Page 100 of Three Months Yesterday

I cry out, my head falling back against the cushions as his tongue finds me. He knows exactly how to touch me, exactly what makes me gasp and squirm and beg. He works me with his lips and tongue and the occasional scrape of teeth, his hand gripping my hips to hold me in place when I try to writhe away from the intensity.

“Beckett,” I pant, my fingers tangling in his hair, tugging slightly. “Please.”

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles his efforts, his tongue flicking faster, his hand sliding under my thighs to lift me closer to his mouth. The pressure builds, coiling tight and hot in my center, and I’m right there, teetering on the edge when he pulls back.

I make a sound of protest, my eyes flying open to find him watching me, his lips wet, his pupils blown wide with desire.

“Not yet,” he says, echoing my earlier words. “I want to feel you come apart.”

He stands, shoving his boxers down and kicking them aside. His erection springs free, thick and hard, and my mouth waters at the sight of him. He reaches for me, pulling me up from the couch and turning me so I’m facing away from him, my hands braced on the armrest.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs against my ear, his chest pressed to my back, his heat surrounding me.

“I’m fine,” I breathe, pushing back against him. “Please, Beckett. I need you.”

He groans, the sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest, and then he’s guiding himself into me, slow and steady, filling me inch by inch until I’m stretched around him—the feeling absolutely perfect.

We freeze for a moment, savoring the connection, the rightness of it.

Then he starts to move.

His thrusts are deep—deliberate—each one hitting exactly where I need. One hand grips my hip, holding me steady, while the other slides around to find my clit, his fingers working me in time with his movement.

“Madison,” he grits out, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel incredible.”

I can’t speak, can only feel. The slide of him inside me, the pressure of his fingers, the heat building and building until I’m panting, desperate, my knuckles white where I grip the couch.

“Let go,” he commands, his voice rough. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

As if my body has no choice but to listen, I do.

The orgasm crashes over me like a wave, my body tightening around him as I cry out his name. He follows seconds later, his thrusts becoming erratic, his grip on my hip bruising as he spills inside me with a groan that sounds like my name.

We collapse onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, both of us breathing hard, sweat cooling our skin. Beckett reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulls it over us, tucking it around me before drawing me close.

His hand moves on my back in a pattern I can’t predict. Shoulder blade, the tender spot at the base of my spine, and up again. His thumb drags slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. Each pass of his hand pulls me further under, the fire’s crackle fading to a distant hum.

My fingertip finds the ridge of his collarbone, traces it to the hollow of his throat, circles back. The hair on his chest is soft, springy against my palm. I follow the center line down, over the swell of muscle, the dip of his stomach, until the blanket stops me and I trace the same path up, starting over. Collarbone. Throat. The small scar I found last month that he told me about through a hushed voice.

“Your hands are cold,” he murmurs, catching my fingers and bringing them to his lips. He presses a kiss to my knuckles, then turns me head over to examine my palm. “Your mom said you have your dad’s hands. She mentioned it at dinner, remember? Said you got the Hawthorne farmer hands.”

I laugh softly, remembering the conversation as we were cutting up veggies for dinner. “She says it every time I help with dinner. Used to drive me crazy.”

“Doesn’t anymore?”

I shrug against him, settling deeper into his warmth. “I don’t know. I think I’m starting to understand what she means. There’s something about knowing where you come from. Even the parts that annoy you.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on my wrist. When he speaks, his voice is different—thinner. “My mom used to joke I have my dad’s hands. Big and clumsy, good for nothing delicate.”

I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling—distant—seeing something I can’t.

“Well, that can’t be true,” I say softly. “Your hands make beautiful things.”

He swallows, his throat working. “I don’t talk about them enough—my parents.” He pauses, gathering himself. “They deserve to be talked about.”

“Tell me about them?” I ask, my hand resting over his heart, feeling it beat steady and strong beneath my palm.

It takes him a minute, but when he speaks, his voice is soft. “Their names were Lisa and Keith. They were amazing parents, the kind you read about in books and think don’t actually exist.” A small smile touches his lips—sad and fond all at once. “My mom made the world’s worst chocolate chip cookies. She always put too much salt in them and burned the bottom, but she insisted they were perfect. And my dad—he couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but he sang anyway. Every morning in the shower, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.”