas to wrangle my feelings. Maybe my birth control finally regulated, or maybe I've matured.
So what if it's only been three months since then?
I can even kiss Quil without wanting to jump his bones. Which is maybe why he's letting us be alone more often.
It could also be that he's providing me an escape from The Gray. It surrounds my home, and with every unanswered question, inconclusive test and concerning blood draw, it gets darker and heavier.
Mom's still sick, getting sicker. Whereas my Dad is taking the cautious road, Mom isn't pretending anymore, if she ever was. If it were anyone else, I'd think it was heartbreaking to see her accepting an unknown fate.
To me, she is brave.
Brave and secretive. When I came home from school the other day, she was scrawling furiously in a notebook, but slammed it shut when she noticed me.
"What's that?" I'd asked, terrified she was writing her last will and testament in a notebook with a lemon on the front. She could have at least used one with an angel or unicorn or something else transcendent.
She only gave me a tired smile. "For another day," she said, then patted the cushion next to her. The Gray is a bit lighter next to her.
Quil's house, though, is not Gray. With fresh paint and floors and artwork he let me pick out, it feels more like sunshine, a tropical paradise, than any other place I've been.
His presence contributes to that.
And his mouth. Which is currently flirting with the collar of my shirt. I had SAT prep this morning, with just over a month to go until the test. And with each day I cross off on my calendar, my nerves get strung one degree tighter.
We started watching a movie to unwind, and one thing led to another, and let's just say now I know how Netflix and Chill happens so easily.
I'm breathing heavily, my heartbeat pounding steady-fast everywhere, the strongest in my gut. I pull at Quil's hips, hoping he'll just give me something. Judging by the growing tightness in his sweats, my odds are higher than usual.
He eases me back onto the couch, resting my head gently on the armrest, and fits himself between my legs. "Do you know what you're doing to me, Claire?" His voice is part grumble, part growl, and I need his mouth on mine yesterday.
Quil's a very talented kisser—not too wet, not too dry. He's playful, too. Can use tongue and teeth in just the right amounts.
As if reading my mind, he uses his tongue to swipe my bottom lip into his mouth, then drags it slowly with his teeth.
That, I think with a flutter in my core. That's my new favorite combination.
He always says I smell like smoke and licorice, even though he's the firefighter. It's funny, because to me, he tastes like the sea. Water, salt, summer. We taste like the essence of each other.
"Quil," I whimper, squirming underneath him. "Please. I need—please."
I must be writhing too much to feel Quil stiffen. This is where he always stops us. I'm not expecting anything different. It hasn't even technically been six months since we started dating.
He braces his hand on the armrest above my head, the other latched onto my waist as he hovers above me. His lips are swollen, his nose reddened from contact with mine. And his eyes are pure black, all pupils. It's a good look on Quil Ateara. Top five. Ten out of ten.
"What do you need?" There he goes with that gravelly voice again.
If I shift just the right way, I can almost ease the ache. I try. It doesn't work, isn't anywhere near what I need to release this tension. I hesitate to speak.
"I—I need to come, Quil." The honesty burns, but not as hot as Quil's gaze. So hot I have to look away. "I'll go to the bathroom."
He takes a deep breath and settles more of his weight on me. His erection rests perfectly on the crotch of my leggings. He groans. "Don't."
What. The. Actual. Fuck. Is. Happening.
Are we about to—surely we're not.
Quil's boner might think we are, and his words might convey we are, but I know Quil. We're not. I know all these things, but I still have no idea what actually is happening.
So I ask. "What are you doing?"
His hand slips from my waist to the hem of my shirt, pushing it up my torso. "Did you forget, sweetheart? It's my job to give you what you need."
My brain is caught in a lust-loop. I can't remember how we got to this place, let alone what I said I needed. I've latched onto one crucial new piece of information: Quil Ateara talks dirty.
His lips trail down, bypassing my breasts (still covered, unfortunately) and landing on the hollow space between my ribs.
"So soft," he murmurs, skimming his lips up to my sternum. His nose drags along the bottom of my t-shirt. "Do you know how many times I've imagined you underneath me like this? My dreams never did you justice."
Two knocks make Quil freeze, his lips on my stomach. Then his feet are on the floor.
"Come back," I say, trying to catch my breath.
My lungs don't listen, and Quil doesn't either. He continues to move toward the door, and I scramble to right my skewed clothing. It may be a lost cause.
"Hey," Embry says from the doorway.
My face flames. God, no wonder the others have been interrupted so many times. I didn't even hear his vehicle pull up. What if Quil had actually been eating my—
"Hey. What's up?" Quil greets, shifting from one bare foot to the other.
Embry's gaze travels to me. "Interrupting something?"
"No," Quil answers, much too quickly to be believable. I'm rubbing off on him.
I can't hold in my sigh. I almost wish there had been something to interrupt. Another minute and Quil would have probably touched me where I ache. Now I'm dialed up to eleven and have to wait for Embry to be out of earshot before we pick up where we left off.
And with the interruption, Quil will probably find his brain again and shut me down.
"Can we talk? In private."
Embry wants to talk to Quil? In private? This has to be about the brother thing. And dammit, maybe if I wasn't such an obvious eavesdropper, they'd talk more freely around me.
Quil mumbles about finding shoes, and Embry turns toward the tree line.
When the door is shut, Quil turns and collapses his shoulders against it, shooting heavy glances at me from across the room. He looks sorry, but not necessarily remorseful. My brain draws that distinction.
The interruption, my sexual frustration, causes angry tears to well in my eyes, and I drop his gaze. I'm mad at myself and my body. I have a handle on everything else in life, firmly in control. So why can't I control this?
"Hey," he mumbles, crossing the room. He sinks down in front of me, wedged between the couch and the coffee table. "Look at me, please."
I shake my head, shame reddening my cheeks to a deeper hue than natural.
Warm fingertips brush my hair back from my neck, and a matching breath tickles my ear. He's nearly hovering over me again.
"He might need me today, okay? So after he leaves, go to my bedroom," he whispers, probably so Embry won't hear. "Climb in my sheets, sweetheart, and take what you need until I can give it to you."
I am concussed. Perplexed. Bewitched. Enamored. Besotted.
By his voice, his eyes, his body.
His heart.
He could very well have told Embry to shove it, slammed the door in his face, and returned to me. But he didn't. And while my lady bits dissent at that notion, my teenage-girl-falling-in-love bits have never heard anything more attractive than a man taking care of his friend.
The dirty talk is a close, close second, though.