by Amelia Wilde
“Why are you telling me this now?”
I don’t have an answer for him—not a good one. There’s no reason I couldn’t have gotten in touch with him after high school. God knows I spent enough time in college friending people online and spilling our deepest secrets. What was keeping me from telling Dawson that I walked away from him because I was afraid?
Because I was a coward.
I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter, not anymore. All that matters now is the pain he can’t disguise in his voice.
In that moment, something inside me shatters, and I give in. I give into the instincts I’ve been fighting since I first saw him. I give in to the intense need I’ve had for ten years to be close to him, to touch him one more time. If I can just do that, maybe we can both move on, maybe we can—
Before another thought can cross my mind, I reach out, taking his face in my hands, my palms against his stubble, and I pull him toward me, pressing my mouth against his.
We fit together like we’ve never been apart, not for one single day, and everything in my being melts. His hands go to my waist so quickly that I almost fall off the kitchen stool, landing on my feet while I throw my arms around his neck for balance, never breaking the kiss.
His tongue demands entrance to my mouth and I don’t fight him, just part my lips and let him in. Oh, damn, he tastes so good, like the gum he always used to chew and a pure sweetness that’s all Dawson. A moan escapes from somewhere in the pit of my stomach and it’s all I can do not to strip off all my clothes so I can get that much closer to him.
That’s when he pulls back a few inches, his forehead wrinkled, his breath fast in his chest. “What are you doing, India?”
“Kissing you.”
“You didn’t want to—”
“I always wanted to.”
Something changes in his eyes, and then he’s the one who covers my mouth with his lips this time.
It’s like time stops, the kiss is so intense, every moment stretching out into an eternity of pleasure. His lips are firm against mine, powerful, unrelenting, and I sink into the strength of his arms.
God, this is where I’ve wanted to be ever since the day I turned him away.
Dawson’s grip tightens on my waist, and then his palms begin exploring the curves of my hips, my legs. He hooks his thumb into the waistband of the oversized sweatpants and pulls them down, then slides his palms up over my bare skin, pulling the shirt off along with the hoodie.
The warm air of the kitchen does nothing to deter my nipples from standing straight out, and his thumbs circle their hardness while he kisses me with more ferocity than I thought possible. The boxers are the last to go, and then I’m totally exposed, though no heat rushes to my cheeks—not from embarrassment, anyway.
“This isn’t fair,” I mumble into his cheek, and I feel him smile.
“What’s not fair about it?”
In answer, I slip my hands underneath the hem of his shirt and tug it upward, revealing the most gorgeous, cut set of abs I’ve ever seen in my damn life.
I lean forward and press my lips to his collarbone, then drag my teeth across it, and with a growl he lifts me up so that I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist, as he presses his mouth into my shoulder, the sharp edges of his teeth pressing against my skin.
“Do it.”
I don’t know what I’m begging him to do, but he reacts anyway, moving us out of the kitchen, plates abandoned on the counter.
He goes through the living room, licking at the side of my neck, and takes a left instead of a right. Toward his bedroom, not the guest room.
By the time we get there, I’m lost in the sensation of his attention, and it’s the cool surface of the comforter against my back that brings me toward some semblance of reality.
He’s stripping off his jeans, his boxers, giving me my first glimpse of his manly frame.
And, oh, shit, it’s a sight to behold.
Every line of him is cut, ripped, and so solid I’m sure he could stay standing if the house fell down around us. His blue eyes blaze in the soft light of the room—when did he turn the lamp on?—and my chest goes tight in anticipation of his hands on me again, his strong, rough hands against my skin…
The tension breaks as he steps forward, the bed dipping under his weight, and leans his lips down to the space where my shoulder runs into my neck and licks it with the tip of his tongue. My entire body trembles. It feels just like it used to, only magnified a million times.
“Please…”
The word escapes me, and I don’t do a thing to hold it back.
8
Dawson
Every cell in my body ignites at the word “please,” and I wrap myself around India, her damp hair spreading out over the comforter behind her head.
I run my hands down every inch of her creamy skin, testing the weight of her breasts, wrapping my hands around her hipbones. She arches up toward me, her hands on my broad shoulders, and I lean down one more time to put my lips against her collarbone and drag them across to the hollow underneath her neck.
India spreads her legs wide underneath me, begging me wordlessly to come on, come in, and for once in my damn life, I don’t let the gash she left in my heart make me hesitate for even a second. I line myself up with her wetness and plunge in.
My mind fractures with the intense pleasure of it, the way she’s still so tight, yet yielding. She takes all of me in with a growl of pleasure, lifting her hips so that she can get absolutely as close to me as fucking possible.
It’s like I’m in my body now and ten years ago at the same time, only now we’re not crammed in the back of my truck or hurriedly fucking up against a hidden corner of one of the abandoned factory buildings on the outskirts of town. There’s only the expanse of my bed to hold us. I’m so much fucking stronger now, somehow larger, but her lithe body can handle it. There’s no weakness in her trembling, only an electric strength that makes me want even more of her than this.
