Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
HAZEL
For the next few weeks, I live in the state of extreme emotional whiplash only achievable by being blissfully happy and mildly terrified at the same time.
Preston Voss becomes a fixture in my life so fast it’s like he’s always been there—a gravitational constant in an otherwise unpredictable universe.
We see each other every day. Sometimes, it’s just coffee at Gobble Me Up, where he orders a White Chocolate Mocha for me and dark roast coffee for himself before I even arrive.
Sometimes, it’s a run-in at the gym, where I make a dramatic show of not watching him bench press a small car while I pretend to read on the treadmill.
He takes me to breakfast on Saturdays, trivia night on Thursdays, and does Sushi Tuesday with Nonnie and me every week.
It should feel like too much since we’re basically moving at the speed of light.
But if I’m honest, none of it feels forced.
It feels like the most natural thing in the world.
When we’re together, the background static in my brain quiets down.
I find myself smiling for no reason, humming as I walk to work, and waking up each morning with a pulse of anticipation in my chest.
But then, at the end of every perfect day, the old doubts start doing laps around my frontal lobe. What if this is just the honeymoon period? What if I’m missing something? What if, one day, I wake up and all this just… disappears?
By week three, I know I’m so in love with Preston, I can’t see straight.
Of course, Nonnie notices. We’re in the middle of our Monday night true crime binge when she pauses the TV, turns to me, and gives me the full-laser grandmother stare. “You and Preston seem to have gotten pretty close,” she says, no room for debate.
“We have,” I agree, wondering where she’s going.
“And you’re in love with him.” I can tell from her steady stare that she already knows the answer.
“I am,” I admit, staring into my mug of hot chocolate like it’s going to offer up answers.
“So, what’s the problem?”
“Isn’t it weird? Being this happy? With a guy I’ve known for, what, a month?”
She hums, considering this. “Sometimes, you just know. And sometimes, you try to logic your way out of good things because you’re scared. Darling, sometimes, a peach cobbler is just a peach cobbler. Stop trying to add kale to it.”
I snort, and she throws an arm around my shoulder, squeezing until my bones rattle.
“Hazel, listen to me. You’re not your mother. You’re not going to lose yourself in a man. If you love him, let yourself love him. Life’s too short for all that overthinking.”
It’s solid advice, but the part of me that thrives on anxiety isn’t quite ready to surrender. So, I keep looking for the catch, the fine print, the hidden expiration date.
Preston never shows up empty-handed. Sometimes, it’s flowers, or gummy Nerds, or a book I’m dying to read. He makes me feel like the center of his universe, and even my overactive insecurities start to run out of steam.
On the fourth Friday, he comes to pick me up for our date at the local art museum, and I’m so excited that I forget to double-check my hair.
He shows up with a single sunflower, and I melt, instantly.
The museum is holding a “Night at the Gallery” event with wine and live jazz.
He doesn’t even pretend to be interested in the art.
He holds my hand tight as we wander from painting to painting.
Later, we share dessert at a rooftop bar.
He slides his hand over mine, thumb gently circling my wrist. “You know,” he says, eyes fixed on me, “I’ll never get enough of you.”
I nearly choke on my crème Br?lée. “That’s intense.” And maybe a little scary because I feel the same way.
“I know. But it’s true.”
I should say something. I should be honest and brave. Instead, I look away, watching the city lights shimmer across the river. My heart is beating so fast; I think he must hear it.
He waits a long time before saying, “It’s okay if you need more time. I’m not going anywhere.”
That’s the problem, I want to say. I believe him. I do. And that’s scarier than anything.
After our dates, he always walks me up to my door.
Sometimes, he’ll kiss me goodnight, soft and lingering; other times, it’s intense and passionate.
There are also times he just stands there, as if he can’t bear to leave.
One night, after hours of flirting and teasing, I can’t take it anymore.
I grab him by the collar and yank him inside, breathless, melting against him as my mouth crashes into his.
I kiss him hard, until my lips spark and go numb, until my hands are fisted in his shirt and he's stumbling backward, dragging both of us down onto the sofa.
The room fades, swallowed by the heat of his mouth and the press of his body, and my head spins.
He hauls me into his lap, hands tight around my waist, and I press against him, hungry for more.
The world narrows to the taste of him, the tangle of limbs, the rush of want vibrating under my skin.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, digging my fingers into his soft hair a little harder than I mean to. “I’m ready for more,” I say, staring into his eyes. “But you should know, I’ve never done this before, and I’m scared I’ll be horrible at it.”
He gives a low laugh, leaning in until our faces are barely an inch apart. “You couldn’t mess this up if you tried.”
And then he kisses me.
It’s not a gentle, testing-the-waters kiss.
It’s a kiss that says, I have been waiting my entire life for this, and I am not waiting another second.
His hands drag through my hair, tilting my head back, and his mouth moves on mine, hot and hungry.
I make a noise I didn’t know I could make, and he groans, biting my lower lip.
We break apart, gasping, and I realize I’m plastered across his body. “Wow,” I whisper.
He smirks. “Just wow?”
“Double wow,” I say, and drag him back in for more. “Now shut up and kiss me again.”
His lips find mine, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
I wrap my legs around his hips and hold on as he carries me across the living room.
The second we’re inside my bedroom, he presses me up against the wall and kisses his way down my neck.
My eyes cross when his warm hands slide under my T-shirt.
I gasp his name. His hands are hot and greedy, spreading across my stomach, inching higher.
My brain short-circuits, and I forget every single vocabulary word I’ve ever learned.
He palms my boobs through the thin cotton, and I swear to God, my heart stops. His thumbs circle my nipples, lazy and slow, and I arch into him, desperate for more friction, more everything.
