They burst gold above us, then red, then white, and the light washes across his face, and I catch him watching me instead of the sky.
"You're missing it," I whisper.
"No," he says. "I'm not."
He kisses me again, and this time there's nothing careful about it. His hands slide down my back, learning the shape of me, and I press against the solid warmth of his chest and feel his heart pounding as hard and fast as mine. For a man so steady, he comes apart so beautifully.
"Tell me if you want to stop," he murmurs against my throat.
I fist my hand in his shirt. "Don't you dare stop."
The fireworks bloom overhead, one after another, and under that falling light he lays me back against the cushions and takes his time with me—the same patient, present, deliberate attention he gives to everything he does. He slides the straps of my dress down slowly, his mouth following, and every kiss is a considered thing, every touch a decision. When his hand finds the bare skin of my thigh I hear my own breath catch, sharp in the dark.
"Forrest," I breathe.
"I've got you," he says. "I've got you, Doc."
And I believe him. That's the terrifying part. For the first time in eight years, out on a black lake under a sky full of light, I stop planning the exit.
He undresses me like he's handling a precious treasure, and then his own shirt is gone, and I get my hands on all that warm muscle I've been pretending not to stare at for three weeks. He gathers me against him, skin to skin, and settles his mouth over my breast until I'm arching up into him and saying his name in a voice I don't recognize as my own.
His fingers find the heat between my thighs, stroking slow and sure, and I come apart against his hand embarrassingly fast, gasping, while the fireworks paint us silver.
"That's one," he says, low and rough and pleased, and does it again before I've caught my breath.
When I finally reach for him, desperate, he groans against my throat. He reaches into the zippered pouch beneath the bench and tears open a condom with hands that are not quite as steady as the rest of him. I help roll it on, climb into his lap, and let him guide me down. We both go still, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air, the boat rocking gently beneath us and the whole sky on fire above.
Then we move.
It's slow at first, and then it isn't. He whispers my name like it's the only word he knows, and I ride him under the fireworks with his hands anchoring my hips and his mouth on my skin, and when I fall apart again he comes with me, holding me so tight I can feel his heart hammering against mine.
Afterward we lie tangled on the cushions, my cheek over his heart, his arm wrapped around me like he has no intention of ever letting go. The last of the fireworks have faded. The smoke drifts across the clouds. The lake goes quiet and dark, and it feels like we’re the only two people in the whole world.
"You okay?" he asks, voice rumbling under my ear.
I smile against his skin. "Never better.”
His arm tightens. "Good."
I close my eyes and let myself have one more minute of it. Then another. Then another.
I don't want the night to end.
I'm starting to think I may never want to leave.
Chapter Seven
Forrest
Shegoesquietonthe ride back.
It’s not the easy quiet we've built over three weeks of mornings working together in comfortable silence. This quiet is different, tight around the edges, like she's having an argument with herself. She's wrapped in the blanket with her knees pulled up, watching the dark water slide past, and every mile closer to the launch I feel her drifting further out of reach.
I could tell her what I think she wants to hear. That it’s no big deal that we’ve slept together. That we’ll keep it easy, keep it light, keep it just for the summer.
Just for the summer… I’m really starting to hate those words.
But I can’t lie to Aileen. It hasn't been casual for me since her motor flooded the first morning in that cove. I want her to stay in Mercury Ridge, with me, for the rest of our lives. But if all I get is the summer, I'll take it.And I’ll make sure it’s a summer she never forgets.