I can’t begin to think about what that means, though, because her muscles pulse around me and everything shuts down except what matters most right now: the fresh, soapy scent of her skin, the way her eyes flutter closed as I thrust into her, the smoothness of her chest interrupted by her hardened nipples. I could drink her in for the rest of my life and never need to touch another drop of water.
I don’t know how much time has passed when she opens her eyes, locking that vibrant green expanse on mine and grinning with a fierce wickedness so different from the nervous pleasure of the girl I used to know. She thrusts her weight upward so our positions are reversed and presses down on my chest with her hands. India is still for only a moment, and then she begins a slow, tortuous swirl with her hips that has me gripping the comforter with both fists.
“Fuck, India.”
She drops toward me, her lips just brushing against my ear. “You like this?”
I love this.
I want to say it but I can’t—something holds me back, even now. It’s like if I say it, I’ll admit that part of me is still dwelling on her, on what could have been.
She slides up and down on my cock and I reach for her hips, exaggerating her movements, and she throws her head back, her breasts thrust toward me.
It’s the most gorgeous sight I’ve seen in ten years and I’m not going to fucking ruin it by saying something that’s too damn emotional or not enough or whatever else gets between people who finally have another chance.
Another chance…
Electricity spikes from my shoulders to my fingertips, and I can’t help myself. Something unlocks the last barrier between me and animal instinct and I’m moving us, turning her so she’s on her hands and knees, and then plunging back into her with a powerful ferocity.
India’s hands scramble on the comforter, looking for something to fucking hold on to, and I fuck her with total abandon, rising up on my knees behind her, a low growl tearing from my throat.
“Yes,” she whis
pers, her voice shaken by my thrusts. “Yes.”
She clenches around me—whether it’s on purpose or involuntary, I just don’t fucking care—and I pick up speed. She braces herself however she can, ass up in the air, legs spread wide, taking it and loving it, her hips still moving side to side.
When she comes, it’s an incredible display of force, rocking her forward and back against me, so powerful that I have to take her hips in my hands and pull her back to keep her in place. Her rippling muscles, tight around my cock, pulse and squeeze and push me right over the screaming edge, joining her cries. It’s so fucking good that it hurts, it hurts like I never want it to stop, and I just want this moment to last until the end of time.
For a long few moments, we’re frozen in place, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm, until I wrap my arms around her waist and tumble us both onto the pillows.
India stretches her body against mine until we’re touching in every possible place, and then she sighs so deeply that I feel all of her relax.
I can’t see her face, but I imagine that her eyes are closed like mine are, sinking into sheer fucking bliss.
I don’t know what time it is, and I don’t bother turning my head to look at the clock. The lamplight burns, but not so brightly that it stops me from falling into a deep sleep.
For once, I don’t dream of her.
I don’t dream of anything.
It’s the first time in several years that my mind is completely satisfied, that my heart isn’t pulsing with an ache I can’t get rid of.
9
India
The gray light of morning is competing with the dim yellow glow of Dawson’s lamp when I wake up. Consciousness returns slowly and by increments. At first I don’t know where I am, and I fall back into a shallow dream, but the next time I surface I remember—the car going into the ditch, the horrendous storm, Dawson at the passenger-side window.
My cheeks go hot. There was more, too. The dinner he’d prepared. The fucking—it wasn’t making love, it was wild, passionate fucking.
And Dawson, stretched out beside me, his arms over his head, abs completely on display.
I resist the urge to run my fingers over them and instead reach for the lamp, clicking it off. My eyes are instantly relieved, and I drop back on the pillow and look around the room. It’s early—five, if the alarm clock on the bedside table is right—and I yawn, the sheets soft against my skin.
My heart twists in my chest when I think of what happened last night. Jesus, it was so good—so good. Nobody I’ve been with since high school has ever compared to Dawson, and now I know they never will. Only there’s a fluttering in my gut that makes my face flush even hotter.
It’s not like after one night of mind-blowing sex, we can just pick up where we left off. Not least because where we left off was a pretty shitty place, and I don’t think either one of us wants to revisit that.
Images from last night flicker through my mind, even though I close my eyes and try to rest. Dawson’s smooth, regular breathing is a soothing sound, but after a few minutes my heart starts to pound.
What are my choices now?
We can shake hands and part ways and never talk about this again, or we can actually talk about what happened then and what’s happened now, even if it’s like a knife in my heart. Dawson clearly has some feelings about it, and I can’t say I’ll be shocked if—even after all this—he wants nothing to do with me. It’s not like he asked me to drive my car into the ditch outside his house. And it’s not like he’s ever reached out to me, even once, in the last ten years.
I can’t fault him for taking advantage of a situation like this. I wanted the same thing.
