I'm climbing fast. The combination of his body, his hands, his filthy dark promises, and the ring on my finger catching light through the water—
"Jordan—" It's part warning, part plea. "I'm close—"
"Let go, baby. I've got you." His rhythm falters and he buries his face in my neck. "Christ, Sabrina. I can't wait to be your husband."
The words push me over the edge.
I come sobbing, pleasure crashing through me. My nails rake down his back, and I'm shaking so hard he has to hold me up.
He follows seconds later, groaning my name against my shoulder.
For a long moment, we just stand there under the water, holding each other, both of us breathing hard.
"I can't believe this," I whisper finally.
"What part?" His voice is muffled against my neck.
"All of it."
"Yeah." He pulls back to look at me, and despite everything, he's smiling. "And I can't believe I just proposed. And you said yes."
"I did." I cup his face, marveling at this beautiful, impossible man.
"Five weeks, Mrs. Farrington."
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
Because this is insane. I'm eighteen. And eloping.
This should terrify me. And it does. Because this man—this man who stocks tampons and massages my cramps and doesn't flinch at blood—has ruined me.
I'll never be the same again.
14
Thenextweekpassesin a blur of happiness despite the start of finals.
I tackle exam papers by day and revisions by night, often taking breaks to do secret wedding planning and talk endlessly with my fiancé.
I suggest Jordan throw me a graduation party. He could then 'propose' to me in front of my family. I thought it should soften the guilt of eloping the next day.
Jordan says he doesn't care about details. He'd throw a dozen parties as long as I married him the following day.
We've gone over our plan so many times now it's pretty much set in stone: graduate, elope, move to Houston, and convince the rest of the world we're nothing but engaged.
Dad seems distracted lately, but I chalk it up to work stress. Mom throws me strange looks, like she's trying to figure out a puzzle, but mostly just keeps inviting Jordan to dinner. Drew has gotten on my nerves with how obsessively he asks—almost daily—if Jordan and I are still together.
As if he expects—hopes—the answer would be different every time.
And Jordan is... Jordan. Steady. Protective. Mine.
Except for the times when he reminds me exactly who he is.
Like earlier today. I'd been studying for Monday's calculus exam—the biggest one—and needed a break from the swirling numbers. So I opened Jordan's spare laptop to work on my Yale financial aid application.
"Jordan?"
"Hmm?" He continues on his Mac.
