“Those puns are only funny if you’re a boy.” I try not to smile. “A twelve-year-old boy.”
“Ask me how hard it’s going to be.”
We’re definitely not talking about our relationship anymore. Not with that heated look in his eyes.
“How hard?” A shifting feeling stirs near my heart, trickling warmth through my body.
He grabs my hand and presses my palm against the steely length of his cock, trapped by his shorts.
A delicious shudder raises the hair on my arms and nape, and I clamp my fingers around him. He grunts a heavy breath and hooks his arms around my back, lifting, then lowering me to my back on the bench seat.
He kneels beside me, crowding in, a hand beneath my thigh, fingers feathering against the crotch of my bikini bottoms. His other arm slides behind my shoulders. Then he’s kissing me, licking inside my mouth, and panting hungrily. The hand between my legs grows bolder, presses harder, anchoring me to the man I chose, the one I was always meant to marry.
I grind against his touch, melt into his kiss, and thaw from the inside out. My legs fall open. My nipples harden, exposed and needy. “I need you.”
He smiles against my mouth and pulls the crotch of my bikini to the side, baring me. “Say it again.”
“I need you, Cole.” I moan as a finger enters me slowly, deeply.
His mouth doesn’t leave mine as he pumps his hand and strokes me to orgasm. Then he removes the last of my clothes and kisses every inch of my body, caressing, teasing, worshiping—all while holding my gaze.
When he finally climbs between my legs, I bury my hands in his hair and stare into his hooded eyes. We make love like that. Pressed hard against each other. Hips moving languorously together. Connected on every level. Never looking away.
He has beautiful eyes. Wild and passionate. I see my future in them. Him and me.
As we peak together in groaning ecstasy, I wonder what he sees in my mine.
As the months pass and the seasons change, I remain fully committed to Cole and our future together. It isn’t easy. Love isn’t easy. We fight. We fuck. We argue about petty shit and slam doors. But we always make up.
I won’t allow myself to long for Trace. Not even for a tiny tempting moment. It’s been four months. He’s running his empire in St. Louis and no doubt enthralling the panties off gorgeous women everywhere. Meanwhile, I’m slowly settling into the tranquility of lake life with a man whose patience amazes me endlessly. Cole has grown up so much in the past few months. Maybe I have, too.
It’s a blissfully hot August night. The deafening buzz of cicadas sings from the surrounding woodland. The baked sky chars to a deep shade of black, and the wind whips my hair as Cole veers the motorcycle along the winding road toward home.
Home.
He talks about moving back to St. Louis, and I talk about opening a dance studio next to the Walmart near our little piece of lakefront heaven. My sister is the only reason I’d go back to the city. Trace is the reason I won’t. If I ran into him, if I saw a hint of sadness creasing his handsome face… I can’t. Maybe someday. But not yet.
I know Cole keeps in touch with him regularly. Though I’ve never overheard a phone conversation between them. I never ask. I can’t flirt with the past. Happiness is forward, and that’s where I’m headed.
My sister, on the other hand, loves to mention Trace during our weekly phone calls. Bree hasn’t nosed around in his life, but she wants to. I threaten to disown her if she steps a foot into his casino. It’s a hollow threat. I miss her terribly, even though I just saw her last month when she and her family spent a week with us.
Cole swerves into the driveway and parks the motorcycle in the garage.
I flatten my palms against his shoulder blades, rubbing circles across the sculpted terrain, his t-shirt damp from the humidity. I love to ride with him in the summer. Without the leather jacket, he’s all muscle, flesh, and body heat.
We climb off the bike and remove our helmets, grinning at each other.
“What?” I smile wider.
“I’m still thinking about the man and the melons.”
I roll my eyes. At the beginning of summer, I started volunteering at the local food pantry. Cole decided to go with me tonight to check it out. An hour after we arrived, a scruffy middle-aged man ambled in to collect his ration of donated groceries. When I handed him two small watermelons, he refused them and pointed at my breasts, saying, “I’d rather have the tiny ones. I bet they’re sweeter.”
To Cole’s credit, he didn’t lose his temper or swing a fist. He simply leaned toward the man and said calmly, “Take the watermelons and walk out the door.”