My mind spins in a hundred different directions. What do you want now? I can’t take him back to my parents’ house with me and declare that he’s the one after all these years.
Well—yes, I can.
I just don’t know if I want to face the disappointed looks on Christmas Eve.
But I’m getting way the hell ahead of myself. What does Dawson want? Probably not to go back and face the people who convinced his daughter he was a worthless piece of shit who didn’t deserve five minutes of her time.
I wander in and out of this kind of circular bullshit for another forty-five minutes, and then I can’t take it anymore. I put my legs carefully over the side of the bed, listening for any change in Dawson’s breathing. I don’t want to wake him up if I don’t have to.
I’m halfway through the door when he rustles under the comforter, but he just turns over onto his side, not waking up.
I pad out into the living room. One wall is taken up with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase—God, all of my books would look fantastic here—and in the filtered light through the picture window I stop to see what he’s got.
It’s a motley collection of books. I recognize some dog-eared copies from way back in high school. When I spot the photo album, I can’t stop myself.
I listen hard for him, but in the silence I pull it down from the shelf and crack it open, the plastic pages separating with a tiny snap.
And there we are.
It’s the first picture in the album, all alone on its own page. My arms are around his waist. It looks like it was taken in the spring, somewhere outside, and by one of those crappy disposable cameras. It’s slightly off center, but I’m grinning at the camera like it’s the best day of my life.
Dawson is looking down at me, his face illuminated with a broad grin. Back then, there was no hardness in his expression. Sure, he was a bad boy who had a foul mouth and stayed out all night doing God knows what, but it was all in fun.
The expression on Dawson’s face in the picture makes my heart ache.
I flip through a few more pages. There are some pictures of Dawson and his friends flipping off the camera, a few awkward snapshots of what looks like a high school dance, Dawson’s sister Cassie—but no other girls, no one except me.
At the very back of the book is a picture I’ve never seen before. In it, I’m sitting in the grass several feet away from whoever took the picture—Dawson, I imagine, looking down at one of my favorite books, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. The sun is shining from behind me, reflecting off my hair, and I look absolutely at peace.
I haven’t felt like that in years.
Not since last night, when I fell asleep with Dawson’s arm curled around me.
I put the album back and make my way to the guest bathroom. There’s an unopened toothbrush and toothpaste in the cupboard where the towels are, and after I brush, I turn on the shower, strip off my clothes, and step in, images of Dawson filling my head.
10
Dawson
I wake up because there’s a sudden lack of body heat on the other side of the bed, and my hand automatically reaches out for India, only to hit the bare sheets.
I sit up, blinking in the dim-ass morning light. Where the hell is she? She couldn’t have gone home because her car, for all I know, is still in the ditch. I have no idea if she called someone to tow her out, and if they even showed up. If she wasn’t there to pay, I seriously doubt it.
I run a hand through my hair. It’s just after six in the morning, and my thudding heart tells me that I won’t be going back to sleep. Not if India is somewhere in my house, waiting for me.
My muscles are still warm and relaxed from last night, and a strange feeling of contentment fills my chest as I go into the bathroom to take a piss, splash some water on my face, brush my teeth.
Then I go looking.
It takes no time at all to figure out that she’s in the shower in the guest bathroom. The hiss of the water, at this time of day, travels through the entire house.
If the door is closed, I won’t bother her, but with every step I take, my heart beats faster, my cock gets harder. The thought of her naked body underneath the stream of hot water makes it seem like there’s not enough air in the room.
The bathroom door is open.
Wide open.
The steam curls out in little tendrils from the doorway, but it looks like she hasn’t been in here long enough to be anywhere close to done. Women love to take those long showers, and I’m damn glad for it.
I rap my knuckles against the doorframe. “Hey,” I call into the steam.
“Hey,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that brings a smile to my face.
“You all right? You need anything? Towel?”
“I’ve got a towel…”
“But?”
“Well, this is a pretty huge shower. Really nice, though.”
“You think it’s too big?”
“I think it’s a little empty.”
Now my smile becomes a full-on grin, and I drop my boxers to the floor.
“I can help you with that.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you. You might have a busy day planned.”
“On Christmas Eve? Doubt it. I’m not opening the bar.”
I move toward the shower and open the glass door. India has her hands in her hair, working the last of the shampoo out of the dark ends. When she smiles at me, it shifts everything in my fucking body, cracking open the thick walls of denial I’ve kept built up for ten years.
Yeah. I love her. That’s the pathetic, killing thing about this. I love India Patrick. I’ve loved her since high school, and it’s been eating me alive for the past ten years.
Except for now.
I step into the shower with her and pull the door shut behind us. She drops her hands from her hair and runs her fingertips down my chest, pulling me closer so that we’re both under the water.
“I could get used to this.”
My voice sounds almost gruff, and something flickers across India’s eyes. “You could?”
“Hell yes.” I look down at the water droplets streaming down over her skin and my cock twitches against the flat of her stomach.