Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“Aha!” He brandishes a bottle of tequila. “Can I add a splash?”
“Go for it.”
River pours a generous amount in each cup, then sets down the bottle. “Try it,” he urges.
I pick up the cocoa, take a drink, and savor the burn. It reminds me that all good things hurt just a little. “It’s good.”
“It’ll be our special drink,” he says.
But will it?
Hell if I know.
Hell if I know what is happening.
What the Fun Cabin means. What the hike means. What tomorrow means.
“Sounds good.”
I knock back more of the drink and River does the same, then he puts his mug on the counter. With determination in his gaze, he takes my mug from my hand, sets it down next to his, then cups one cheek. I tremble, and half wish my body would stop reacting to every little touch. But I mostly wish he’d just keep touching me.
“Owen,” River says, and his tone is shockingly vulnerable.
“Yeah?” My heart is beating too loudly, and I want that organ to shut up.
“Asking you to go on a hike is not a bad thing,” he says.
Sighing, I shake my head, feeling like an ass. Hating that he can see through me. Can he see other parts of me? Can he tell how much I want him in every way?
“Right. It’s fun,” I say, light and breezy.
But River isn’t having any of my coolness. He strokes his thumb along my jaw. “I meant what I said. You are so fucking important to me, and this thing between us . . . it’s a little overwhelming.”
Emotions crawl up my throat, fighting to escape. “Same here,” I admit, in a bare whisper.
We’re saying it, and not saying it at the same time.
And that feels awful and amazing all at once.
“And I don’t want to lose you,” he says, his voice starkly tender. Then he leans in and dusts a kiss to my cheek. “And I am stunned by what’s happening. Just utterly stunned.”
Heat sweeps through me.
Desire too. A sharp, pummeling wave.
He’s giving me answer enough. He’s telling me to wait for him. He’s telling me he’s feeling so many things.
And yet I’ve barely said a word to let him know where I’m at—that I’d wait so damn long for him. I’ve been expecting him to read between all my lines, to see inside my soul and know that I’d be his in a heartbeat.
That’s not fair either. To put this all on him.
I rope my hands around his waist, tug him closer. He fits me so well. His body slides so seamlessly against mine. “I’m stunned too, and overwhelmed, but all in a good way,” I say, opening my heart a little more. “And I meant what I said earlier. That I’ve wanted to kiss you for years.”
In no time at all, River’s lips crash down on mine. His mouth is hungry. We ignite, going from zero to Autobahn in mere seconds, teeth clicking, tongues lashing, and hands traveling everywhere. Mine grab at his waist, yanking him against me. His rope into my hair, tugging, pulling.
I rip my glasses off and our mouths go wild. We consume each other, swallowing kisses, drowning in desire, hunting for more.
More kisses, more closeness, more connection.
And in this kiss, I feel sparks of hope. Flickers of tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
We don’t kiss like lovers saying goodbye.
We kiss like this could be the real thing. Like we could be doing this again, and again.
Exploring each other in new ways every day.
Hiking trails.
Listening to podcasts.
Having each other’s bodies.
That last one echoes in my head, a persistent drumbeat.
Have me, have me.
And in this war of emotions and wants, the need to get closer to him wins all the battles.
As we grab at each other, clutch at shorts and pants and skin and hair, I somehow find the will to stop the kiss.
But only because I have something vital to say.
My breath falls in broken pants as I meet his heated gaze. “I want you to fuck me, River. Fuck me tonight. Fuck me now.”
His breath shudders beautifully. “God, I was hoping you were going to ask.”
17
RIVER
Make it good for him.
Make it so damn good for Owen.
That’s all I can think as I grab a towel from the bathroom, spread it on the mattress in the guest room.
Manners matter in bed, and that also applies to being a good guest, so I don’t want to get the sheets sticky.
“On the bed, hottie,” I tell Owen, who has his glasses back on. “I’ll get the goods.”
“Yes, Mister Bossy,” he says, flopping onto the bed, hands behind his head, watching me as I hunt for my jeans, grab my wallet.
Flipping it open, I fish for a condom, and a lube packet, then fling them to the bed. Like a pro athlete, Owen lifts his arm, catches them.