Page 81 of Meet Me Back Here

I might spend the rest of my life wanting him.

Forrest moves with purpose, burying himself to the hilt every time, pulling me to him so I can barely tell where he ends and I begin.

“I love fucking you so much,” he says before reaching around me to pinch my clit, another sharp shock of perfect pain that has my knees weak, making every inch of me aware of every sensation Forrest is making me feel.

It’s so much. In the best way. It’s too much.

“Forrest, I can’t,” I start to say, feeling like I’m going to combust.

“You can,” he urges, leaning over my back to change angles, to bring us closer, and making me fall completely against the wall. He wraps an arm around my middle to hold me up, never slowing his pace, and when he slides that hand down to my pussy, I come, falling hard and fast, pulsing around his cock as he speeds up, murmuring a stream of encouragement into my ear as he comes inside me.

“Perfect,” he says when he pulls out of me. He runs his fingers through the come I can feel spilling out of me before pushing it back into my wrecked pussy. I jerk at the sensation, sensitive, satiated.

He has completely ruined me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

just jump, right?

While I’m regaining the ability to use my legs, Forrest tenderly washes my hair, rubbing his thumbs against my scalp so perfectly that I wonder if I might come a third time from the bliss I feel. Once I can stand again, we finish actually showering. When Forrest opens the shower door, we stare together at the light bruises from his fingers blossoming on the front of my hipbones.

He smiles pridefully. I blush furiously.

But I think I like them there too.

I dry my hair quickly and am throwing on clothes when Forrest asks from his place lounging naked on the bed, “Are you feeling relaxed now?”

I shoot him a look over my shoulder, and his deep laugh fills the room.

“I do hope I was able to help, but I’m being serious. How are you feeling about the workshop now that you’ve started writing again. Better, I hope?” he clarifies.

Between all the things we’ve been doing—both naked and clothed—and my writing, I haven’t had a chance to worry much about the workshop, so I’m pleased to discover that I do feel better about it. A lot better.

“Actually, I’m really excited. I feel like I’ll be able to honestly talk about getting to the other side of writer’s block, even when it feels eternal and completely soul-crushing,” I say, not at all dramatically. “I’ve been thinking of some exercises we can do, but I plan on winning the students over by not making them do icebreakers.”

“That’d work on me,” Forrest says. “Actually, you just existing works on me. But I know you’ll be great. I’m proud of you.”

“I mean, it’s all thanks to you.” I tie a bow around the wrap dress I picked to look a little more professor-ly and look up at Forrest through the mirror before me. “You fixed me.”

Forrest sits up sharply.

“Not a chance, Cam.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t do this. You did. I might have helped remind you that you can do this because I know how hard you can be on yourself, but you found that spark on your own. Don’t let anybody take that from you.”

I flush and look down, thinking about the story being built from Forrest’s notebook, the characters I’m growing to love more every day. The mystery I’m crafting. The town I’m building from nothing.

I did this.

“I think I’m going to schedule that call with Lori. The publisher asked for a draft by year end, but I think I want to tell her about the new book sooner—now. I already have a lot of it, enough to give her a pretty good idea of how things will shape up. Then she can tell me how best to bring this new plan to the publisher.” I’m eager now, no longer questioning my new direction. Everything feels good and right.

Forrest hops off the bed, coming up behind me to kiss my cheek.

“Go get ’em,” he says, placing another kiss below my ear. I turn and push him back onto the bed with a hand to his chest.

“Down, boy,” I tease. “Or I’ll miss my meeting.”

The next morning, I’m standing in a large room of round tables, among the din of student chatter, feeling energized more than nervous for my first day. Professor Rupert is beside me, beaming at me like he was yesterday when we met as colleagues rather than professor and student for the first time. He told me to start calling him Jason since I’m basically working at the college this week, and that small request was the thing to make me feel like a teacher.

“I knew you’d take the writing world by storm,” he’d said. “Your words are important.”