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I forget what I came into the cottage for. I forget who was here before him. I forget that anything exists beyond this moment, with him. I forget that I’m a widow and remember I’m a woman with a whole life ahead of her; a woman with a name and desires and hopes and dreams of that second chance that Cybil and Ms. T urged me to grasp. Besides, who needs champagne when we’re sparkling like this?
Suddenly, the frenzy ebbs, and his kiss slows to a sensual tingle that makes me yearn for more. His mouth becomes a prayer against mine, moving with the tender, silent murmur of a promise and, somehow, I know the words, kissing them back to his lips like a repetition. Like a vow.
“Are you sure you don’t want to kick me out?” he whispers, drawing his kiss along the line of my jaw and down the curve of my neck, tasting my sun-warmed skin with his tongue.
I laugh softly. “Not yet.”
“Should I leave my shoes by the door, just in case?”
I grab his face and kiss him hard, refusing to let him put doubts in my head. For once, the intrusive thoughts aren’t going to win; I’ve sent them out on the tide, and they’re never coming back to these shores. Are there going to be difficult days? Sure. Are there going to be days when I think of what I lost? I don’t doubt it, but it’s way past time to close the wounds that I’ve been picking open, believing that I deserve to suffer because… because what? Because I didn’t hold on tight enough, because I couldn’t control the weather, because I couldn’t stop it from happening, because I let myself be happy? I’m done with wallowing and, no matter where this leads, I’m going to try and cut myself some slack.
Rowan’s tongue grazes mine, his hands sliding over the rise of my ass, stealing an eager squeeze before he hoists me up. My legs lock around his waist, and I gaze down at him for a moment; my cheeks flushed, my heart racing, my blood hot in my veins, my body pulsing for him. He presses me back against the wall and I feel him, all of him, straining to get closer. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, moaning at the brush of his lips against my arched neck and the urgency of him—both of us trying to meet through the veil of fabric, neither succeeding. That nudge, that feeling of “almost” is torture, and the frustration of it simmers through me in a way that’s going to have me ripping all of his clothes off and dragging him to the bedroom like a cavewoman if I reach boiling point.
He wields me away from the wall and carries me to the sofa, his kiss never leaving my skin, not even for a moment. And as he reaches the sofa, he tips backward, bringing me with him until I’m sitting in his lap, kissing him with a fresh abandon that is nearing that boiling point of absolute, immediate need with every passing second.Thisis what I want. Nothing is going to change my mind.
If I close my eyes, we could be back at my apartment in New Orleans, rewinding back to the moment we were first entwined like this. And I know, if I could go back, I wouldn’t stop it when I did. I don’t plan to now, either.
Breathless, I peer down at him, running my hands up his chest, letting my fingertips follow the contours of him until they reach the cords of his neck. I cradle his throat, brushing his skin with my thumbs, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly. The air around us, already dense with breath and humidity, strains to a delicious tension that can only be cut by the press of our lips and the feel of him inside me. The anticipation tingles in my veins, my lungs on fire, my stomach taut with the need to have him closer, but I sit with the sensation, until the embers of desire are an inferno, stoked by the soft whisper of frantic breathing.
“We’ve been here before,” he says, smoothing his palms along my thighs, skirting over the thin cotton of my shorts and up the ridges of my hips, pausing at my waist.
“Are you trying to get me to kick you out?” I joke, shivering at the delicate friction of his fingertips as he breaks his hesitation, caressing upward. My breath catches like a plunge in icy water as his palm cups my breast, his thumb teasing my nipple, reminding me of a moment like this when it was the warmth of his mouth making me gasp.
He shakes his head. “Just making sure we’re… all good.”
“We are,” I promise, meaning it. I barely get the words out. The tiny, tickling sparks fizz in my chest, struck into life by the brush of his thumb, and I’m ready to let them light the bonfire of my old life, turning it all to ash so I can rise from it, renewed and revived, with him. I want to feel what I felt in that hazy memory of me and him, him and me, in my apartment, but there’ll be no dramatic pause this time. I want every part of him. Now. No more waiting.
To prove the point, I grasp his t-shirt and pull it up over his head, though it means robbing myself of his touch for just a moment. His hands snap back to where they were, like magnets drawn to metal, and he returns the favor, freeing me of my pajama top.
Seeing his bare skin again, the muscles of his stomach tightening and relaxing with every harsh inhale and exhale, something shifts in me. A fuse has been lit by me, this time, andI’mchasing it toward the cartoon pile of dynamite, ready for the explosion.
In a fury of lips and hands and limbs and flying clothes, hastily discarded, we abandon all promises to take things slowly. Soon enough, we’re stripped bare, and I’m back in his lap, my mouth and tongue dancing with his as he explores my skin, discovering the map of it with his touch, memorizing every corner, every hill and valley, every inch of me. Our gasps join, drowning out the chirp of cicadas and frogs, mingling with the clandestine babble of the water beyond the garden.
Never one for patience, I roll my hips back and forth to the rhythm of our kiss, driving myself to the brink of madness against the hard heat of him. I really am at boiling point now, and the bubble of anticipation is unlike anything else, stretching every muscle taut inside me, until I fear I might shatter. His hands settle on my waist, fingers splayed downward, guiding the forward and back, his brow creasing in reflection of the bliss that’s building inside of me, stirred by the delicious friction.
That’s when his fingertips find the heat of me in return, inciting a cry that splinters the tension in the air. His thumb moves in slow circles, the roll of my hips spiking to new levels of pleasure as his fingers ebb and flow, curving with the knowledge of a man who knows what he’s doing. The pressure within is like a powder keg, and that crackling fuse is racing closer and closer, my body fizzing as I chase down that burst of euphoria.
“Oh God, Rowan! Fuck… fuck!” I grasp him, folding myself into him as it hits me, the blast pummeling through my veins, tightening every muscle, stealing my breath from my lungs.
I ride the wave of ecstasy, rigid in his arms, until it crests and crashes, rippling toward the shore of contentment. My limbs relax, and I loosen my grip on him, worried that my fingernails have left crescents in his skin. But I’m relieved that we’re finally on our way to finishing what we started in New Orleans, my soul singing in gratitude that I get to feel this again, with him, with his touch.
But he’s smiling, his teeth grazing his lower lip as he meets my gaze. “Do you have a bedroom?”
“This is a cottage, not a swamp shack,” I tell him, my soft laughter morphing into a stifled cry as he withdraws his talented touch.
Catching my breath, I slip back off his thighs and stand on shaky legs, offering my hand down to him. He takes it and rises up, coaxing a yelp from my throat as he sweeps me up into his arms.
“This way?” he asks, heading for one of the only two doors in the place.
I chuckle. “The other one.”
“Naturally.” He grins and nudges the door handle down with his elbow, before carrying me into the cool of the bedroom. I’m glad I left the AC running.
At the bed that I’ve yet to sleep in again, choosing the couch since I came back, Rowan sets me down close to the pillows. I scoot back and open out my arms to him, beckoning. He flashes a grin and climbs up onto the bed, half-falling into my embrace, endearing in his clumsiness.
Laughter spills out of me as he nuzzles into my neck, growling against my skin. But as the nuzzle turns into a slow, searing kiss that charts the line of my throat and the dip of my collarbones, moving down to draw in the peak of my nipple, the easy humor becomes something electric. My hips writhe as he sucks, my back arching up off the covers, desperate for what comes next… but he’s teasing me, taking it slow like he swore he would, just not in the way I expected.
“You taste incredible,” he mumbles, sliding his tongue along the valley between my breasts.
