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The warmth of the cabin surrounds me and I let out a relieved exhale. Gus makes a similar sound and closes the door behind us.
Before I can stop him—or ask what he’s doing—he helps me remove my boots by the door, chuckling when he has to use all his might to tug one off of me. When he straightens, our faces are close together and one of his arms is still around me.
My body tingles in his proximity.
Tell me to stay.
Tell me you feel it too.
Tell me you don’t want me to leave you.
He doesn’t. Gus kisses me instead. It’s hard and desperate—the way we always kiss each other. But this time, there’s a note of familiarity behind it.
I’ve kissed him enough times to have lost count. I’ve touched him, tasted him, allowed him to enter me. He knows what I like. What I want. What I need. And when he puts his hand on me, the contact is electric—and has been since the first time he touched me. Not in London, but in Boston when he caught me by the fountain.
If this is my last chance to touch him, to indulge in him, I’ll take it.
This time, I lead the way to my bedroom.
Chapter 16: Gus
Julia hops onto her bed and faces me, her expression alight with expectation and the thrill of an impromptu afternoon fuck.
“Why are you still clothed,” I inquire lowly, “when we both know you’re dying to get naked for me.”
“For you? Please. I’m doing this for myself,” she replies before she removes my flannel—the one that drowns her, but still makes her look like sex embodied. When she strips, relief crashes through me.
For the entire hike, my body felt tight with dread. More than once, I thought about extending the hike by taking her up to the lookout point—all so I could spend more time with her. I wanted to say it. I wanted to ask her to stay longer, but I couldn’t do it. I have no qualms saying anything to anyone else. But telling Julia Ridgeway, of all people, how I want her so badly that a lump grows in my throat at the mere thought of her leaving is too much.
Old wounds threaten to break, reminding me that the sutures are still weak—even though decades have passed.
I know better. I know better.
I get one more time with her. One last time before I let her go.
When she’s completely bare, she reclines on the bed, her long, shapely legs extended outwards towards me. Every inch of her is perfection—from the cascade of golden hair on her head to her clean, unpainted toes. How can any man be the same after being with her?
“Well,” she coos, extending her leg as far as it will go so she can tickle my thigh with her toes. “Are you going to join me or are you going to stand there?”
I tug off my own flannel. “Which one is going to make you happier?”
“The option that gets you inside me.” Her cheeky grin is so fucking cute.
I take a step closer so my knees touch the end of the bed. Expectantly, she stares up at me, issuing a challenge. I imagine it’s, Fuck me well, August. Fuck me so I don’t forget you.
“Julia, there’s no option where I end up anywhere but deep inside your pretty pink pussy,” I murmur.
She inhales audibly and heavily at my words, but I don’t give her more. Meticulously, I strip above the waist to ratchet up the tension. I leave my jeans on, which I know frustrates her.
“Desperate?” I ask when she releases an exasperated sigh, eyes traveling restlessly over my bare chest and abdomen.
“You’re so annoying, Winter. You think I can’t get myself off? You’ve seen me do it. I don’t need you.”
“Oh, you don’t need me?” I reply, playing along. I reach out and caress the arch of her foot, making her gasp and shiver. “So you’re not going to tell me your safe word?”
“Fucking Paris,” she blurts out before she gives up on waiting for me—because Julia Ridgeway waits for no man. She clambers to her knees and throws her arms around my neck before she kisses me, her mouth seeking and needy.
Her hands are everywhere. Touching my skin, pulling at my chest hair, gripping my back. I want to touch her—I want to touch her so bad—but I force myself not to. I force myself to deny her, to drive her to the point of desperation.
