Some of my best memories are of summers at the lake house with my mother, while my father was working down in Washington DC.
It's the place where Caulter and I fell in love.
It's also the place where my mother returned for the last time, before she died.
It holds some of the best and most painful memories of my life.
And some of the hottest…
The thought of that summer with Caulter and all the forbidden things we did – the afternoon in the library when we broke the ladder and nearly got caught; Caulter fucking me in my bedroom while important people celebrated our parents' engagement downstairs; him bending me over my father's desk in his office…
The mere memory of that summer makes me flush warm.
"You're blushing," Caulter says, and I instinctively bring my hand to my face, trying to hide the redness I know is there. He laughs. "You're thinking about that summer."
"What?" I squeak. "No." I don't know why I'm embarrassed.
Caulter chuckles under his breath before sliding his hand up my leg. "You so are," he says. "Dirty girl."
"I wasn't until I met you," I say. "You're the one who corrupted me."
Caulter slides his hand between my legs. "And I'd corrupt you all over again, too."
Heat rushes through my body at the warmth of his hand, even through my jeans. "I think you've corrupted me in every way possible," I say, my breath hitching in my throat.
"I have," he says. "Are there any new ways to defile you, or have we figured out all of them already?"
He’s joking, of course, but as we sit there in silence, driving, my thoughts start spinning. What if all of the excitement is gone? What if marriage and a baby means that we’ll wind up with missionary sex once a week -- if that – for the rest of our lives? Can Caulter Sterling, ex-manwhore, really be happy with the prospect of domestication?
"Are you happy?" I blurt out the words, realizing they must sound completely out of the blue to Caulter.
"Am I happy?" Caulter asks. “What kind of a question is that?”
"I don’t want to have missionary sex once a week,” I blurt out.
Caulter laughs. “I hope not,” he says. “Where is this coming from? Is this some kind of third-trimester freak-out?”
“Are you having second thoughts about the wedding? About settling down?” I ask the question, despite knowing it’s ridiculous.
Caulter loves me. He’s happy. He just put together a nursery.
From my seat, I can see Caulter wrinkle his forehead. “Are you having second thoughts about everything? Because I’m pretty sure there’s a no-return policy on babies.”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“What’s with the once-a-week-sex comment?” Caulter asks, turning at the next road we pass.
“You’re Caulter Sterling. Women used to throw themselves at you. Do you think you’re really going to be happy with the prospect of domestic bliss?”
Caulter shakes his head and doesn’t answer, driving silently down the small, quiet road dotted with houses decorated for Christmas. There’s patchy snow on the ground out here, and the grass that peeks through in spots is brown and shriveled, the decorations bright against the barren landscape.
“Where are we going?” I ask. The fact that he hasn’t responded makes me wonder if my concerns are right on the money.
Can a bad boy really be tamed?
When we pass the last house on the road, Caulter pulls over to the side, in a space shaded with a cluster of trees. "Kate," he says, his voice urgent.
“You didn’t answer me.”
"I didn't answer you then, because I wanted to pull over and tell you this," he says.
"Tell me what?" I ask, looking at him.
"That I’m pretty effing satisfied with the prospect of domestic bliss,” he says. “And that you're sexier now than the first day I laid eyes on you.”
"Well, I hope that much is true, at least," I say. "I mean, I was pretty un-sexy in high school."
"I don't know about that," Caulter says. "That night in the hotel room, when you called me to hook up, you were pretty sexy, in your conservative dress and your headband."
"Oh God," I groan. "Don't remind me about the headbands I used to wear. Why did I wear those?"
"You were the hottest thing I'd ever seen that night," Caulter says. "Actually, you should wear headbands more often."
I stifle a snort. "You have a thing for headbands?" I ask. "Is that why you hooked up with me? Headband fetish?"
"I have a thing for whatever you wear," Caulter says. "Or don't wear." He leans forward, his elbow on the console between us, and slips his finger under my chin, bringing his lips to mine. When he kisses me, it's not tender or gentle, the way it is so often now. It's passionate, urgent, his tongue finding mine the way he did the first time in that hotel room.