Page 68 of Tastes Like Summer

He seems to think it over, his eyes studying my face. “Maybe later, before morning comes. Right now, I mostly want to show you how much I—” His brows pull together, body tenses. “I just want it to be us.”

“Then let’s be us; let’s live in this one, perfect bubble.”

He smiles, but it quickly turns almost sad. “At least for tonight.”

Hating the ache in his voice, I pull him down over me, pressing my lips to his in an almost desperate way I’ve never felt in my life. Every bone in my body is begging me to forget anything that isn’t Michael and me—work, tests, diabetes, shithead exes—and allow myself to enjoy something that’s just for me for the first time in years. This isn’t the same as what the kitchen was. This isn’t two people who had built a desperate sort of attraction and wanted to satisfy it right then and there.

No.

Whatever is happening between Michael and me in this bed is about something else entirely. An acknowledgment of sorts that this thing between us? It’s real. It’s messy, and only going to get worse. But it isn’t going anywhere.

It terrifies me, it has me shaking in his arms, which is why when my hips lift off the mattress so he can pull my shorts and underwear off, Michael presses his lips to my ear: “I’m scared, too. But I’m yours. I’ve never been anyone’s, and I think it’s because I’ve always been yours. I’ll always belong to you, Diana. If we do this now, there’s no turning back.”

I close my eyes to keep Michael from seeing the tears pool in my eyes, but as usual, he knows me better than I expect. He’s already hard and ready, but he takes the time to kiss both my eyelids, drag his lips down my throat and to my collarbone. He whispers my name over and over again against my delicate skin—so low I almost can’t hear him over the sound of the rain hammering down on us.

When he finally pulls away just enough to meet my eye, he says, “Trust me.”

And for the first time in a very long time, I give myself truly to someone else.

When he pushes into me, it’s slow. My lack of practice over the past few years makes me feel self-conscious, but all of that is eviscerated when Michael pushes in to the hilt, my back arching off the mattress.

He groans deep in his throat, head dropping to my shoulder as we both pause to take this moment in for what it is: everything, just like he said. Because there’s no going back from this—not for me, at least. No matter the distance between us, in this moment, I know we will find a way to make our relationship work.

Before I can let that thought terrify me, I give in to the overwhelming waves of emotions, every sense being stimulated at the same time: his rough stubble against the soft skin of my breasts; the heavy breaths and grunts that echo throughout the room as he pushes into me over and over again; his signature citrus scent mixing with mine as we move on his sheets; the taste of him, salty and heady, as I kiss down his chest when he lets me straddle him; and finally, the look of wonder and disbelief on his face as we both come at the same time, my fingers curling into his chest for support as I ride him just before we both fall.

In the quiet moments after, when he holds me against his chest, I beg the universe to let this go on forever, to never let tomorrow happen.

The sun is high in the sky, the weather far from the blistering heat of the past couple of weeks or the storm that came suddenly out of nowhere two days ago. The restaurant is coming together quickly, especially now that my creative constipation seems to have resolved. My mind is no longer blocked—instead, it’s brimming with new ideas and concepts, ready to make a splash on our menu.

Life has never felt this good—not even when I was at the top of my career. The pep in my step as I walk around our kitchen prepping some more experimental dishes is almost comical, according to Lexi, who cannot stop giving me shit about it if I paid her.

“It has to be this Diana chick, isn’t it? Did you guys finally do something about these feelings you were repressing? Because, cousin, you look like a walking toothpaste commercial you’re smiling so much,” she says, raising a brow as she chops some shallots for our next recipe experiment.

I do my best to hide the smile on my face, but there’s no denying that just thinking about Diana heats my skin and tightens my chest at the same time.

Lexi makes a gagging noise. “Oh, god, you’re disgusting. Look at that goofy grin! You guys fucked, didn’t you?”

My smile drops, cheeks heat. “We didn’t fuck,” I almost spit.

Lexi’s brows pull together in confusion. “You guys didn’t have sex?”

“I mean, we did,” I mutter, digging through our pantry for some cardamon. “But we didn’t fuck.”

Lexi drops her knife on the chopping block with a clatter, moving her hands on her hips as a smug grin spreads across her face.

“Hey,” I call out. “Watch it! That’s my knife you’re using. It’s a Shun. If you fuck up the blade, I will make you buy me a new one.”

“Did you just correct me over my use of the word ‘fuck’? Michael… are you saying you made love?”

I choke and mock gag, but Lexi throws her head back in laughter.

“Shut the fuck up,” I tell her.

Even though, that’s what it felt like—I’m just terrified to admit it. I’ve been ‘fucking’ women since I was sixteen, but what Diana and I did a couple of nights ago? That was not fucking. It was something else. An entirely new species of physical connection I had never experienced. And I hate the way it sounds—even in my head—but there is no other way to describe what happened but by calling it what it was.

“All I’m saying is that it was more special than that. I don’t want to debase it to what I would say about a girl I picked up at a bar for a one night stand. Diana deserves something more special.”

Lexi laughs once. “Oh my god, look at you! You’re adorable. I’m gonna get a cavity, you’re so sweet!”