Carved in Her Bones

Tomas

I had asked my mom if I could borrow the family jet to fly to Warsaw to meet Rhian.So, as I head back to the hotel, I give her a quick call.

I also need a shower. And maybe a serious session with my right hand.

"Mama, hi. I'm going to Dublin for Rhian's birthday dinner. Do you need me this weekend?"

"Oh no, honey, have fun. Wrap it up and be respectful."

What is up with everyone telling me to be respectful and to wrap it up? It's like they all had a secret family meeting about my sex life.

For the record, I am not planning on having sex with her. But if the opportunity respectfully presents itself, it would be selfish to decline. And honestly, it would feel like a straight-up mockery to the God who has so fondly answered my prayers.

I pretend to gag. "Mom, no, please. We had this talk when I was twelve, which, by the way, was way too early to have that chat."

She laughs, dismissing me. "Okay, honey. Give her my best wishes."

I shower, change into sweatpants, and call Damian, who had been trying to convince me to join him in Sophia Antipolis. Apparently, French women in the south are very open-minded, and he thought I could use the distraction.

Now, unfortunately for him—and fortunately for me—I have to miss out on all that Damian-inspired fun to spend time with the girl of my dreams.

The second he picks up, I can tell he's either drunk or high. Maybe both.

I explain the whole situation, and in the two minutes we've been on the phone, we've established that:

He also wants to eat at Rhian's. He would love to celebrate her birthday with her because, and I quote, "Eighteen is a very special age." He's coming with us.

I text Rhian: Can my friend come to dinner?

Lately, I've gotten into the habit of calling her Rhye. She likes it. Only her dad and Joey call her that.

Her response is immediate:

Woah, Tomas, we've just kissed, and you're already introducing me to your friends? I'm afraid we're moving too fast.

I laugh. She's throwing my own words back at me.

Forty-five minutes later, I pick her up.

She's wearing sinfully fitting leggings, an oversized hoodie I definitely recognize as Joey's, high-cut black Vans, and a ridiculously yellow cap that somehow makes her all-black outfit look even better. Her curls fall loosely around her shoulders, her face is bare of makeup, and she's just—God.

The urge to kiss her overwhelms me.

I walk toward her, take her suitcase without a word, and toss it into the boot. The second I shut it, I turn back, grab her hand, and pull her into me.

She doesn't protest.

A second later, I'm in heaven.

She tastes even better this morning—warm, soft, intoxicating. And the moaning? God. That sound is doing something unreal to me.

I pull away, breathless, my mouth hovering just over hers.

Her lips are swollen, her breathing uneven. Beautiful.

My hands slip beneath the hem of her tank, fingertips brushing warm skin. I don't push, don't rush—just feel.

"Tomas..." she whispers, almost like a warning. But she's not stopping me.