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“Wait, we need—”
“I’m on the pill,” she breathes out. “I have been for a while because it helps—”
“I don’t care why.” I grip her waist tighter, pull her down until she covers me entirely and, “Fuck!” I breathe through the ecstasy of feeling her heat surround me, feeling her raw. “Don’t. Move.”
And because she’s a brat and she never listens, she moves, sliding me slowly out of her until there’s just the tip, then she drops, groaning when I’m all the way in again.
“I said don’t move.”
“Shut up; I don’t care.” She starts moving on me, her hands flat on my chest, and I close my eyes, think of every horrible accident my dad’s ever told me about. Brains splattered on the road, three-inch nails through hands, legs caught in—“Oh, God, Connor!” I open my eyes just in time to see bliss overtake her, shaking her entire body as she tightens around me. She gasps for air, riding me without apology. When she’s done, she falls against my chest, her wet hair matching the sweat coating her body.
I wait only a second before flipping her onto her back and grabbing her thigh, holding it to my hip, and then I fuck her. I fuck her as if I’ve been waiting a year and a half to do it, and tomorrow I’ll make love to her. I’ll worship her. But tonight… tonight we need the release, both physical and emotional.
We shower together when we’re done, laughing at how out of control we were. “You didn’t even take your shorts off,” Ava laughs, soaping up my chest with a loofa.
“You started it.” I kiss her gently, my mouth open on hers.
“Can you get my back?” she asks. Grabbing my hand and placing the loofa on my palm, she turns around, her hands on the wall, ass in the air.
I scrub her back.
She adds, “And how did I start it?”
“With your Creepy Connor Closet.”
“Shut up!” she laughs out, reaching behind her to squeeze my hard-on. She starts tugging me, pulling me closer until my front’s to her back. I kiss her shoulder, her neck, her jaw, and say, my mouth to her ear. “I stalked you, too.”
Her head tilts, her mouth meeting mine. “You did?”
“Austin works in student admissions. I checked every week to make sure you were still enrolled. I think, deep down, that’s why I had a shitty season—because I didn’t want to leave. I was just waiting for you to come back to me.”
FIFTY-ONE
ava
“How nice is it to have weekends together?” I ask, watching Connor lick his ice cream as if it’s his job. A high paying, X-rated job.
He rolls his eyes, playful. “It’s okay.”
I throw my napkin at his head. One month. We’ve been together for one month, and there’s no other way to describe how I feel but magic. In every sense of the word. I’d always imagined what it would be like to free myself from the chains of responsibility and just be with him, but I never thought it would be like this. We hang out every chance we get, either at my apartment or his dorm, making the most of the time we have before the season starts. Some would think we’re finding each other again or falling in love for the second time, but that’s not true. We were never lost, always in each other’s hearts, and we never stopped loving, not for a second.
“You done?” he asks, standing, his hand out for me to take.
Fingers linked, we walk around the strip mall with no real purpose, no destination in mind. He goes to a sports store, buys a pair of sneakers and another basketball so he can leave them at my place. I go to a few clothes stores and try on some dresses, force him to sit and wait until I’m ready to show him, though I don’t think he minds it too much. He offers to pay, and I decline every time, and then I see a furniture store with some housewares and start to walk in. His hand tightens around mine. “What?” I ask, looking up at him. “Are you done shopping?”
“No, I don’t mind. But… what do you need from here? Your apartment’s furnished.”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe a throw or some cute little bits and pieces… why?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, let’s go get your throw—whatever the hell that is.”
He holds the door open for me, his brow dipped, and I walk past him, my eyes narrowed in confusion. “Connor, do you have, like, a stalker or something who works here?”
“The only stalker I have is you,” he says, taking my hand again.
We walk through the store, and I notice his palm sweating against mine, but I choose to ignore it, just like I choose to ignore the rigidness of his stance. “Hey, look,” I say, pointing to a couch. “It looks like mine.” I walk over to it, take a closer look. “I think it is mine.” I release his hand so I can sit on it, test it. “It is.” And then I notice the coffee table. “That’s exactly the one I have. They must have—”
“Hey, Connor!” a middle-aged man sings, approaching us. “You’re back.”
