“Wait, what?” I asked, shaking my head to clear it.

“This. You. Us. I don’t want to screw this up,” he insisted, sitting up underneath me, my legs wrapping around to his back.

“Okay, so don’t,” I ventured, unsure where this was going.

“I mean, you need to know, I have no experience with this.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I have a wall back home that would disagree with that…” I laughed, and he crushed me to his chest, inexplicably hard. “Hey, hey…what’s up? What’s going on?” I soothed, my hands rubbing up and down his back.

“Caroline, I, Jesus, how do I say this without sounding like an episode of Dawson’s Creek?” He stumbled the words while talking into my neck.

I couldn’t help it, I chuckled a little as Pacey flashed into my head, and that brought him back. I pulled away a bit so I could see him, and he smiled ruefully.

“Okay, Dawson’s be damned, I really like you, Caroline. But I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school, and I have no clue how to do this. But you need to know, that what I feel for you? Shit, it’s just different, okay? And, whatever your wall would say back home, I need you to know that this? What we have, or will have? It’s different, okay? You know that, right?”

He was telling me I was different, that I was no replacement for the harem. And this, I knew. He looked at me so earnestly, so seriously, and my heart opened even more. I pressed a gentle kiss to his sweet lips.

“First of all, I do know this. Second of all, you’re better at this than you think.” I smiled, pressing his eyes closed and kissing each eyelid. “And, for the record, I loved Dawson’s Creek, and you did the WB proud.” I laughed as his eyes sprang back open and relief rushed in. I tucked him into my nook and held him there as we rocked back and forth, the rush of the earlier hormones subsiding as we found this new space, this quiet intimacy that was becoming almost as addicting.

“I like that we’re taking things slow. You give good woo,” I whispered.

He tensed underneath me. I could feel him shaking a little.

“I give good woo?” he laughed, tears springing to his eyes as he tried to control his laughter.

“Oh, shut up,” I cried, smacking him with a pillow. We laughed for a few more minutes, falling back into the lush bed, and as the jet lag finally overtook us, we settled in. Together. There was no question in my mind now about sleeping in separate rooms. I wanted him here. With me. Surrounded by pillows and Spain, we nooked. The last thought I had, before slipping into sleep with his strong arms wrapped around me…I might be falling in love with my Wallbanger.

Chapter Seventeen

I WAS AWAKENED THIS MORNING by a great rumbling. Forgetting where I was for a split second, I automatically assumed I was home, and we were experiencing a tremor. I was halfway out of bed with one foot on the floor before I noticed that the view outside my bedroom window was decidedly more blue than it was at home, and decidedly more Mediterranean. And the rumbling? That was no tremor. It was Simon snoring. Snoring. Snoring to beat the band, and by beat the band I mean beat that band up with his nose—which was emitting the most unearthly sound. I clapped my hands over my mouth to hold in the laughter and crept back into bed, the better to appraise the situation.

True to form, I’d taken over most of the bed in the night, and he’d been relegated to the far corner, where he was now curled into a little ball with a pillow tucked between his legs. But what he lacked in square footage, he made up for in sound. The sounds pouring forth from his nasal passages registered somewhere between grizzly bear and exploding tractor trailer. I wiggled across the mile-wide bed, curling myself around his head and looking down at his face. Even while making these horrific sounds, he was adorable. I carefully placed my fingers next to his nose, and plugged. And then waited.

After about ten seconds, he inhaled and shook his head, looking around wildly. He relaxed when he saw me perched on the pillows next to him. He smiled a sleepy smile.

“Hey, hey, what’s up?” he mumbled, rolling into me and wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his head on my tummy. I ran my hands through his hair, delighting in the casual freedom we finally had in touching each other.

“Just woke up. Someone was quite noisy on this side of the bed.”

He closed one eye and looked up at me. “I hardly think someone as flaily as you can complain about anything.”

“Flaily? That’s not even a word.” I huffed, enjoying his arms around me more than I wanted to admit.

