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The words only embolden me as I return my tongue to her and slide into a rhythm. The gasp she lets out is a gorgeous, decadent thing. I can feel her pressing closer, a hand in my hair, nails digging into my scalp.
If I died tomorrow, I’d be certain I spent my last night on earth doing exactly what I was meant to do.
“There.” That syllable is a sliver of sound. A wisp of lace. “God… that feels so good.”
I exhale against her, unable to catch my breath but hardly caring. “All I ever want is to make you feel good.”
It feels more intimate than anything we’ve ever done, possibly the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced. Everything I have ever done in a bed suddenly seems like a ridiculous waste of time when this exists. The way she surrenders herself—there is not a single word in any language that describes how wonderfully wrecked my senses are.
Then her legs are trembling, her whole body seeming to tighten before she lets go, shuddering out an “oh my God” and “Neil” and “please.” She shatters around me, breaths loud and chest heaving. Her hands in my hair and my name on her lips.
All of the anxiety and overthinking are worth it if I get to see her like this, sexy and uninhibited and alive.
“Good?” I say.
“Might have to do it a few more times to know for sure,” she manages, her voice hoarse. With my last shred of consciousness, I realize it’s the same thing I said to her the morning after we slept together for the first time.
Then she’s reaching for my waist. My hips. A kiss to the fabric of my boxers and then lower, lower.
“Are you sure?” I ask, sucking in a breath. “Because you don’t have to if—”
“I know.” Another kiss. “And I am very, very sure.”
When she closes her mouth around me, the sensation is absolutely unreal. Warmth and longing. Ecstasy and trust. All my awareness dims to only the places where she is touching me.
“What do you think?” she asks. “Any notes?”
“N-no. None whatsoever.”
And she gives this lovely laugh before her mouth renders me useless.
I might last two more seconds or two more hours. Time no longer has meaning when she’s hovering over me like this, rewiring my brain. I pull away at the last moment, not wanting to finish in her mouth if she doesn’t want me to, but a silent exchange seems to pass between us.
I want this if you do, her wild, determined eyes tell me.
Yes.
Then she takes me back in.
The way I fall apart is a brilliant burst of neon behind my eyelids as pleasure crashes through me. She holds tightly to my hips, anchoring me to the bed.
To her.
Later that night, after a round two and a silent blessing that her roommate seems to be permanently MIA, we order a pizza because we can’t bear to leave this room. Tomorrow I’ll finally see Boston, but right now is just for the two of us, laughing and joking and teasing the way we usually do. And yet tonight it feels different. A new kind of closeness.
With a grimace, she tells me about her first hangover, and I tell her about Skyler and Adhira, and she squeals and makes me promise to send her updates as soon as they happen.
“You have to understand, this is total catnip to my romance novelist heart,” she says. “I’m already so invested.”
When we’re here, the family weekend where my family wasn’t present doesn’t matter. The letter from my dad doesn’t exist. I am wholly myself in a way I’ve never known, comfortable in my skin and radically fearless. My boldly independent, aspiring romance novelist girlfriend who makes me aspire to absolutely everything. She always has.
Here with her, there is none of that darkness, not even when the sun sinks below the horizon and the sky turns black.
She is the brightest light in any room.
17
ROWAN