Preston groans, low in his chest, and the sound does wild things to my insides.
He pushes my T-shirt up, bunching it under my arms, then slides it over my head and tosses it somewhere behind him.
I’m in my favorite bra—a black lacy thing that’s maybe a little too see-through and definitely not designed for support.
But the look on his face when he sees it? Oh, wow. It’s pure hunger.
“Fuck, Hazel.” He says it like he’s lost his entire mind. He cups my boob, his big hand covering nearly all of it, and squeezes. Not gentle. Not careful. Possessive. Like he’s claiming territory.
I make a crazy sound. A real, totally involuntary, straight-from-the-gut gasp. My back arches so hard I nearly knock us both off balance.
He mutters something filthy against my neck. His hot breath brushes across my skin, sending electricity flowing down my spine. “You’re fucking perfect,” he grinds out, and then he’s got both hands on me, thumbs circling over the lace until my nipples go tight and achy.
Oh. My. God.
My brain turns to mush. There’s nothing left but heat and friction and the sweet, wicked ache building in my core. My breath stutters out in a high, embarrassing squeak, but Preston just groans and flicks his thumbs again, harder this time, until my hips buck up and slam into his.
He grins, dark and hungry, then ducks his head and bites at the top of my boob, right above the cup of my bra. He doesn’t just nip either. He bites and sucks until there’s a mark, and then he does it again, lower this time, right on the sensitive skin where my cleavage starts.
Holy. Shit.
Preston growls, low and animalistic, then licks over the spot like he’s soothing the tiny ache. My skin is on fire, and I can’t do anything but clutch his shoulders and ride it out.
He carries me over and sets me on the edge of the bed, looming over me, eyes dark and wild. “Now’s the time to tell me to stop if you don’t want this,” he says, voice shaking.
“I’ll kill you if you stop,” I reply, only half joking.
He laughs, but it’s a choked, hungry sound, and then he’s on me again, his hands mapping every inch of my body.
He rips away my bra and takes his time, kissing every spot from my collarbone to my waist. I’m dizzy, undone, and all I want is more.
My back hits the mattress, and Preston is right there, crawling up over me, mouth moving hot and desperate from my throat to the center of my chest. His hands bracket my ribs, greedy, reverent, and when he bends down, his tongue flicks over my nipple so fast and sharp I almost levitate off the bed.
“Preston,” I manage, but it comes out in just a breath.
He looks up at me, eyes gone molten. “You taste so fucking good,” he growls, and then he’s sucking my boob into his mouth, rough and possessive and relentless. He bites, just hard enough to send sparks shooting down my center right to my core.
I’m not even going to pretend I’m quiet. It’s a miracle I don’t shatter the glass in my bedroom window with the noises coming out of my mouth.
He kisses lower, mouth hot and greedy, down my ribs, over my stomach, pausing at my belly button just to torture me.
He grins up at me, eyes blazing, and then he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my leggings and panties and drags them off in one smooth move.
Like he’s unwrapping a present he’s been dying to open.
“Fucking perfect,” he groans, hands framing my hips as he presses a kiss to my hipbone, then my upper thigh, then lower to the inside of my knee.
My pulse is pounding so hard I can feel it in my toes.
Preston’s beard scrapes over my sensitive skin, and my hips shoot up all on their own, desperate for more.
My breath leaves me in a rush. I am so turned on I can’t tell up from down.
Preston pins my legs with his big hands, like he’s trying to keep me from launching straight to the ceiling. His mouth is hot, hungry, relentless. He drags his tongue up my inner thigh, slow and torturous, and I nearly come apart before he even gets where he’s going.
Holy shit. My body is vibrating.
He grins against my skin, beard scraping my thigh, blue eyes flicking up to meet mine. “You have no idea how much I need you,” he growls, and then he spreads my legs wider and leans over to blow warm air across my sensitive opening.
My eyes roll back in my head as my brain shuts down completely. Oh my God. Oh my God.
His tongue is so soft, just flicking, teasing, barely there, and then he flattens it and licks a hard stripe right up my center. My entire spine bows off the bed.
My hands twist in his hair, anchoring me to something solid before I get zapped into another dimension. Preston’s mouth is relentless. He licks and sucks, then flicks his tongue so fast I nearly lose my mind.
I’m squirming, totally helpless, and absolutely loving it.
He groans against me, low and hungry. The vibration sends a shockwave through my entire body.
My thighs try to clamp around his head, but he just pushes them wider, pinning me down so there’s not a chance in hell of me escaping.
Not that I want to. If he stops now, I’ll lose my freaking mind.
There’s just… no way I’m surviving this.
I can’t stop shaking. Preston’s mouth is relentless and greedy, and he’s not letting up even a little.
His tongue circles my clit, slow and filthy, and then he sucks hard, sending my pulse skyrocketing.
He slides a thick finger right inside me, and there’s a sharp little burn, but I barely register it.
I’m too busy gasping as he presses deeper until he finds the perfect spot that makes my whole vision go dark.
My body arches, every muscle pulled tight, and his finger strokes in and out, curling just so, while his mouth closes over my clit.
That’s all it takes for me to come apart completely. I’m pretty sure I scream his name loud enough for the neighbors to file complaints. Oh well. Right now, I just don’t have the brain power to care.
My hips jerk wildly, my thighs clamp around his head, and I’m just lost in it, seeing stars.
Nothing matters except the way he keeps moving his finger, his mouth never letting up, dragging every last bit of pleasure from me.
I barely register him moving me until my head thunks against the pillows, and I'm sprawled out, legs wide, hair wild, body humming like a live wire.
He stands next to the bed, and this is when I realize he’s still fully dressed. We really need to do something about that.