Page 86 of Any Port in a Storm

But what comes out is just, “There are condoms in my nightstand.”

He inclines his head slightly, as if waiting for me to say more, then tells me he’ll be right back. I silently curse my lack of eloquence, but I do my best to compartmentalize—after all, we’d agreed there’d be plenty of time for talking later.

Nick returns with two condoms. “Just in case,” he explains with a smirk. He rolls one on and comes to lie beside me on the couch. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” I whisper, lowering myself over him and pressing kisses to his forehead, down his nose, to his lips. I run my hands through his hair, down his abdomen, along the length of him. Then I guide him into me.

It’s the best thing I’ve ever felt.

“Fuck,” he mumbles as I start to move on him.

“I know.”

“Laurel—”

“It’s okay,” I soothe, brushing my lips against his. “Me too.”

Because I know exactly what he’s thinking. I’m thinking it, too—that this is the purest ecstasy; the most beautiful, heartbreaking, exquisite turn of events. That it feels impossible; that it feels predestined. That somehow, in some universe, it was always going to be this way. It had to be.

It only takes me a few minutes to bring myself to the point of shattering. “I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I’m sorry; I can’t keep going.”

“Hey,” he says, kissing me deeply, “don’t ever apologize. I want you to feel good.”

“Well, mission accomplished. Do you want to try something else?”

“Nah,” he says. “You just make sure you finish.”

“What about you?”

“I promise, you have nothing to worry about.”

I explode in a burst of color and energy, Nick following right behind.

“God.” I collapse on his chest. “Why haven’t we been doing that since you showed up at my door?”

“If we did that for weeks on end, I think we’d die.”

“You’re such a loser,” I tease. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he agrees. “I think we should’ve been doing that all along.”

“Then we’re in agreement.” I murmur, kissing his cheek.

“Ah,” he says, running his finger lazily along my hip. “But I don’t mean just now. I mean for the last eight years.”

I freeze. “What?”

“Mostly just this,” he whispers, tracing my jaw with his thumb and pulling my face to his. “Kissing you.” He brushes his lips against mine, the tenderest suggestion of a thing. “I’m never going to get enough.”

“Well,” I say, marveling that my heart can melt any further, “then we’d better make up for lost time.” And I lean in and kiss him again.

TWENTY-FOUR

two years earlier

“I’m really loving the book you gave me on Christina Rossetti,” I say, perched on the edge of a chair in Dr. Spillinger’s office. “You always have the best recommendations.”

Her face illuminates at the praise. “I thought you’d like that one.”