Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-eight
“Hey.” I push away the tent flap to see Dane stretched out on sleeping bags, hands clasped behind his head. He takes up almost all the space in the tent.
“Come on in,” Dane says as I stand at the mouth of the tent. “It’s nice in here.”
I look pointedly at him. “There’s no room.”
He scootches to the side as much as possible. I work my way in, around him, and maneuver myself down so I’m lying on my back next to him. There really is no room; we’re pressed together as tightly as sardines.
That kiss in Paris feels imprinted on my lips. And I know, with every inch of myself, that I am not going to sleep crammed up to him and not kiss him. We’ve been dancing around this in every smile and touch that isn’t quite accidental, and I can’t do it anymore.
“Dane,” I say.
He turns to look at me. The light filtering through the tent is dim because of the swaths of slate-colored clouds covering the evening sky, but because we’re so far north, the sun won’t set until after ten tonight. There’s still plenty of daylight to see his gorgeous face.
“Yeah?” he asks.
I open my mouth, unsure how to say it now that the moment is here. The words die somewhere between my brain and my lips.
“Tell me,” he says, and it’s gentle. It’s so quiet that I can hear the wind and the distant lap of waves on the shore. “What are you thinking?”
We’ve already shared so much. I trust this man with my life.
There’s no reason I can’t bare myself to him.
I take a deep breath. “I’m thinking how much I’m looking forward to being squeezed into this tent with you.
” It’s inadequate. It doesn’t articulate anything close to what I’m feeling, but I’m afraid to reveal how much I want him in case I’ve gotten it wrong and he doesn’t feel the same way.
He is quiet for a moment, and panic blooms. But he reaches over and takes my uninjured hand in his, gently, and strokes my pointer finger. “You know what I’m thinking?”
I shake my head.
“We’re close to the end, Zoe, and I hate it. I hate that it’ll be over and I won’t get to spend every day with you.”
Our faces are so close. His finger strokes down my finger, over my knuckle. I open my mouth to speak, but he continues.
“I hate that I won’t get to hear the way you give a little breathy hah after your first sip of coffee in the morning.
Or that I won’t get to feel your hair in my face when I wake up.
Or watch you look at a cipher and calculate within seconds exactly where to start.
Or any of the hundreds of other things you do that I find irresistible.
No matter what this stupid challenge brings, you’re here, and I’ve already won based on that.
But God, I don’t want this time with you to come to an end. ”
I exhale whatever was left in my lungs. “Me either.” I reach out and run a thumb over his jaw, trailing down to his lips. He leans into my touch.
“When I saw you in Madrid that first morning,” he says, “you took my breath away, and I never got it back.” His hand comes up and takes my chin, gently pulling my mouth toward his.
His lips drop gently to mine, and I melt under the heat of his mouth.
I pass my palm over the rasp of his stubble.
He drops his mouth down the sensitive skin of my jaw, up to my ear, and then down my neck.
I open to him, giving him access, giving him everything.
My fingers thread through his hair as he drags his hot mouth back up to mine. I’m breathless.
“I want everything where you’re concerned, Zoe,” he murmurs. His hands move down my body, cupping curves.
I hum, teasing him. “I’ll consider your request.”
I feel his lips lift in a smile against my skin. “How long will you take?”
“Can you submit your application in triplicate? The committee will review and get back to you in a few weeks.”
He breathes out a laugh. “I don’t think I can wait that long.
” Then his lips are on mine again, before working his way over my jaw once more and around my ear.
My blood is fizzing with heat and anticipation.
He rises on his forearms and shifts so he’s halfway over me, his mouth hot.
He brushes hair back from my face and looks at me with such adoration that I almost gasp.
No one has ever looked at me this way. Chills cascade down my back.
He moves down my body until he reaches my feet, where he unlaces my boots and gently eases them off.
Next comes my shirt, slowly peeled off my arms. His fingertips are light, caressing my skin.
I stop him so I can help him out of his own clothes, pausing to kiss him again.
I need to have access to his skin, and when his shirt’s off, I can’t help but push him back on the sleeping bag and make my way over his body with my mouth, over those defined abs that I’ve surreptitiously lusted over.
I don’t get nearly as far as I want to before he rolls me over so he can wind down my skin, removing my bra for me and easing the straps off my shoulders.
“You’re so good at that,” I tell him.
