“We should clean up before we go to sleep.” Troy grunts, reluctantly peeling himself away from me.
“Sleep?” I ask, propping up on my elbow. “You want me to stay the night?”
He looks back at me, brown eyes almost pleading. “Won’t you?” His voice turns shy. “I really want you to be here when I wake up. Just… to reassure me this wasn’t a dream.”
I roll my eyes, though my heart is hammering. “Fine. I’ll stay the night, you sap.”
“Great.” He grins and pecks my cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him disappear into the bathroom. When he returns, he’s carrying a damp towel, which he uses to gently wipe down my chest and stomach. He gestures for me to spread my legs.
“I can do that part,” I rush to say, heat rising to my cheeks.
He shakes his head stubbornly, pressing his knee between my thighs to separate them. “No.”
Hiding my face in the crook of my elbow, I let him clean my ass. Admittedly, it does feel nice—the warm cloth rubbing against my raw, swollen hole. He takes his time, muttering praises about how beautiful I am, how perfectly I took his cock.
Once I’m clean, he tosses the rag in a hamper and hands me a fresh pair of his boxers. They’re a little snug around my waist, but Troy just squeezes my ass and tells me they look good on me.
He pulls me back into his arms, kissing my cheek.
“Today was a great day,” he murmurs sleepily, fingers threading through my hair. “Our cider’s out in the world, and we just had the most mind-blowing sex. I’d say we make a pretty damn good team.”
I smile against his warm chest. “Yeah,” I agree softly. “We really do.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Troy
There’sasmallmarinain Claremont Shores where rich folks and seasonal cottagers keep their boats. I was surprised when Ashton told me his family has their own slip there, where they dock avery sensibly sized motorboat,as he insists on calling it.
Sometimes I forget that Ashton’s family is fairly wealthy. Then he casually says shit like that, without a hint of self-awareness, and reality rushes back in.
Evidently, the Fourth of July is a big deal in Claremont Shores. Tourists flood the streets and lakeshore, wrapped head to toe in red, white, and blue. The beaches here are nothing like the ones across the lake in Chicago, which were always crowded and a little dirty. These are wide and open, bordered by towering dunes and bursts of brightly colored wildflowers.
Every year, the town launches a massive fireworks display from the beach. Ashton smiled from ear to ear as he told me about his annual tradition with friends—taking his family’s speedboat out onto the lake to watch the fireworks bloom overhead, color spilling across the sky and rippling over the dark water.
So when he invited me to join them this year, flashing those puppy-dog eyes and dimples, how could I possibly say no?
But now, standing in Ashton’s front doorway while he openly assesses my outfit with visible disapproval, I’m starting to regret that decision.
“You’re wearing all black,” he deadpans.
I snort. “Nice to see you too, baby.”
I lean in and kiss him. He hesitates for half a second before his arms hook around my shoulders, tugging me inside as he pushes me back against the door. My spine hits the wood with a solidthunk, and he sighs softly against my lips, fingers threading through my hair.
When we finally separate, he’s wide-eyed, lips swollen, cheeks flushed a deep, lovely crimson.
“You look”—my gaze flicks from his head to his feet—“patriotic.”
It’s an understatement. He’s wearing an American-flag tank top and denim shorts, blue-rimmed sunglasses perched in his golden hair. He looks like he stepped straight out of an Old Navy advertisement.
“Duh,” he says, scoffing. “It’s the Fourth of July. You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
I shrug. “It basicallyisa funeral, isn’t it? You know, considering the current state of our country and all.”
He groans. “Troy, everyone knows the Fourth of July isn’t actually about patriotism. It’s about getting drunk, watching stuff blow up in the sky, and enjoying nice summer weather for once.”
