The Infinite Moment of Us (23 page)

nipples. The straps of the bra were thin and elegant, and

French lace adorned the edges. She chose matching panties

to go with it, and both the bra and panties seemed to weigh

nothing in the crisp paper bag the saleslady had placed them

in. When Wren had carried her purchases from the store, it

was as if she were carrying tissue paper and nothing more.

As she was getting dressed, she paused to admire herself

in her full-length mirror, wearing nothing but her new lin-

gerie. She turned to one side and then the other. She tried

to see herself the way Charlie would see her, and it excited

her. She loved being looked at by Charlie. The way his eyes

darkened. The way his appreciation—and vulnerability—

shone through.

Heat spread up her body. Her nipples hardened, and

her breathing changed, and when she imagined not just his

eyes on her, but his hands, his mouth, she grew suddenly

and undeniably wet.

It embarrassed her, but she didn’t want to be embar-

rassed. Should she be embarrassed? No. She should be . . .

she should be excited, which she was, and thrilled, and

aroused. Her body’s response to the boy she loved was a

good thing. It was bodies being bodies.

But it was more than that. It showed the strength of her

connection to Charlie, because she’d never felt this way, or

even close, when thinking about any other boy. This—her

flushed cheeks, the ache pulsing inside—this was Wren

wanting Charlie and knowing that Charlie wanted her.

She was dizzy. Relax, she told herself. Put your clothes

on, and go downstairs. Charlie will be here any minute

now.

She did, and he arrived right on time. Wren’s father

opened the door for him—hello, hello, come in—but

Wren shot him a secret smile, and he smiled back. It was

his reserved-Charlie smile, but it calmed Wren’s nerves.

For far too long, Charlie made small talk with her par-

ents. He complimented Wren’s mom on the cheese straws

she’d made, and he asked Wren’s dad questions about cer-

tain pieces of furniture her dad had shown Charlie on other

occasions.

“Well, we’re out of here,” Wren said after letting her

dad ramble on about an eighteenth-century corner cabi-

net. “I’ll be back by dawn. Don’t wait up.”

“Wren,” her mom scolded.

“Teasing! Mom, I’m teasing.”

Charlie smiled uncomfortably. Wren knew that Charlie

had a jokey relationship with Dev, but not so much with

Chris and Pamela. Though she knew he’d lay down his life

for any of them, which sometimes killed her in a small,

uncomfortable way she didn’t like to dwell on.

“Charlie will have me home by midnight,” she assured

her parents. “Right, Charlie?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes.” He did the man-to-man

thing and turned to Wren’s dad. “Yes, sir.”

Wren went to Charlie and linked her arm through his.

“Bye! Love y’all!” Then she dragged Charlie out of the liv-

ing room and out the front door, which she pulled shut

behind her.

“Thank God,” she said.

Charlie grinned. He took Wren’s hand and started for

his car, but Wren stayed put, pulling Charlie toward her.

She took two steps backward so that her spine was pressed

against the front door. From there, her parents couldn’t see

them even if they looked out the window.

She placed her hands on Charlie’s shoulders and rose

onto tiptoe. “First, this,” she murmured into his ear before

giving him a quick kiss.

She pulled away, watching Charlie’s expression go from

surprised to pleased.

His eyes darkened, and she shivered. He gave her a lon-

ger, fuller kiss, and then he led her to his car.

When they reached the park, the sun was almost fully

down. The sky was a purplish blue. Wren unbuckled her

seat belt and reached for the handle of the door, but Charlie placed his palm on her thigh.

“Wait,” he said.

He got out, walked around the car, and opened her door

for her. He extended his hand, and when she took it, he

helped her out.

“Such a gentleman,” she said.

She expected to go with him to the trunk to get the

army blanket. Instead, he walked past his car, over the

curb, and onto the open grassy area that led to their ditch.

She went with him but said, “Don’t we need . . . ?”

He smiled and squeezed her hand. Her jitters came

back. She felt unexpectedly shy, and she didn’t speak again

until they reached the ditch. At the bottom of the incline,

a blanket lay waiting, but it wasn’t the scratchy green wool

one. It was chocolate brown, thick and plush. A picnic bas-

ket held down one corner. A bucket filled with ice held

down the corner diagonally across, and jutting from the ice

was a bottle of champagne.

“Charlie,” she said. Her throat tightened, and she felt as

if she might cry. She let go of his hand and slid her arms

around him. She pressed up close, her cheek against his

chest, and soaked it in: the night, the trees, the chirp of

crickets. Charlie’s scent. The warmth of his skin through

his shirt. His muscles.

A breeze lifted her hair, and Charlie put his arm around

her. He felt solid to her in a way that no other person was.

Wren understood something then. Not with her mind but

with her body. She was meant to be with Charlie—to be

with him in all ways and in all meanings of the word—

because he made her feel alive. Maybe he brought her to

life.

But enough waiting, enough wanting. Wren untangled

herself from Charlie and started down the hill. She looked

back at him, and when she lost her footing and almost

slipped, he lunged forward and steadied her. She laughed,

giddy with the glory of this boy, this man, her love.

The picnic basket held cheese, crackers, and plump

strawberries that Wren knew came from Pamela’s back-

yard garden. Tucked by the strawberries were an iPod and

a speaker, which Charlie pulled out. He pressed a few but-

tons, and Harry Connick Jr.’s rendition of “Our Love Is

Here to Stay” filled the air.

“Oh, Charlie,” Wren said, settling on the blanket and

folding her legs beneath her. He sat beside her. She stroked

his cheek.

He took two champagne flutes from the basket. “Cham-

pagne?” he asked.

“Wow. And yes, please.”