He laughs into my skin. “Do you know how much it’s killed me to unhook it and walk away all these nights?”
I shake my head teasingly. “Poor baby.”
He kisses my jaw, my neck. He dips his head to continue his path down my body.
His hands explore my curves, and I can’t keep my hands off him either.
I let my fingers learn the details of his muscles, of his scars and his freckles, and by the time he comes back up to kiss me, we’re both breathless.
Finally being this close is intoxicating.
He cups a breast, his thumb moving over it, and then he’s moving down my body again, and a surge of need goes through me.
He looks up at me and grins, and I almost melt.
I’m writhing as he plants kisses between my legs.
He is very good at this—and when he pushes a finger inside me, I almost lose it.
When he increases the pressure and includes another finger, I come apart, hard and fast.
“Dane,” I say. “I need—”
Before I can finish the thought, he tugs me down the sleeping bag, peppering every inch of my skin with kisses until I’m gasping even more than before.
He takes his time, building me up again.
It doesn’t take long. He drags his mouth to mine, and I lose myself to his heat.
I’m grasping at him, trying to get my mouth on every part of his face, his throat, but he holds me at bay and whispers, “Can I tell you something?”
I nod.
“When I built the tent, I was thinking about this. You, in here. With me. Looking and sounding exactly like this.”
The words send shivers over my skin.
“This is just the beginning,” he promises, leaning over to wrestle a condom out of his backpack.
“That’s handy,” I say, breathless. “Condoms in the backpack.” I meant it to be a tease, but the delivery lacks the humor.
He pauses to look at me and places a small, gentle kiss on my cheek.
His eyes search mine as though he wants to say something else.
Then he is over me, his body is a delicious weight on me, and I could stay like this forever, but then he pushes inside me, moving slowly, making sure I’m comfortable, and I decide this is how I want to stay.
The care makes goose bumps break out over my arms. I close my eyes against his shoulder, chills fluttering up my back, up my neck.
“Look at me,” he says, and it almost undoes me.
I do, and he begins to move. His mouth covers mine, and it is hot and sloppy because we’re both gasping.
All the time we’ve spent together, teasing, laughing, running—all of it was leading to this moment.
And it isn’t just the physical connection.
Feeling Dane is everything I’ve been wanting but couldn’t name.
It’s the closeness I’ve craved. A few more thrusts and I’m going to lose myself again to him.
But he stops moving, stilling between us.
I wait for him to start again, and when he doesn’t, I meet his eyes. He must be too close. “You okay?”
“Yes.” He drags his lips down my throat, across my collar bone, and I arch against his mouth, hoping he’ll start moving again. But he doesn’t. A shiver passes through me. He keeps me from moving beneath him by staying rigid and halting any movement on my part.
“Dane,” I whimper. The tension is both exquisite and torturous, and I don’t have the fortitude to withstand it. I have none when it comes to him.
He kisses my chin, my jaw, my ear. I see what he’s doing.
He’s making me wait for it. Pushing me to the edge.
It works; I’m panting, and we’re not even moving.
His body is rigid, a boulder in the face of my attempts to get him going again.
I can’t budge him, and some base part of me loves that I can’t do anything about it, that I’m dependent on his strength.
I revel in it. I try everything—wiggling, rocking, squeezing my legs around his middle, and still he won’t move. I can’t stand it.
He looks at me, brushing a piece of hair out of my face. He tucks it behind my ear with such tenderness that I give a breathy gasp that has nothing to do with our bodies.
“Dane—”
He begins to move then. I move with him, and if he stops again, I will kill him.
But he doesn’t. He drives in and brings me right up to the top, and then I’m crashing, diving into the intensity.
There’s nothing but relief and glorious, forceful pleasure.
Then he’s releasing, his face turned so his cheek is against mine.
He runs a hand through my hair and kisses my nose.
He pulls out, kisses me again, and disposes of the condom.
He stretches the length of his body against my side.
I extend an arm over my head, reaching long, and he runs his fingertips up the underside of my arm, all the way to my hand. His fingers thread through mine.
He curls his body around me and whispers, “We’re so close to being done.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“But I’m not done with you.”
“Good.” My voice is breathy, fading. “I’m not done with you either.”
He squeezes me in answer. And for the first time in ages, sleep beckons without me having to fight for it.