“I might’ve swallowed a bandage on the way down,” I manage to say back, kicking my legs like mad.
“You’re so full of shit.” He gives me one of his big, toothy grins—his happiest kind—and it pulls my lips into their own smile. “You loved that. Admit it.”
We just stare at each other. Him smiling at me. Me smiling at him. Both of us breathing heavily as our feet pump beneath the surface to keep our heads above water.
This look on his face is my soft landing. I can’t tear my eyes away. My heart is beating like I’ve conquered Everest—I feel invincible—but the only thing I want to do is…exist. Be here, with him, in this moment for as long as possible. A place where I have peace.
But time keeps moving, my legs tire, and we have to swim to shore.
Out of the water, we follow the uneven, pebbled path in the direction of our clothes. I nearly topple back into the lake when my foot falters on a loose rock, but Ethan’s there in an instant.
He grips my waist. “I got you,” he says.
He keeps his hand there as I right myself. It doesn’t mean anything, but knowing that doesn’t stop my stomach from swirling like I’m at the top of the cliff again, leaning over the edge.
But my feet are firmly planted now, and his hand still hasn’t moved. I turn my head and he’srightthere. We’re eye to eye. I’ve always loved that about us. The way he looks at me deadon like he’s bracing himself for whatever he’s about to see, like I might still surprise him after all this time. Even though I never do. Ethan’s maybe the only man I’ve ever truly been myself with, utterly transparent. No shields. No white lies to better package myself. Just me. He makes it safe to be me.
So what’s another risk?I think as my veins course with adrenaline from my last leap into the unknown.
Slowly, I slip my hand around the slick skin of his neck, watching his response. He swallows hard but doesn’t move. My eyes are slow and brazen as they drag up the column of his throat—a languid finger swiping a dollop of frosting along the side of a birthday cake. My rapidly shrinking self-consciousness makes me worry he’ll laugh or wince or flinch at the way I’m drinking him in, but he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he licks his lips and, for a split second, I can almost taste him.
My thumb sweeps the top of his shoulder, pulling out a ragged puff of air from between his lips. My gaze darts back up to his eyes. Droplets of water sparkle in his eyelashes and tumble down the apples of his cheeks, gathering in the fine creases where his ever-present smile usually sits.
But he’s not smiling now. He’s not blinking. He’s hardly moving. He’s doing nothing but staring back at me with something like curiosity in those charcoal-rimmed irises. It’s that look that does me in. Its uncharacteristic intensity that’s only ever been directed toward me in these very specific circumstances. Thesewhat ifmoments I pretend not to notice.
I thread my fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, hoping to ground myself so I don’t drown in the two of us, our shared history filling my ears, my nose. It’s all too much.We’retoo much.
“Chuck.” He blinks his eyes shut—pure agony—his head still leaning into the press of my fingertips as though he can’t help himself.
I know historically Ethan can handle friendships with an occasional benefit. He said as much at the donut shop.Everything doesn’t have to meaneverything.He’s been daring me to cross this line all day. The question is, would it have to mean anything tome? What are the stakes of giving in? What are the stakes of not?
What if I end this trip without ever knowing for sure what it would be like to have him—really have him—just once, and to have someone who knows the whole truth of me want me back as fervently as I want him? Surely that’s not more frightening than jumping off a literal cliff.
A breeze sweeps goose bumps up my back, but I’m consumed by this familiar discomfort of being on the precipice of Ethan Powell. The exhilaration of feeling as though something, anything,couldhappen—isaboutto happen.
But no matter how far this goes or how many lines we cross, he’ll be gone in a week. He’ll go—Iknowhe’ll go—and in that way, Ethan’s not even a risk.
So I do the safest thing I’ve ever done and tilt my mouth to his.
“Me?” he whispers.
Our noses brush. “You.” I want this moment, and I only want it with him.
That’s all it takes. He dives into me without reservations. There are no quick pecks to test the waters this time. Ethan’s mouth is hot. Slow. Responsive. He’s learning me—no, heknowsme. It’s as though he’s always known how I need to be kissed. Touched.
I notice every sensation. I catalog every bit: How my paper-thin shirt slides against his body, still sopping from the lake. The way he holds me so hard, as though he’s worried I might evaporate in his arms like a dream. The sound of his tiny groans and how they rumble in my throat. How desperate it makes me.
His hands grapple with my waist, my hips, frantic as he anticipates my every mewl of pleasure, my every tiny, happy gasp. Ethan knows me better than anyone. I guess it stands to reason he’d know this too.
The taste of him dances on my tongue. It’s sweet, like he snuck a bite of candy on our hike up the rocky path. It makes me greedy for more. More of this. More of everything. It all feels so present. So immediate. Already within my grasp. It’s been a minute—maybe two—and I’m already consumed by possessiveness. My Ethan. Always.
My palms slide down his chest, and he, honest to god, moans into my mouth as he lets me revel in the feel of him, the firm ridges I’ve only ever glimpsed. But when my fingers reach the lowest part of his abdomen, he breaks himself from the trance.
“Charley,” he says through heaving breaths. “How far are we taking this?”
“All the way,” I say back, just as labored.
His grin presses into my cheek. “Yeah?”
