Page 66 of River & Rue

“I’m sorry, Rue. I’m sorry for pushing you away last week when you tried to help me. For how I behaved when we met, for every time I’ve hurt your feelings with a callous remark or made you feel uncomfortable, unwelcome, or unappreciated. I’m sorry for never telling you how fucking awesome I think you are, how much I look forward to seeing you when I come home, and how badly I’ve always wanted to be your friend.”

I blink fast. “Stop it.”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry I never told you what an incredible writer you are. Or that you’re funny as hell, the best kind of goofy, and intimidatingly smart. You are a princess. A little mysterious and aloof at times, but undeniably, supernaturally weird.”

I sniff. “You’re weirder.”

“I forgot one—fiery.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

“Not because of your hair.” He grins crookedly. “Because of your sick burns.”

My laugh is dangerously close to a sob.

“Do you forgive me?” he asks.

Even as the winds pick up around me, spinning me faster and faster toward devastation, I nod.

“Will you be my friend?”

I nod again.

“Final question. You do know having a coyote as a sidekick is textbook princess shit, right?”

I wipe my leaking eyes. “You’re the one who turned our porch into a local hangout for squirrels and birds.”

He fake-polishes his nails on his chest, then blows on them. “Just call me Princess River.”

Groaning, I chuck a strawberry at his head. He snatches it out of the air.

“So, how about it? Can I call you Princess once in a while?”

With a silent sigh of surrender, I nod.

25

river

​. . .​

a storm will come

After cleaning up breakfast, I head to my cabin to shower. Leaving Rue isn’t easy, especially after that unexpectedly heavy conversation, but she needs some space to process.

I need some space too.

The shower is as unsatisfying as I expect it to be, my hand a poor substitute for what I want. I come with a dozen rough strokes, but it barely takes the edge off. Within minutes, I’m hard again, torturing myself with the memory of her tugging down the top of her bathing suit. Of water pouring over her shoulders, gliding around and between her heaving breasts, dripping off peaked nipples the same rosy shade as her lips. And then that soft, hopeful appeal: “Will you wash the rest of me?”

I imagine her asking me again with a clear head. What I’d do. How I’d touch her. Mark her. Fill her.

My second orgasm is deep, long, and borderline painful. I shudder in the cooling water, nerves clamoring, teeth clenched with the effort of holding back a groan.

It’s release without relief.

I stumble out of the shower. Dry off, brush my teeth, yank on a pair of boxers. Leaden feet carry me as far as the foot of the bed, where I slump down and cradle my throbbing head. My body screams for more sleep than the three restless hours I had on Rue’s too-small couch.

But my mind won’t stop churning.