Any Trope But You

Chapter 21 Margot

21 MARGOT

Being wrong? It’s the greatest feeling in the world. All the misplaced anger and disappointment that turned my stomach into a cement mixer for three straight days? Worth it. Because there’s kissing, and then there’s kissing Forrest after a fight. It’s like sinking into a hot bath after years of being frozen solid. Like the first meal after running three consecutive marathons. It feels like coming home, and with a stutter in my chest, I realize I’ve missed him like my own heartbeat.

I spent three days misery-scrolling through Charlotte’s blog, beating myself up for ever trusting him, and listening as every fearful part of me formed a bitchy choir to sing “I told you so” at top volume. But somehow, he took that broken trust in his gentle, capable hands and made it even stronger.

He’s a good man. A throwaway phrase I’ve never given much thought to because I’ve never had anyone to apply it to. But now the words sink into me, as soft and deep as his tongue, and I groan from the red-wine-and-clove taste of him. I’m drunk on him. Fucked up on him, and I can’t believe we only have two weeks left of this when it feels like we’re just beginning. The thought sends an electric shock of urgency down my spine, sparking and crackling until all shreds of my cool are burned to a crisp.

My nails dig into his shoulders as he carries me to the bedroom, and I’m surprised I don’t smell burning cotton from where I’m grinding against his cast-iron abdominals. At the thought, I nearly laugh. I’ve used those exact words to describe romance hero abs before, but Forrest’s are even better because they’re real —with hair, and heft, and constellations of dark pinprick freckles I’ve lost sleep thinking about. Every solid inch of his body reflects the habits of a fastidious man who runs and lifts every morning for health instead of vanity. Deep down, I know he cares for himself so that he can care for others, and the ache I’ve been nursing for him all week ratchets even higher.

I want to say that the way we end up on his bed is graceful, but I accidentally scratch him on the face when I yank his shirt off, and his shoulder clocks me under the chin when we tumble in a desperate heap onto the mattress.

“Shit, sorry—” he says, but we’re both laughing, his fingers tracing the underside of my jaw before trailing hungry kisses in their wake.

“Pants,” I breathe, sliding my fingers into his thick hair.

I guess I should have been more specific, because he starts pulling my pants down when I very clearly meant his. But I don’t protest, because his warm mouth is following their descent, lingering to kiss me over my pale blue underwear. I arch, gasping when the wet heat of his tongue meets me through the thin fabric, but then he’s gone, moving south over my trembling thighs.

He climbs off the bed to yank my yoga pants from me, and in his haste, he only pulls them off one side. They’re dangling from my right foot, but he’s too busy staring at me laid out on his bed to notice, and I can’t be bothered to tell him, because he’s shirtless in a pair of worn-out jeans. It’s a good look. In fact, it’s probably the best look anyone has ever had since the invention of fabric.

“God, you fill those out just right,” he says, breaking my trance. Forrest has seen me naked before, and yet the slow circuit his eyes are traveling between my bra and panties almost makes it feel like the first time.

“These old things?” I say with a nervous laugh, sitting up and pulling my foot from my pants. He’s staring down at my chest in its light-blue bra like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“I saw this,” he admits in a low rush, stepping closer, “the day you arrived.”

“You saw… hmm?” I say distractedly, lightheaded from the proximity of his flexing stomach, the dark scatter of tiny freckles, and the tidal wave of longing they send through me. For the last week, finishing what we started in the sauna is all I’ve thought about, even while I was mad. Maybe especially while I was mad, because how dare he ruin things before I had the chance to touch him. To taste him.

His calloused fingers slide under my bra straps, fingering the delicate blue lace. When he speaks again, his voice is rough, and my toes curl, knowing I’m not the only one needing to vent. “ This . You just left it on the goddamn floor for me to see.” He hooks his thumbs into the thin, lacy cups and drags them slowly beneath my breasts as my innermost muscles zip tight. “Were you trying to tease me?” His fingers splay over my skin before gathering to my nipples, tugging all too gently. “Torture me?”

