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Occasionally he pulls back enough to stare at me, his brow furrowed with awe, like he can’t believe this is happening, and then he kisses me hard, as if that will bring him proof.
All I can think of is how my body responds to his, how easily it bends and twists and molds to his movement, like we’re synchronized swimming in one spot. I’m weightless and lost to him, to this moment, to everything he’s brought into my little life.
This man.
This man.
I think he might be mine.
“Christ, Piper,” he practically growls as his mouth drifts down to my breast, pulling my top aside and sucking at my nipple. “I don’t know how much longer I can last.”
I’m about to tell him that I won’t be long either when he slips his hand between my legs, his finger pressing against my clit, and from the loud moan that pours out of me, I guess I don’t need to tell him after all.
“I’m coming,” I say through a gasp as his fingers continue to work at me.
There’s no holding back.
Not with him.
Not anymore.
The orgasm sweeps through me like a wave. The kind of wave that you think you can handle, the ones that end up bigger than you thought they’d be. This one takes me out, makes me feel like I’m being spun around like a galaxy, and I’m opening wider and wider and wider, like an exploding star, spreading fire and ice until there’s nothing left of me.
Harrison grunts as he comes inside me, his grip still tight while his pumping slows, his breath heavy and laborious.
We stay connected like this for a few moments, both of us catching our breath. I rest my head against his shoulder and can feel his heart pounding against his chest, competing with the drumming from mine. Slowly, very slowly, the world comes back into place, and I remember where we are and what we’ve done.
We need to get out of here.
“I hate to be one of those people who insists on leaving the scene of the crime,” I tell him as I grip his shoulders and he slowly pulls out of me, setting me back in the water, “but I think we should vacate the area before some bored water department officer shows up.”
“Good idea,” Harrison says.
We both swim back to shore, giggling as we quickly slip on our clothes, feeling like a couple of teenagers who just snuck into a public pool after hours, high on life and sex and each other.
We run back through the forest, staying close.
Nineteen
Giddy.
That’s the only word to describe what I feel like.
It’s probably one of our earliest emotions—I mean, what toddler hasn’t gotten giddy after a first bite of ice cream? What child hasn’t gotten giddy thinking about Disneyland? Or going on a pony ride? Or Christmas morning?
But as we get older, the giddiness fades. We become more cynical. The excitement, the increased heart rate, the swarmy, fizzy feeling in our stomach? It morphs into anxiety. We become nervous. The joy is removed, and all we’re left with is worry. The joy is something that belonged to the past, to when we were more innocent, when we had things to get excited and happy about.
So this, this giddiness, makes me feel like a child all over again. Like I’ve been reborn, picked up and washed off and polished to a shine and then set back down into this world.
All I can think about is Harrison. He’s taken over my thoughts and my heart and everything in between. But it’s more than that, more than how I’m thinking. It’s how I’m living. Like every waking moment I am bursting with impatient joy that’s bundled up inside and dying to get out. I want to kiss him, have sex with him, hold him, listen to him, stare at him. I want so much, and the kicker is that for once, I’m going to have it.
This is happening.
“Okay,” my mother says to me, appearing in my bathroom mirror as I’m putting on blush. It’s like a horror movie jump cut, and I whirl around to face her, my heart pounding.
“Jeez, Mom, don’t sneak up on a girl like that,” I tell her. I then notice she’s wearing a gauzy pink top with a statement necklace and black pants. “You look nice.”
“You look nice,” she says to me, nodding at my face. “A little too nice. You’re smiling nonstop.”
“I have to smile to do my blush.” I turn around to face the mirror and do a close-lipped smile, propping up my cheeks. I swirl the blush brush on them.
“You have been smiling all day,” she says, crossing her arms. “And yesterday too.”
“It’s summer. It’s a beautiful day. We’re both alive and in good health, we have this wonderful house, and the best doggo, and we’re about to have dinner with the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax. Give me one reason not to smile.”
