Where You Are by Tammara Webber Page A

lip, dipping inside her mouth when she opens with a sigh.
    “Mmm-hmm,” she says, raising her hand to my face and holding me just so, mirroring my effort. When her small tongue slips inside my mouth, I release a moan that sounds more like a growl and then I’m rattling off baseball statistics and diagramming sentences in my head. (I was so sure last semester’s Advanced Structures of Modern English would never come to any practical use.)
    “Maybe,” my voice breaks and I clear my throat, “Maybe we should get dinner… or something.”
    She blinks, and I’m glad to see she’s as affected as I am. “Room service and a movie?” She gestures to the television, reading my mind.
    “Sounds perfect. I don’t want to leave this room. Well, I mean, not until I have to. Um—”
    “Would you… want to sleep here?” Her eyes fall, watching her own hand where it lays on my chest, rising and falling with every breath I take. My heartbeat accelerates with her words; she must feel it pounding under her palm. “We only have a couple of days, and I’ll probably fall asleep if we’re up late…”
    She doesn’t mention the biggest impediment—the fact that thanks to the ruse she and Reid are perpetrating, she and I can’t be demonstrative in public. Her room—and mine—are like private islands. The only places we’ll be safe to touch unguardedly.
    “And you want me here when you wake up?” She nods, and I kiss her carefully. “I would love to stay with you tonight, Emma.” Tipping her chin up, I look into her eyes. “And I’m not taking that as an invitation for anything other than sleeping next to you.”
    ***
    After dinner, I walk to my room to grab a toothbrush and clean stuff to wear tomorrow, checking my phone messages on the way. No calls from home, but one missed call and a text from Brooke. Basic Hi babe, are you here yet? stuff. Texting back that I’m all checked in, I tell her I’m going to bed early—using the three-hour time difference as an excuse for my exhaustion.
    True to her word, Emma’s out cold before the second movie is over. Cuddled up against my side, she sleeps on her stomach, a pillow flattened under her face and chest, one of her knees drawn up against my thigh and the other sprawled behind her. I grin and shake my head that such a small person can take up so much of a queen-sized bed. Her face angled towards me, her lashes lay across her creamy skin and her lips are parted slightly… and they actually do look a little puffy.
    That thought has me contemplating noun phrases (Emma’s lips) and verb phrases (are swollen) and prepositional phrases (from hours of kissing)… which does absolutely nothing to help me. When a groan escapes me, Emma moans softly in response, shifting without waking, her arm stealing across my abdomen. Oh, man. I am never getting to sleep. Still, I wouldn’t trade the feeling of holding her like this for anything.
    It’s midnight in LA—3:00 a.m. New York time—and I’m staring at the swirling patterns on the ceiling, trying to concentrate on anything but my t-shirt loosely bunched in Emma’s fist. A few minutes later, or half an hour, she stretches, pulling my shirt askew at the same time. When I glance down, she’s awake, sort of. A drowsy, slowly-blinking stage of awake.
    “Hi,” she whispers.
    “Hey,” I whisper back. My arm has gone to sleep under her head, so I’m grateful when she moves to lay her face on my chest. “Checking for a heartbeat?” I ask, stretching my arms out, returning one to pull her closer and tucking the other behind my head so I can see her more clearly. Her eyes go to my bicep and I feel like an idiot boy, wanting to flex it and be impressive. She props herself on her forearms, chin on her hands, and stares at me.
    “I can’t believe how comfortable I feel,” she says, a confused note in her confession. “How do you do that?”
    I raise an eyebrow, equally confused. “How do I do what?”
    She breathes out a