I tip my head back and arch into his touch as his words spread a guilty flush across my face. I remember all too well the split-second decision to leave my clothes on the floor of my cabin, knowing he’d see them. In the moment, I’d told myself it was because I was too tired from traveling to bother being neat, and not because I was craving connection with a man I’d just met and was determined to dislike. But of course he saw right through me. Knew I wanted him to feel as overwhelmed by me as I was by him. If I’ve never been just a guest in his eyes, then he’s never been just a proprietor, or a doctor, or a real-life romance hero in mine. He’s my match—the other bookend to my story—and the truth is, I want his payback. I want to remind him of every moment I’ve pressed his buttons and goad him into taking all that pent-up frustration out on me. I’ve had glimpses of the rougher side he keeps so carefully in check, but tonight I want to make him snap .

“What if I did?” I ask, nearly panting as I slide my palms to the thick ridge behind his straining fly. It’s the first time I’ve touched him here, and need whips through me at his size and heat, even through the denim. I lean in closer, unable to resist licking up the coarse length of his tight zipper before slowly easing it down.

A desperate, nearly silent “ Fuck ” escapes him, and my eyes follow his hand as it lifts to his mouth. I don’t know what I’m expecting him to do, but when he spits on it, my blood promptly turns to magma, and every empty place inside me starts flashing Vacancy signs. It’s so unexpected of him—so deliciously crude—that I whimper, eager for whatever’s coming next. Fingers gleaming, Forrest finds my nipple again and pinches, rolling the tight bud until the sharp hiss through my teeth comes back out as a moan. He soothes the sting, rubbing me wetly, before moving to the other side.

“Then you have a fucking lot to answer for,” he rasps, right as my fumbling hands manage to yank down his jeans and boxer briefs.

I suck in a breath, my mouth watering as his erection bobs so heavily, so beautifully, that I’m hardly aware of getting off the bed to sink onto my knees. “Then I guess I better get started,” I murmur.

When I put my lips to him, his whole enormous body tenses as he releases a string of expletives that might just bring the ceiling beams down. I adjust my grip, pressing soft, sucking kisses up the broad velvet underside of him. He tastes as good as he looks, and I’m not sure which one of us groans first when I pull him into my mouth.

“Margot— fuck ,” he hisses unevenly. Every muscle of his stomach contracts as he scrapes long fingers into my hair, and oh, God . Every helpless tug he gives sends a clenching ache to where I’m emptiest. When my hands fall away, silently asking him to take control, his groan is a broken thing.

“ Christ ,” he curses deeply, brushing a trembling thumb over the stretched-out corner of my mouth. “Look up at me, sweetheart. Show me it’s good for you.”

I hum my approval as heat floods me, loving the feel of his hand sliding to the back of my head, pressing me closer, until my eyes prick. We both gasp as he pulls back, and moan when he slides back in, electricity coursing through my veins as we find a careful rhythm. His eyes are locked on mine, constantly assessing me, making sure I’m enjoying this. Even as he picks up his pace. Even as he grips my hair tighter. He’s losing it, and my hand slides between my legs, desperate to dull the ache between them. But it’s like he knows, and at the first stroke of my fingers, he pulls away with a strangled curse, cutting my relief short.

“Stand up,” he orders breathlessly. “Stand up.”

I stumble to my feet with his help, delirious with need, and he kisses me, urgent and sweet. His hands are cradling my face, and I realize we’re both shaking. I soak up the comfort of his warm body, of breathing in his unsteady exhalations. “Can’t believe you let me—” he stammers between kisses, touching my swollen lips with trembling fingers. “ God, this mouth. Fucking perfect.”

I let his praise wash over me like a delicious wave; it only makes me want to give him more. To take more. To trust more. His hands move to my back, unclipping the bra I forgot was still attached to me, and I sigh with relief as it falls away.

“Fucking perfect,” he says again, tracing the side of my breast. And maybe it’s because of how unflinchingly honest he was with me earlier tonight, but words I’ve never spoken aloud to any partner fall from my lips.

“They’re not real.”

It comes out apologetic, and I find myself searching his features for the disappointment I’m sure I’ll find. But the corners of his mouth lift, and he shakes his head, still breathless. “That’s a pretty bold claim to make.”

