Page 161 of Beyond the Stroke

He rocks his hips and his cock presses deeper inside me.

“Do you feel that?”

All I can do is nod.

Our bodies melt into each other, and it’s a moment of breath-stealing relief.

Relief that the intimacy I thought might hurt or expose too much is suddenly safe and so much better than I let myself imagine.

Even though I’m on top, Rory’s unobstructed positioning gives him more control. He picks up the pace and all I can dois hold on for the ride. My knee is banging against the door but it’s worth the bruise that might appear later. My breasts bounce with every thrust. Rory cups one tenderly while his other hand dips between my legs to rub my clit.

The second I let go, it’s like the universe rewires itself. Everything is louder and brighter, and Rory’s name is stitched into every one of my nerve endings.

He follows quickly after, pumping into me again before pulsing deep inside me.

“Rory…that was…”

“I know.” He pulls me close, then smiles against my cheek before pressing a kiss to my jaw. “Just imagine what it could be like when we have space to move.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. It’s relaxed and easygoing.

Just imagine what it could be like if I let myself fall for you.

I collapse onto his chest and let him hold me there until the rain dissipates and we’re forced to pull on our wet clothes and leave.

forty-three

. . .

RORY

I can still feel her in my hands. The way she clung to me in the Jeep like I was something solid in a world she wasn’t quite sure of. The way her voice cracked open for me, soft and sweet and a little bit brave. It wasn’t just sex. It never is with her.

It’s been a week, but I keep catching myself staring at the empty passenger seat like she might suddenly materialize, paint-stained hoodie and all, eating those spicy pickles she can’t get enough of.

We’ve spent every moment we can together since then. Afternoons sprawled in the sand, evenings side by side on the bench near the boardwalk, and mornings tangled up in my sheets.

And it still doesn’t feel like enough.

I stretch out on the couch with my phone, scrolling back through our messages—not because I’m checking for a reply, just because I like seeing her words. She always sounds like herself. Straightforward. Funny. A little stubborn.

It’s such a contrast from the rest of my life lately, all business and strategy and pressure. I’ve got a campaign shoot in a week and a meet right after. I should be dialed in, laser focused. But every time I close my eyes; it’s her I see.

Her smile. Her laugh. That soft, surprised little moan she made when I kissed her in the rain.

I’m in trouble.

And not the “missed your interval, hit the pool deck” kind of trouble. The real kind. The kind where you start thinking about things like home, and not just where you sleep, but who you want to come home to.

I’m not saying it out loud. Not yet.

But I think she knows.

forty-four

. . .

SUMMER

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