Page 41 of Something About September

“Now I’m sitting in your kitchen eating the best carbonara I’ve ever had—Wilbur-free—and I can’t remember the last time I felt this…” She searched for the word, then settled on it. “Happy,” she said.

“I’m glad you’re happy, Becca.” But there was something in his eyes she couldn’t read, and for a moment, he looked away. Then he broke off more bread, slathered it with butter, and joy lit his eyes, too. They chatted for the rest of the meal, then moved to the living room with their wineglasses and plates of the pie she had brought.

Rebecca looked around at the framed pictures on the side table—Cort and Pip hiking, building snowmen, reading together on this same couch. In every photo, they looked happy, complete. It made her smile.

“You’ve got that look again,” he said. He had put down his plate and moved closer, his fingers moving in slow circles on her thigh, almost absent-mindedly. Meanwhile, it was flooding her system with tingles and sparks.

“The deep-thinking one? Well, I am thinking about something.”

He was leaning in, his lips close to hers. “What are you thinking about?”

Now their lips were touching. “I have this contractor,” she said. “Every day when he comes into work, I find myself completely distracted.”

He was nibbling on her lower lip now, and she could barely think or speak.

“Sounds kind of sexy,” he said. “If I were working for someone who looked like you, I don’t think I’d be able to focus on work, either.” His hand was drifting up her waist now, under her shirt, and their kissing grew more intense. She wanted more of him. It was exactly what she wanted. His fingers slid under her bra, a thumb grazed over her nipple, and she shivered. But then she pulled away. “Sorry,” he began. “Was that too—”

She stood and reached for his hands, pulled him off the couch. “No, it wasn’t too much. In fact, it wasn’t enough. I was thinking that you hadn’t given me the full tour of your house, yet, though. There’s one room I would specifically like to see…”

His crooked grin was sexier than usual as he led her from the living room and down the hall, saying, “What a complete oversight. No home tour is complete without a very thorough look at the bedroom…”

Chapter 26

Cort’s bedroom was painted pewter gray, with charcoal-stained barn board on an accent wall behind his bed. The bed was covered in a gray-and-black flannel duvet that reminded her of one of his shirts. “So this is your room,” she said, her pulse fluttering in her throat.

“This is it,” he said, turning, pausing, waiting, looking down at her, his expression intense but patient.

She pulled him toward the bed and down beside her. His gaze was locked on hers, like he was reading her, concentrating on her. It was profoundly sexy. She reached up, threading her fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck and pulling his mouth down to hers. The kiss deepened immediately, no hesitation. His hands roamed her back, her hips, pulled her flush against him. She could feel the heat of him, the hardness pressing against her through the layers of clothing still between them—clothing that she wanted gone, now. Her want made her gasp, and he swallowed that sound, kissing her fiercely while she easily returned his passion.

Her sweater hit the floor first. Then his Henley, tugged over his head in one quick motion, discarded on the floor beside hers. She pulled back just slightly to take him in. The lines of his smooth, muscled chest, the broadness of his shoulders, the curves of his biceps, the ropy muscles on his forearms. She ran her hands over his solid lines, warm skin, taut muscles, the ridges of his stomach she had been trying not to let herself stare at for weeks. Now she could stare all she wanted—and she did. She felt hungry, ravenous with her desire for him, but she also wanted to remember every second of this.

Cort was smiling. “Even now,” he said, his voice that low rumble that lit her up from within, “your mind is whirring.”

She reached for the button on his jeans. His soft groan in response nearly undid her. He slid his hand underneath her skirt, over her thighs, and kept on going until she felt like a trembling arrow in a bow.

“I’ve always wanted to touch you like this,” he whispered. “Always.”

“I’ve always wanted you to touch me like this,” she whispered back. It felt so good to say this, to allow herself to feel this. She wondered if, in her entire life, she had ever allowed herself to give in to such unbridled passion—and knew the answer was no, and that it didn’t matter now. She was here. The rest of their clothes were gone and they slid between his sheets, which crackled and sparked in the darkened room—and she half believed it was them, their sheer want turned into electricity. His mouth found the curve of her shoulder, then went lower, brushing along the swell of her breast before his tongue circled her nipple. Lower, his fingers explored and more sparks crackled between them, little fireworks.

“God, Becca…”

She pulled him to her, needing him closer, needing all of him. Her voice was thick with desire when she said, “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

He paused only long enough to get a condom from his bedside table drawer, opening it and rolling it on while she waited, her body trembling with need. In seconds, he was hovering over her, bracing himself with one forearm as he waited just a split second, a question in his eyes that she kissed him deeply in response to while guiding him inside her. Slow, tantalizing, delicious. She arched into him, moaning his name over and over, while he moaned hers back. Her toes curled; her body shook.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered. “Not just your body. You. All of you.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulled him deeper, her nails raking lightly down his back, and when he kissed her again, slow and full of so much feeling she could barely breathe, she felt that she had unraveled completely, and it was perfect.

He pressed his mouth to her ear as her breath caught, his voice a growl now, telling her how much he wanted her, how good she felt. “Mine,” he whispered. “You feel like mine.”

“I am yours,” she gasped, and she meant it in that moment, and thought fleetingly that she would mean it for always.

A soft cry, and her body clenched around him. “I used to dream of what you’d sound like,” he said, his voice shaking as he gave a final, shuddering groan that matched hers in intensity.

“Becca…”

“Cort.”