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After I get cleaned up, Hudson wraps me in his arms and drops a kiss onto the top of my head. “Have I reminded you that you’re mine lately?” he asks.
I giggle. “I can’t remember. Better do it again.”
He tilts my chin up so that I’m looking right in his eyes. “You’re mine.”
He’s told me I’m his. He’s showed me I’m his. And in the same way, he’s mine.
Right now, I’m exactly where I want to be, with the exact person I want to be with. Nothing’s ever felt as right as this. I don’t know if anything else ever will.
42
HUDSON
Autumn in Boston is beautiful, but there’s nothing to compare to it up here in Vermont.
We’re in my car driving through the roads that wind through the woods, passing through a kaleidoscope of bright, rustic colors. Every shade of red, brown, yellow, green, gold, and orange that you can imagine. Some trees only boast one shade, some hold various tones of matching colors, and some are spangled with every variation, a miniature of the forest itself.
I can only think of one sight I’ve ever seen more beautiful. And she’s sitting next to me in the passenger seat.
“I love it up here so much,” she says. Her voice is full of marvel as she gazes out the window.
It’s the perfect fall morning. Cold enough that you need a sweater, but not so cold that you need a jacket. Hardly any wind. A bright, blue sky without a cloud to block out the sun, whose warm rays beam down from high above to add a soft balm to the declining temperatures.
“I know,” I say. “I’ve always been a city boy but now I’m starting to come around to the small-town life.”
Summer sighs. “Not that either of us can have that for long.”
She’s right about that. When I graduate and—hopefully—get signed with the Maple Leafs, there won’t be any small-town living on offer in Toronto. And unfortunately, in Summer’s case, world-class orchestras usually confine themselves to major cities, too.
But at least we can enjoy it for now.
“Salsa shown any interest in those toys yet?” I ask, my mind drifting to my fluffy cat who’s now much less grumpy than she used to be. I wonder how she’ll acclimate to city living when she comes to Toronto with me. Not that she’ll spend much time out of my apartment, but still.
“A little,” Summer says, though there’s a cadence in her voice that gives the truth away.
“No she hasn’t,” I grumble.
Summer laughs, and it’s a bright, tinkling sound like tiny windchimes on a warm day with a soft breeze.
I can’t even pretend to be bothered by my cat’s insistence on enjoying a box more than the toys I spent way too much money on when there’s a sound like that in my ears.
“You’re right,” she concedes. “She only cares about the pig plushie and the box.”
“That stupid box.” I sigh, but there’s no bite in it.
It’s been a week and a half since I told Summer how I feel, that I don’t want us to pretend that we’re anything other than real boyfriend and girlfriend anymore.
It almost scares me to say it, but it’s been the best week and a half of my life.
Every night either I’m spending at her place or she’s spending at mine. Every day we’ve either had sex, or I’ve nestled between her legs and tasted her sweetness while making her smooth, soft thighs squeeze my head.
Often both scenarios took place on the same day, sometimes more than once.
You’d think my dick would be exhausted by now, but nope.
Even after Summer rode me reverse cowgirl last night until I had the most explosive orgasm of my life and came more than I thought possible, I’ve still been rocking a semi this morning ever since Summer got dressed in the tight black leggings and the oversized crewneck sweater she’s wearing.
The sex isn’t even the best part. It’s waking up with her soft hair feathered over my chest, the way my hand fits so perfectly into hers when we walk side by side, the rush of prideful possessiveness I get when I call her my girlfriend and know it’s true.