“Flaily, as in, one who flails. As in, one who, even though she is sleeping in a bed the size of Alcatraz, still needs almost the entire mattress to spread out and kick,” he insisted, accidentally-on-purpose pushing my shirt up so he could rest his head on my na**d tummy.

“Flailing is better than snoring, Mr. Snorey Pants,” I teased again, trying not to notice the way his stubble scraped against my skin in the most delicious way.

“You flail. I snore. Whatever will we do about this?” He smiled happily, still half asleep.

“Ear plugs and shin guards?”

“Yep, that’s sexy. We can suit up before bed each night,” he sighed, pressing the tiniest of kisses just above my belly button.

A noise that sounded sadly like a whimper escaped my lips before I could pull it back, and my ears burned as I took in what he’d said about “each night,” as in sleeping together each night. Oh my…

We ate a quick breakfast at the house, then headed into town. I fell in love with the village instantly: the old stone streets, the whitewashed walls glimmering in the blazing sunlight, the beauty that poured forth from every open archway. From every speck of azure that peeked through from the coast to the friendly smiles on the sweet faces of the people who called this enchanted spot home, I was hooked.

It was market day, and we wandered in and out of stalls, picking up fresh fruit to snack on later. I’ve seen beautiful places on this earth, but this town was heaven for me. I’d truly never experienced anything like it.

Now, I had been traveling alone for years, finding my own company quite pleasant. But traveling with Simon? It was…cool. Just, cool. He was quiet, the way I am when I’m seeing something new. He never felt the need to fill a silence with chattery words. We were content to soak up the scenery. When we did speak, it was to point out something we thought the other shouldn’t miss, like the puppies playing in a dooryard, or an old man and woman talking back and forth over their balconies. He was a great companion.

We strolled back to the rental car, the afternoon sun toasting through the thin cotton covering my shoulders, when my hand tangled with his in the most unassuming way. And when he took the time to open my door for me, and leaned down to kiss me in the warm Spanish sunshine, his lips and the smell of olive trees were the only things I needed in the entire world.

In the time I’d known Simon, I’d committed several images of him to memory: seeing him for the first time, clad only in a sheet and a smirk; driving back across the bridge with him the night of Jillian’s housewarming, when we called a truce; warped and blurry Simon as seen from inside an afghan; backlit by tiki torches, wet, and looking devilishly handsome by hot tub; and a recent addition to my Best of Simons? The sight of him underneath me as he clutched me close, his warm skin and sweet breath all over me as we nooked in the Giant Bed of Sin.

But nothing, and I mean nothing, was hotter than watching Simon work. I mean it. I actually had to fan myself a little—which he took no notice of, because when he was working he was delightfully focused.

And now here I sat, watching Simon work. We’d driven up the coast to get some test shots at a place a local guide had told him about, and the perilously handsome Simon now concentrated completely on the task at hand. As he’d explained to me, it wasn’t about the actual pictures he was taking, it was about testing the light and the colors. So as he scrambled his way from rock to rock, I sat on a blanket we’d dug out of the trunk and observed. Perched on cliffs high above the sea, we could see for miles. The rocky shoreline stretched and curled back in on itself as millions of waves poured in from the deep sea. And while the scenery was gorgeous, what had my attention was the way the tip of Simon’s tongue poked out as he surveyed the scene. The way he bit down on his lower lip as he puzzled over something. The way excitement broke over his face when he saw something new through his lens.

I was glad I had something to do, something to fixate on, as the beginning of a battle was starting to wage inside my body. Ever since we’d acknowledged the pressure that giant bed could have placed on us, all I could think about was that very pressure. As well as the pressure of an O long denied, waiting patiently—and sometimes impatiently—for her release. The pressure was so strong, so intense, that every single part of me could feel it.

Currently taking sides in this internal debate were my brain, Lower Caroline (speaking for the distant O), Backbone, and although she’d mainly kept quiet lately, letting Brain and Nerves take control, Heart was now weighing in.