He walks me backward to the bed. When he guides me down onto my back, his hands are sensitive, exploring the curves my twenty-five-year-old self secretly hoped would tempt someone into staying for good. His warm mouth closes over my nipple with an appreciative hum, tongue flicking the hardened tip, and my spine arches off the mattress. He releases me with a teasing nip of his teeth and looks at my heaving chest like a scientist examining evidence.

“They look like a fucking fantasy. Feel like a fucking dream. But according to my data, they’re definitely real.”

I laugh breathlessly, but then he’s sliding my panties off. As he lies on his side next to me, he pins one of my legs open with his muscular thigh, spreading me. His cock nudges my hip, hot and blunt, and I bite back a moan, clenching around nothing.

“What else isn’t ‘real’ about you, Margot?” he asks, slowly stroking his hand down my trembling stomach.

I’m squirming. Biting my lips and half-crazed from his teasing. And maybe this was his plan all along, because I feel a sudden alarming urge to confess everything. To tell him that all my life, I’ve wrapped falsehoods around me like duct tape over broken glass, so no one gets hurt. But ever since my Happily Never After file leaked, that tape has been unraveling, and it spins away faster and faster every second I’m with him. Soon all that’ll be left for him are my jagged edges. My breath hitches around my answer. “Pretty much everything about me.”

He kisses me, and the moment is so soft I’m afraid I’ll break it. He pulls away enough to look into my eyes and say, “That felt real to me.”

He’s right, of course, but I don’t have the time or wits to deny it because his hand slides lower, two of his fingers parting me as I fist the sheets and gasp. They slip easily to either side of my clit, pinching gently, and my hips spasm off the bed as nerve-zapping pleasure blots out all comprehension of our conversation.

“So do your Happily Ever Afters. Your Happily Never Afters,” he lists, closing his eyes and gliding his nose against my cheekbone like he isn’t actively trying to kill me. His fingers glide lower, and I moan, lifting my hips in a futile plea for more. Still he teases me, tapping my wet entrance before dragging upward again to press life-destroying circles into me. “How you care for your sister. How fiercely you protect yourself. How hard you fought against this.”

A sliver of self-defense squeaks out from under the concrete wall of lust that’s sitting on my brain. “You fought it, too,” I argue breathlessly.

His chuckle is low. “Of course I fought it. Look what you fucking do to me. So jealous all the time. Begging on my goddamn knees for your forgiveness.” My breath hitches as his eyes find mine. “You launched yourself at me the first time we met, and it was like the whole fucking sun fell right into my arms. So warm, so gorgeous, I thought I was hallucinating.” His breath shudders out, and his powerful hips flex against me. “And when I realized I wasn’t… Christ, I was so fucking scared. Scared of how you made me feel like I’d come home to California while I was standing ankle-deep in snow. Scared of how badly I wanted you.” He shakes his head slightly, looking at me with the same surprised wonder of that first moment. “Of course I resisted. You’ve had my heart in your teeth from day one, Margot.”

It’s too much knowing we’ve both been losing the same fight from the second we met. I capture his words like fireflies, bottling them up to feel their glow whenever I want. When I speak, my voice is raw. “I’m not fighting anymore. Please , Forrest.”

When his middle finger finally eases into me, my body welcomes it with a brass band and Welcome Home signs, but it’s not enough. My greedy hand goes to his cock at my hip, encircling and stroking, and he thrusts with a helpless groan.

“More,” I whisper, drowning in his dark-green eyes. He bites his lip like he can’t speak around his own need, and when a second finger joins his first, I feel just this side of too full. He sees me wince and stills. “Too much?”

I shake my head, my breathing ragged, and tighten my grip around him. By the time he’s tucked a third into me, I’m already close. When he pulls out, I moan his name, but he’s already turned to his bedside table. When I hear the foil rip, my heart goes into hummingbird mode. I’ve never wanted sex like this. It’s always been a means to an end for me—an easy hit of dopamine when life feels too hard, or, with Adam, a way to keep him tethered to me.

With Forrest, there is no endgame. It’s just an overwhelming need to be as physically and emotionally close as I can get, despite knowing we’ll be torn apart in two short weeks. It’s a terrible, reckless idea, until he rolls back and kisses me, and it tastes like reassurance. With his forehead resting against mine, he says in a threadbare voice, “I need you on top. Don’t want to hurt you.”

