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Everything releases.
I groan against his lips as I come.
Pleasure spills through my pelvis, stomach, thighs.
I bring my hands to his hair.
Kiss him harder.
Pull him closer.
Soak up every drop of him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Iris
Our takeout and sci-fi marathon is too perfect.
As is Walker's attempt at teaching me how to stir fry.
And the second lesson, where I actually get it.
And our third time out surfing. And the fourth. I actually know what I'm doing. It's fun. It's thrilling. And he's there, with me, on his board, showing off in that Walker kind of way.
And the next week, fucking and cooking and eating and binging on TV at my place
And the one after, hiking and surfing and coffee drinking and fucking everywhere.
And the week after.
And the week after…
We make each other laugh and smile and moan and it's perfect.
Then Dean texts—how the hell did Dean get my number?—to get me in on a surprise party for Walker's birthday next week.
And I make up a plan to tell him.
Not because he needs to know.
Because I believe the past is the past.
Because I believe he'll stay.
Because I can finally look at myself in the mirror and see a whole person.
Not at his birthday. Not at a party.
After finals. When we celebrate. When we go out to the beach to take in a beautiful day.
That's when I'm going to tell him.
It's a few weeks away. And mayb
e I shouldn't wait.
But I need it to be right. I need it to be perfect.