It should be noted that LC (Lower Caroline wanted a hip but abbreviated name) had somehow drafted Simon’s penis into the fray, and even though his penis didn’t have direct access to her yet, LC felt it necessary to speak up on his behalf. While I didn’t much like the term penis, internally I felt strange about calling him dick or cock, so penis it was…for now.

Now, Backbone and Brain were solidly in the wait-for-sex camp, believing this essential to the foundation of this burgeoning relationship. LC, and therefore Simon’s penis, were in the have-sex-with-him-as-soon-as-possible society, obviously. O, while not officially in residence, could be counted among LC’s supporters. But I felt a twinge, and just a twinge, of her floating above both camps, along with Heart, who was currently singing songs about everlasting love and warm, fluffy things.

Take all this into account and what do you have? One totally confused Caroline. A Caroline divided. No wonder I had sworn off dating. This shit was tough. So was I glad to have something to think about other than the pressure cooker of sex indeterminate? Yes. Could I spend a little more time trying to come up with a more clever name for Simon’s penis? Probably. It deserved it. Mammoth Male Member? No. Pulsating Pillar of Passion? No. Back Door Bandit? Hell no. Wang? Sounded like the noise those doorstopper things made when you flicked ’em…

I said it out loud to myself a few times, cracking myself up a little. “Wang. Wang. Waaaang,” I muttered.

“Hey! Nightie Girl! Get yourself over here,” Simon called, breaking me out of my wang study. I left behind the mental battle, picking my way carefully across the craggy rocks to where he was poised.

“I need you.”

“Here? Now?” I snorted.

He lowered his camera just enough to raise one eyebrow. “I need you for scale. Get over there.” He pointed me toward the edge of the cliff.

“What? No-no. No pictures, huh-uh.” I backed away toward my blanket.

“Yes, yes, pictures. Come on. I need something in the foreground. Get over there.”

“But I’m a mess! I’m all windblown and sunburned, see?” I pulled down my v-neck just a little to show him how I was beginning to pink up.

“While I always appreciate you showing me your cleavage, save it, sister. This is just for me, just to give me some perspective. And you don’t look windblown. Well, only a little.” He tapped his foot.

“You’re not gonna make me pose with a rose in my teeth, are you?” I sighed, shuffling over to the edge.

“Do you have a rose?” he asked, looking serious except for the shit-eating grin.

“Shut it, you. Take your pictures.”

“Okay, just be natural. No posing, just stand there—facing the water would be great,” he instructed.

I complied. He moved around me, trying different angles, and I could hear him muttering about what was working. I admit, even though I was shy about having my picture taken, I could almost feel his eyes, through the lens, watching me. He moved around for only a few moments, but it felt longer. The internal war was beginning to wage again.

“You almost done?”

“You can’t rush perfection, Caroline. I need to get the job done right,” he warned. “But yes. Almost done. You getting hungry?”

“I want those clementines in the basket—grab me one? Or will that mess with your masterpiece?”

“Won’t mess with it. I’ll call it Windblown Girl on a Cliff with a Clementine.” He laughed and headed back over to the car.

“You’re funny,” I said wryly, catching the tiny orange he threw me and starting to peel.

“Are you sharing?”

“I suppose so, the least I could do for the man who brought me here, right?” I laughed, biting into a wedge and feeling the juice dribble down my chin.

“You got a hole in your lip?” he asked, capturing the moment as I rolled my eyes at him.

“Do you actually think you’re funny, or are you just assuming you might be?” I countered, beckoning him over with the peel. He shook his head, laughing as he took a wedge. Of course, he took a bite and no dribble. He opened his eyes wide in feigned amazement, and I took the opportunity to smash another wedge in his face. His eyes remained wide open, as juice now ran freely off the tip of his nose and on to his chin.

“Messy Simon,” I whispered as he looked at me. In a flash, he pressed his lips to mine, getting juice all over both of us as I squealed into his mouth. “Sweet Caroline,” he whispered through his grin. He turned us so the sea was behind us, held up the camera, and took a picture: us covered in orange mush.