“Oh, Christ,” I groan. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m only having a cardiac event as my eyes fall to her chest, propped up in the same baby blue bra I’ve been jerking off to ever since I saw it on the floor of her cabin almost a month ago. Yeah, she was never just a guest. She’s every one of my dreams come to life. Her vulnerability, her trust, her beauty, her thoughtfulness, and yes, her tits, and if I thought I couldn’t get any harder, I’m proven wrong when sitting in pants suddenly becomes impossible.
“Hold on to me,” I order her, taking two generous handfuls of her ass as I stand up. She makes a cute little yelp, clinging to my shoulders as her legs wrap around my waist, and I pause because I’ve been here before. I think of the first time I met her. How she leaped before thinking and how I held her just like this. Stared, dumbstruck, at her just like this. We’ve come full circle, except this time I’m going to give her exactly what I now know we both secretly wanted that first time.
“Bedroom,” I say thickly, and start walking.
21MARGOT
Being wrong? It’s the greatest feeling in the world. All the misplaced anger and disappointment that turned my stomach into a cement mixer for three straight days? Worth it. Because there’s kissing, and then there’s kissing Forrest after a fight. It’s like sinking into a hot bath after years of being frozen solid. Like the first meal after running three consecutive marathons. It feels like coming home, and with a stutter in my chest, I realize I’ve missed him like my own heartbeat.
I spent three days misery-scrolling through Charlotte’s blog, beating myself up for ever trusting him, and listening as every fearful part of me formed a bitchy choir to sing “I told you so” at top volume. But somehow, he took that broken trust in his gentle, capable hands and made it even stronger.
He’s agoodman. A throwaway phrase I’ve never given much thought to because I’ve never had anyone to apply it to. But now the words sink into me, as soft and deep as his tongue, and I groan from the red-wine-and-clove taste of him. I’m drunk on him. Fucked up on him, and I can’t believe we only have two weeks left of this when it feels like we’re just beginning. The thought sends an electric shock of urgency down my spine,sparking and crackling until all shreds of my cool are burned to a crisp.
My nails dig into his shoulders as he carries me to the bedroom, and I’m surprised I don’t smell burning cotton from where I’m grinding against his cast-iron abdominals. At the thought, I nearly laugh. I’ve used those exact words to describe romance hero abs before, but Forrest’s are even better because they’rereal—with hair, and heft, and constellations of dark pinprick freckles I’ve lost sleep thinking about. Every solid inch of his body reflects the habits of a fastidious man who runs and lifts every morning for health instead of vanity. Deep down, I know he cares for himself so that he can care for others, and the ache I’ve been nursing for him all week ratchets even higher.
I want to say that the way we end up on his bed is graceful, but I accidentally scratch him on the face when I yank his shirt off, and his shoulder clocks me under the chin when we tumble in a desperate heap onto the mattress.
“Shit, sorry—” he says, but we’re both laughing, his fingers tracing the underside of my jaw before trailing hungry kisses in their wake.
“Pants,” I breathe, sliding my fingers into his thick hair.
I guess I should have been more specific, because he starts pullingmypants down when I very clearly meant his. But I don’t protest, because his warm mouth is following their descent, lingering to kiss me over my pale blue underwear. I arch, gasping when the wet heat of his tongue meets me through the thin fabric, but then he’s gone, moving south over my trembling thighs.
He climbs off the bed to yank my yoga pants from me, and in his haste, he only pulls them off one side. They’re dangling from my right foot, but he’s too busy staring at me laid out on his bed to notice, and I can’t be bothered to tell him, because he’s shirtless in a pair of worn-out jeans. It’s agoodlook. In fact, it’s probably the best look anyone has ever had since the invention of fabric.
“God, you fill those out just right,” he says, breaking my trance. Forrest has seen me naked before, and yet the slow circuit his eyes are traveling between my bra and panties almost makes it feel like the first time.
“These old things?” I say with a nervous laugh, sitting up and pulling my foot from my pants. He’s staring down at my chest in its light-blue bra like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
“I saw this,” he admits in a low rush, stepping closer, “the day you arrived.”
“You saw… hmm?” I say distractedly, lightheaded from the proximity of his flexing stomach, the dark scatter of tiny freckles, and the tidal wave of longing they send through me. For the last week, finishing what we started in the sauna is all I’ve thought about, even while I was mad. Maybe especially while I was mad, because howdarehe ruin things before I had the chance to touch him. To taste him.
