Page 109 of Any Port in a Storm

“Sorry. Library?”

I nod quickly. “Let’s go.”

We’re buried in the stacks twenty minutes later, making a big show of perusing books about British art. I need several for my dissertation, but I’ve barely paid attention to anything I’ve picked up.

Nick’s leaning against the shelf beside me, gaze intent on my face.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully. “You’d fit right in back at home.”

My pulse races at the thought of fitting right in anywhere that’s home for Nick. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “You’ve got Irish hair.”

A laugh catches on the edge of my throat. “What does that even mean?”

He considers me carefully, then slides his thumb and forefinger against the wave that’s cascading over my shoulder. “Here,” he says, rubbing it between his fingers, “it reflects red in the sun.”

I’m pretty sure my face matches my hair at this point. “I always thought it was more of a Venetian blonde.”

“Okay, so your hair’s Italian, then. Molto bene.”

I let the laugh loose. “Venetian blonde is like a really slight red. Strawberry blonde.”

“Well, whatever it is,” he murmurs, his voice thick, “I like it.”

My eyes flick up to meet his. I swear I see his pupils darken in real time. “Thanks,” I manage, my brain racing over what it felt like to wake up next to him today. To hold his hand. To feel his body against mine in the dark.

His hand slides down my arm, coming to rest on my fingers. “You’re welcome.”

As if of their own accord, my fingers lace through his. “Thanks.”

His chuckle is low in his throat. “You already said that.”

“I did.”

“Laurel.”

I force myself to look up from our joined hands, and find his face so full of blind intent I can barely take it. “Nick.”

He brushes his free hand across my cheek, weaving it deep into the hair at my neck. “Can I kiss you now? Please? I need⁠—”

My mouth is on his before he even finishes talking. It takes my breath away—how his arms wrap around me, crushing my chest to his; how warm he is against me; how good it feels to be held after so long. How good it feels that Nick’s the one holding me.

All sorts of squishy feelings are lurching through my torso as I explore his mouth with mine. I put my arms around his neck, deepening the kiss, and he tentatively parts my lips with his tongue. I open for him, moaning a little without really meaning to.

He backs us up against a bookshelf, pressing all of him into all of me in a way that makes me forget anything else exists.

“Fuck,” he swears, a prayer against my skin. “You don’t even know…God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Do tell,” I tease, running a finger experimentally down his arm. It makes him shiver, which, in turn, makes me grin.

“I can’t think straight right now,” he whispers. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Oh, Nicholas,” I purr into his ear. “I think you’ll be otherwise occupied later.”

He groans, crushing his mouth back to mine. I lose myself in the feeling of his kiss; his hands clinging to my waist like he’s been desperately waiting for precisely this moment.

I’m so lost, in fact, that I almost miss the amused cough over my shoulder until Nick stops kissing me and turns beet red.