He handed the glasses to her and pulled the bottle from

the bucket of ice. A drop of water landed on Wren’s thigh,

below the hem of her soft, clingy sundress, and Charlie

ducked and licked the coldness off. Something wonderful

and private fluttered inside her. He pulled the foil from the top and undid the wire

cap, all with great seriousness, then grasped the cork and

twisted. He’d worn a soft black T-shirt, which Wren knew

he’d chosen because it was her favorite, and the movement

of his muscles beneath the fabric was delicious.

There was a muffled
pop
, and Charlie opened his hand

to show her the cork, and she nodded happily. She found

him amazing. She hoped he knew that. Even such a small

thing as opening a bottle of champagne . . . When Charlie

did it, it was with grace and confidence. It undid her.

Her jitters were practically gone. She felt a little shy, but

that was all right. She and Charlie sipped their champagne

and nibbled on strawberries and talked about nothing and

everything.

“You are
so
gorgeous,” Wren said out of nowhere. He’d

been telling how he’d been on the chess team when he

was younger, which was sweet and adorable, and, without

meaning to, she told him how gorgeous he was.

She giggled and said, “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Why?” Charlie said.

“Well, because . . . I don’t know.”

“Don’t be.” He took her glass and refilled it. She

expected him to hand it back to her, but he held it just

out of her reach. “You don’t need to apologize for telling

me what you think, just like I don’t need to apologize for

telling you what I think, which is that you should take off

your dress.”

Wren’s pulse quickened. “You want me to take off my

dress?”

“I do.”

She breathed, or tried to. Her body tingled. She rose to

her knees, took the bottom of her sundress in her hands,

and pulled it over her head. The night air made the hairs on

the back of her neck stand up. The night air also made her

nipples hard, or maybe it was the way Charlie was looking

at her.

“You are beautiful,” he said. He brought her champagne

glass to her mouth, and she took a sip. Then he moved the

glass down her body, charting a course between her breasts

and over her tummy.

“Is it cold?” he asked.

She nodded.

He lifted the glass back to her breast, pressing the cold-

est part to her nipple. He watched her face.

“Yes, cold,” she managed. She took the glass from him

and placed her other hand along the length of his jaw. “But

no more champagne, not for me. Is that okay? It’s good. It’s

delicious
.” She was babbling.
Agh
.

“It’s just, I don’t want to be—”

“Shh,” Charlie said. “It’s fine.”

“I just want us,” she said.

“That’s all I want, too,” he replied, his voice dropping.

He set his glass on the ground, past the edge of the blan-

ket so that it would be out of harm’s way. She put her glass

beside his. She had to stretch out on her hands and knees—

well, one hand, two knees—to do so.

Charlie fanned his hands over the back of her panties.

“God, I love your ass,” he murmured.

She was both thrilled and mortified. She was on her

knees, and he was behind her, and when she shifted to

move back beside him, he didn’t let her. Instead, he ran his

hands over and under her panties.

“Oh,” Wren said. “Um . . .”

Charlie pulled her back to him, and she turned toward

him. They were both on their knees, and he put one hand

at the base of her neck and kissed her while his other hand

skimmed the side of her body and the curve of her hip.

“I think your shirt needs to come off, too,” she whis-

pered. Her face flamed, because he’d had his shirt off

before, but she’d never been the one to say “take it off.”

He leaned back, and she helped pull his shirt over his

head. She touched his ribs. His abs. She placed both hands

on his chest. He was
so
gorgeous. So warm and hard and real.

He trailed his fingers down the strap of her new French

bra. He reached the lace and lightly skimmed it. With both

hands, he scooped up her breasts, running his thumbs over

the swell of them and making her nipples even harder. They poked visibly through the sheer fabric—Wren glanced

down and saw—and Charlie said, “Leaves?”

Wren’s mind was foggy. Then she said, “Leaves. Yes. On

my bra. Do you like?”

He dipped his fingers under the lace, sliding the fabric

of the bra off her breast and anchoring it beneath, so that

it pushed her flesh higher. He did the same to the other

breast. “I like this better,” he murmured, bowing his head

and sucking first one nipple and then the other.

Wren couldn’t think. It was all sense and touch and

heat and shivers. Oh my God, she thought, and she moved

beneath his touch, following his hands with her body.

He fiddled with her bra. It took him a moment to work

the clasp, and she smiled as she kissed him.

She was wet.

She was scared, but she wanted him inside her.

Her fingers found his jeans. She undid the button and

pulled down the zipper, drawing away to check his expres-

sion.

“Baby,” he murmured.

“Can we . . . ?” She pushed down on the waist of his

jeans, not sure how to get them off him. Why had she never

gotten his pants off him before? She’d wanted to, but she’d

been shy, but now—
aggh
. Why wasn’t there a guidebook

for this stuff?

He helped, and in the moonlight, she drew in her breath.

Boxer briefs. Black and tight. Muscular thighs, so different

from her softness.

And in the front. Erect and long beneath his boxers. His

dick. Tessa had taught her to call it that,
dick
and not
penis
, because
penis
was a silly word. And this, the solid length of Charlie’s dick, of Charlie . . .

She’d wanted to touch him there many times, but she’d

been scared. She was still scared. Her heart pounded, and

she hooked her thumbs beneath the band at the top of

his boxers—but no. They wouldn’t . . . they were stuck,

caught by the tip of his dick. She bit her lip and used her

fingers to pull the waistband up and over him. She tugged

them to his knees and didn’t know what to do next.

But okay. Wow. She curved her spine and took him in

her mouth before she realized what she was doing. And

then . . .

Really wow, and really strange. Not bad, but really,

really strange.

He moaned, and Wren moved up and down. Her hair

swung. She was doing this, and part of her couldn’t believe