“So you are,” I whisper before my hand slides into her hair. Her mouth parts for mine, and I take it with far less restraint than I did in the car.
I taste her, drinking her in. Heat rushes through my veins like a wildfire. She presses herself against me and hooks her leg over my hip. My body reacts before my brain registers what I’m doing. Every ache I’ve ever had for her comes to the surface. I become desperate to feel more of her.
She moans into my mouth and there it is every stitch of control becomes undone. I trail my hand down her back, slipping under the hem of her shirt. My fingers graze the soft skin of her lower back.
“Let me know if I need to stop,” I say.
“Please don’t,” she whines. “Touch me more.”
“As you wish,” I smile into her mouth. I run a hand up her back. She pulls me closer, her nails claw into my back like she needs to dig into something to tether her to the moment.
I’m famished. Years of wanting, waiting, and holding back, it all crashes down on me at once.
My hand runs up her abdomen and I grab the most perfect breast I have ever held. My thumb pads her nipple and she sucks in a breath. “Fuck,” she hisses. Her finger hooks into my waistband.
I could ruin her tonight for every other man. Eat her out. Show her how bad I’ve wanted her. But…my brain finally catches up with me. I don’t want her just for tonight. I want her for good. And our first time—whether it’s me truly tasting her, or feeling inside of her, isn’t going to be in this motel room.
“Shit, got carried away.” I self-consciously laugh, pulling away. “We should—we should get some sleep.”
“Oh yeah. Sleep. Right,” she says, gasping for air. “Uhm, thanks…for that…”
“You never have to thank me for kissing you. Whenever you want me, just ask.”
She relaxes a bit and laughs into my chest. “And say what? Cole, can you make out with me?”
“I’d respond positively.” I brush a small kiss on her lips. “See?”
“Maybe we could have a codeword.”
“I love you, Cole Sinclair, would work.”
“Too unrealistic,” she says. “What about Cole Sinclair, can you shut up and use your mouth for good?”
“Ouch! See if I keep you warm and risk certain death in a run-down motel ever again.”
“I’m sorry, by the way, about this whole mess,” she murmurs, but I can feel her drifting off to sleep—like the part of her that lives inside of me is also tucking themselves into a bed and fading to sleep too.
“Don’t be. Don’t ever be sorry for this. I’d brave this room a thousand times over just to hold you.” I kiss the top of her head. “Good night, Natalie.”
Her breath is heavy, and I fall asleep counting the rise and fall of her chest. Overwhelmed that I live in the same timeline as her.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
NATALIE
Growing up,it was easy to take the magic of my hometown for granted. As far as my seven-year-old brain knew, it was okay to pull coins from fountains for your own wishes and everyone grew up in a town where the ocean crashed on the shore in picturesque waves, hiking trails twisted through wooded portions, a river led out to the sea, boats moored in the harbor, and a downtown that was built in the sixteen to eighteen hundreds andsomehow grew more charming as the seasons got colder.
During my first year at Pine Valley University that all changed, because I learned something about myself. Some people are horse girls or book girlies, but I’m an ocean girlie (or a beach girlie, whatever you want to call it). When I’m sad or need a place to think, I need to be near water to recharge.
All Pine Valley offered, besides the chance to follow my cheating boyfriend to school (wee!), was…well…pine trees…and a valley.
It was really aptly named, so honestly that one is on me.
When my parents take the exit off 95 and we venture down Main Street, my chest begins to lighten. Downtown Wellsport, nestled along the edge of a small harbor, isn’t far. There, the waters will be waiting for me. Docked boats with Christmas lights strung along their edges and Christmas wreaths on their bows will bob in the sparkling Atlantic. Off in the distance, Starlight Shoal, will linger in the fog, fractures of light from the beacon tower scattering over the horizon.
In town, the hidden magic of December spills into everything, rushing over the streets, weaving through the illuminated trees, and hanging in the salty air. We call it Semaine de Noel. One week of street festivals, tree lightings, fireworks, and usually snow dusting our town in powdered sugar goodness.