There is no galaxy in which this man would hurt me, but I let him pull me over his hips anyway, and in the warm glow of the lamplight, he’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen: a staggering feast of olive skin, thick muscle, dark hair, parted lips, and hungry eyes. Straddling him, I draw him to my slick entrance, and he grunts, grabbing my hips hard.

“Just go slow, yeah?” he says hoarsely.

I suck in my bottom lip, nodding quickly. “Okay.” Except, also, no. My body has a better idea, and it’s fast and now , because I’ve never craved anything so badly in my life.

I’m shaking as I press down against him, taking the first couple of inches before a pinching burn stops me midgasp. Forrest makes a sound like a dying man, and my inner muscles flutter around him like they might faint. But I need this to work. I just need him. I just need all—

“Margot, look at me,” he says sharply. His hands squeeze my hips, and I raise my dazed eyes to his.

“ Slow, ” he growls, his chest muscles rising and falling like he’s midsprint. I’m about to protest, but then arms the girth of birch trees are lifting me up an inch before pressing me back down. Up an inch and back down. Up and down. Up—

“O-oh my God,” I stutter, dropping my palms to his flexing chest as he manually works me over him. And fine. Maybe slow isn’t a terrible idea. Maybe slow is the best idea ever. Because soon enough, the too-big-to-fit trope I’m cursing goes from being unbearably tight to unbearably… good . So good that my hips begin moving on their own again—this time in small, needy pumps until I’m fucking him softly and he’s groaning. Falling apart beneath me.

“ Forrest— ” I whimper, seeking reassurance in his gaze. I’ve never been so stretched in my life. So deliciously full, or wet, or pliant. His heartbeat is wild beneath my gripping hands, his eyes desperate.

“You can take it, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Almost there.”

Somehow, he’s right. My breathing is tattered as every thick inch of him slowly disappears, until all at once, I’m flush with him. We both groan at the contact, and as Forrest arches his hips, my vision swims.

“Fuck. Fuck . So beautiful.” His words are slurred, his pupils expanding, his gaze darkening. “So fucking beautiful.”

I moan, and the roll of my hips is fretful. His hands slide to my ass, gripping and tilting me forward, like he knows exactly what my body needs. I inhale sharply, my eyes locking with his as a place deep inside me wakes up, calling out for friction.

“Yeah? Right there?” he whispers, bringing a shaking hand up to brush a tangled lock of hair from my face.

“Mmm.” I nod frantically, hardly knowing what to do with all this pressure inside me. But that glorious spot he’s found starts demanding more, and soon my small, hungry movements turn desperate, until I’m lifting up on my knees and dropping back down, over and over and—

Without warning, he sits up, and the change of angle takes my breath away. I grip his shoulders, and it’s even better because he’s closer. Deeper. I’m drugged on the smell of his damp skin. On the flush of his high cheekbones and the grip of his hands as I ride him harder.

“God, just look at you,” he pants, his voice wrecked as we look down at where I’m split wide for him, taking him deep. “Tell me you love it, sweetheart. Tell me it’s good.”

“ Yes, ” I moan, head falling back as I begin to shake at the edge of something tectonic. “I love it,” I cry, working him harder as he drags his mouth up my arching throat. “I love it so much. I love the way you feel. I love…” you, I finish silently. The thought is a firework, illegally lit and startling. But then his hand reaches between us and he’s thumbing my clit, and all my thoughts scatter. “ Forrest— ”

“Fuck— ” he growls in response, stroking me harder. “Give it to me, Margot. I’m not going to last.” And I can see it in every taut line of his body and the sweat sheening his throat and shoulders. I can feel him inside me, pulsing with the need to let go.

It takes three, maybe four, more strokes of his thumb, and the world ends. I cry out, spasming around him as his hand moves faster, strumming me past the bounds of any pleasure I’ve ever experienced. Until it’s just too much—too big to contain in one person’s body. But in a moment, he’s in it with me, eyes slamming shut as he roars into my sweat-slicked skin, and I’m no longer alone. We bear it together, lines blurring, hearts melding, blood racing, until his strength is mine and mine is his, and I feel like I could withstand anything at all.

Anything but losing him.