Page 62 of Fall Love

She hollows her cheeks, surging forward, or maybe I thrust toward her.

Faster and faster, like the beating of my heart.

“Neve,” I warn, or I beg. I’m no longer certain which because all I feel is the warmth of her mouth and the pull of her lips and the wetness of her tongue. She laps up the length and then powers down it again, sucking tighter.

And the harder and harder I fall.

It happens so quickly, I hardly have time to warn her. I thrust forward, and she swallows me back, and then I’m breaking apart inside her. Shattering. Coming so hard the porch tilts and silver stars explode behind my eyelids.

“Neve.” I pet her hair and glance down at her, still licking the length, cleaning me up.

She pulls off me with a pop and glances up at me with a pleased, wet smile. I run my thumb along her bottom lip.

“Why do you look like you thoroughly enjoyed that?” Like she wanted to bring me to my knees and nearly did.

“Better than pie filling,” she states like I did, and while she laughs, I chuckle, choppy and thick, knowing she’s filling me up.

She’s stitching up a damaged heart, making whole what I thought was broken.

She’ll never understand. She’s better than all the pies in the world.

CHAPTER 23

[Neve]

“Tate Love, why aren’t you married?” I blurt two nights later, looking at the array of ingredients on his kitchen counter.

We’re back at his house.

Yesterday, he came over late in the afternoon and assembled the crib. We finally had that apple pie. For dinner.

Tonight, I’m at his place, and he’s proposed making chili. I don’t have the heart to tell him I probably shouldn’t eat something with spicy ingredients, like green peppers and onions. I’ll have heartburn for a week.

Chowders and chilis are served all seasons around here, but nothing says fall comfort food like soups of any sort. So, I’m powering through cutting up green peppers, and he’s browning ground beef when I ask my question.

“What?” He chuckles, and I wave at the spread in front of us. Shredded cheese and not the packaged kind. Sour cream that looks homemade.

His cheeks turn rosy and he glances back toward the stove.

“You’re kind of good at caring for others. And cooking. Is food your love language?”

We both freeze before he turns back to me.

“Not that we’re really talking about love . . .”

“But you asked me about marriage?”

I shrug and lower my head, deciding I dug this grave.

“To answer your question, I already told you I’m not really a one-night stand kind of guy.”

Now, my cheeks heat.

“And I was almost engaged. Once.”

I lower my knife and stare at him.

“It was over a year ago.” He steps toward the large island that separates his kitchen from the living space. The island might be as big as my entire kitchen, but that doesn’t faze me as much as what he just said.