His calloused fingers slide under my bra straps, fingering the delicate blue lace. When he speaks again, his voice is rough, and my toes curl, knowing I’m not the only one needing to vent. “This. You just left it on the goddamn floor for me to see.” He hooks his thumbs into the thin, lacy cups and drags them slowly beneath my breasts as my innermost muscles zip tight. “Were you trying to tease me?” His fingers splay over my skin before gathering to my nipples, tugging all too gently. “Torture me?”
I tip my head back and arch into his touch as his words spread a guilty flush across my face. I remember all too well the split-second decision to leave my clothes on the floor of my cabin, knowing he’d see them. In the moment, I’d told myself it was because I was too tired from traveling to bother being neat, and not because I was craving connection with a man I’d just met and was determined to dislike. But of course he saw right through me. Knew I wanted him to feel as overwhelmed by me as I was by him. If I’ve never been just a guest in his eyes, then he’s never been justa proprietor, or a doctor, or a real-life romance hero in mine. He’s my match—the other bookend to my story—and the truth is, I want his payback. I want to remind him of every moment I’ve pressed his buttons and goad him into taking all that pent-up frustration out on me. I’ve had glimpses of the rougher side he keeps so carefully in check, but tonight I want to make himsnap.
“What if I did?” I ask, nearly panting as I slide my palms to the thick ridge behind his straining fly. It’s the first time I’ve touched him here, and need whips through me at his size and heat, even through the denim. I lean in closer, unable to resist licking up the coarse length of his tight zipper before slowly easing it down.
A desperate, nearly silent “Fuck” escapes him, and my eyes follow his hand as it lifts to his mouth. I don’t know what I’m expecting him to do, but when he spits on it, my blood promptly turns to magma, and every empty place inside me starts flashingVacancysigns. It’s so unexpected of him—so deliciously crude—that I whimper, eager for whatever’s coming next. Fingers gleaming, Forrest finds my nipple again and pinches, rolling the tight bud until the sharp hiss through my teeth comes back out as a moan. He soothes the sting, rubbing me wetly, before moving to the other side.
“Then you have a fucking lot to answer for,” he rasps, right as my fumbling hands manage to yank down his jeans and boxer briefs.
I suck in a breath, my mouth watering as his erection bobs so heavily, so beautifully, that I’m hardly aware of getting off the bed to sink onto my knees. “Then I guess I better get started,” I murmur.
When I put my lips to him, his whole enormous body tenses as he releases a string of expletives that might just bring the ceiling beams down. I adjust my grip, pressing soft, sucking kisses up the broad velvet underside of him. He tastes as good as he looks, and I’m not sure which one of us groans first when I pull him into my mouth.
“Margot—fuck,” he hisses unevenly. Every muscle of his stomach contracts as he scrapes long fingers into my hair, andoh, God. Every helpless tug he gives sends a clenching ache to where I’m emptiest. When my hands fall away, silently asking him to take control, his groan is a broken thing.
“Christ,” he curses deeply, brushing a trembling thumb over the stretched-out corner of my mouth. “Look up at me, sweetheart. Show me it’s good for you.”
I hum my approval as heat floods me, loving the feel of his hand sliding to the back of my head, pressing me closer, until my eyes prick. We both gasp as he pulls back, and moan when he slides back in, electricity coursing through my veins as we find a careful rhythm. His eyes are locked on mine, constantly assessing me, making sure I’m enjoying this. Even as he picks up his pace. Even as he grips my hair tighter. He’s losing it, and my hand slides between my legs, desperate to dull the ache between them. But it’s like he knows, and at the first stroke of my fingers, he pulls away with a strangled curse, cutting my relief short.
“Stand up,” he orders breathlessly. “Stand up.”
I stumble to my feet with his help, delirious with need, and he kisses me, urgent and sweet. His hands are cradling my face, and I realize we’re both shaking. I soak up the comfort of his warm body, of breathing in his unsteady exhalations. “Can’t believe you let me—” he stammers between kisses, touching my swollen lips with trembling fingers. “God,this mouth. Fucking perfect.”
I let his praise wash over me like a delicious wave; it only makes me want to give him more. To take more. To trust more. His hands move to my back, unclipping the bra I forgot was still attached to me, and I sigh with relief as it falls away.
