Chapter 12 #2
I bent over him, kissing his mouth, then trailing down to his jaw and the hollow of his throat, tasting salt and warmth on his skin.
Each kiss lingered, my tongue flicking lightly, and his breath hitched, a broken sound that made me shiver.
He arched his neck for me, offering more, his fingers curling into my back as if he couldn’t bear to let me go as I moved, gentle but steady, every thrust matched to his breaths.
He met me, hips lifting, hands gripping at my back, and the room filled with sounds—his moans, my ragged breathing, the quiet creak of the bed.
“You feel so good,” I groaned.
He kissed me hard, swallowing the words.
His hand slipped between us, stroking himself in time with the rhythm of my thrusts.
The slick slide of his palm filled the space with obscene heat.
I reached down to cover his hand with mine, every movement more frantic, more desperate, until the rhythm became everything and he cried out, spilling over our stomachs.
The sight of him coming undone beneath me dragged me over the edge.
I buried my face in his neck as I shuddered, filling the condom.
We stayed entangled, our breaths syncing slowly, sweat cooling on our skin. I kissed his temple, then his lips, soft and lingering. In the lamplight, with books scattered like witnesses around us, he looked wrecked and beautiful. I cleaned us up, and he held out a hand to me when I was done.
“Stay, tonight,” he whispered, eyes heavy but pleading.
I could no more stop myself from sleeping next to him than I could run naked into the snow. I brushed a thumb over his cheek, “I’m not going anywhere.”
At least, not tonight.
Morning came too soon. The alarm clock showed it was 7.
00, and with Wes still warm, we drifted into the shower together.
The steam curled around us, water cascading over his shoulders, sliding down his chest, catching in the dark curls at his stomach.
I couldn’t stop watching him—his lashes wet, lips parted as he laughed when I tugged him closer.
The slickness of his skin under my hands and the way he leaned back into me with trust and hunger, made everything sharper, more urgent.
One kiss turned into another until I was on my knees.
I took him into my mouth, slow at first, teasing the head with my tongue, savoring the taste of salt and heat.
His hips jerked, a cry torn from his throat, echoing off the tile.
I sucked him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, one hand braced at his hip while the other stroked along his length when I pulled back.
He urged me on, every sound he made sending a jolt of arousal through me until I was desperate for more.
I worked myself hard with one hand, the heat overwhelming until we both spilled, his fingers clenched in my hair.
“Did you just come from sucking me off?” he asked, incredulous, when I rose to my feet.
I kissed him again, tasting steam and salt. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
Later, in the kitchen, we split bagels slathered with cream cheese, Wes padding around barefoot while I leaned against the counter, watching him.
He launched into a breathless explanation about asking Mr. Evers, the shop teacher at Cooper High, to work up a design with the kids, how he’d have it by the end of the week.
Bailey had sourced a sleigh, Kai promised to attach wheels, and all that was left were the finishing touches, like the pretend books and printed flyers he could have the same kids throw from the float.
His words tumbled out fast, his eyes bright, his hands waving with enthusiasm.
Cross-marketing for The Story Lantern and The Real McCoy, how this could be a really good thing.
And I stared, struck dumb. Any thoughts of not being here with him—every freaking morning, every storm, every book and bagel—I shoved aside. Because I wanted this, all of it, him most of all.
All I had to do was make sense of where my life fit with all of this.
11 a.m. and the early morning breakfast rush was dying down—we didn’t run a full menu, but bacon and sausage were a thing, and Jamie loved the overtime from coming in to deal with all of that.
I took ten minutes, dropped off a coffee to Wes, who was leaning over the counter with Brooke, their heads bent together over some list she’d drawn up.
His hands moved as fast as his words, bright and animated, as if he’d swallowed sunlight.
“…and if Adrian’s signing goes well, then maybe the next publisher will take us seriously—”
Brooke smirked. “Not maybe. They will.”
I hung back by the doorway, unnoticed for once, watching him glow. God, I loved him like this—so alive, so certain. He belonged here, chasing dreams that were finally starting to chase him back.
And I hated myself for the twist in my gut, because if LA called, I’d be gone.
I didn’t want to interrupt. Instead, I left the coffee on the counter, stuck a Post-it note on it with an X, and then went back to my place to carry my own coffee upstairs to my office, needing a breather.
I flicked open my emails, half-dreading, half-hoping, and there it was: one from LA, sent yesterday afternoon, offering me a video interview on December 14th and was I interested? My fingers had already typed and sent a yes before my brain caught up.
I could already imagine the faces of all those people at Ashcroft College who had let me down. LA was prestigious, the step-up, the proof I was better than them. Than Mark. Right?
Of course, I was interested.