Page 68 of Until Next Summer

When he’s as deep as he can go in this position, he lifts me up, setting me on the counter where we started. I lean back, my hands splayed on the cool steel for support. With this new angle, his strokes are longer, reaching new depths, and I cry out as he fucks me as promised. The locked wheels of the counter squeak against the floor, moving us inch by inch across the kitchen.

Cooper’s gray eyes, intense in the dark, lock onto mine, and warmth pools in my lower belly. I’m dangerously close to unraveling when he leans down and slips my nipple between his teeth, tugging gently on one, then the other. I let out a guttural moan and pray no one shows up hoping for a midnight snack.

Just the mere thought of a snack makes my stomach sound its alarm, a rumbling growl.

“You hungry?” Cooper asks, a laugh in his voice.

“Only for you,” I say, wrapping my legs around his waist and pulling him closer. He leans toward me, and I meet him halfway so we’re chest to chest, our skin slick with sweat and our breath coming fast. I reach my hand down between us to apply pressure where I need it, and my body clenches around him as the intensity builds and builds until I finally combust.

I attempt to silence myself by biting down on his shoulder, but he doesn’t stop thrusting and I can’t stop my cries from coming, rolling with waves of pleasure as we fall apart together.

“Is that what you wanted?” he whispers into my neck.

“And then some,” I say, allowing myself to relax into him.

Once we catch our breath, I pull on my underwear and T-shirt, he pulls on his boxers, and we retreat to clean up in our separate bathrooms—me to the girls’, him to the boys’—then meet back in the kitchen.

I stop in the doorway, admiring the sight of Cooper’s backside, illuminated in the light of the open fridge. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Feeding you,” he says, taking out last night’s spaghetti and meatballs. “I’ll heat this up—”

“No!” I blurt, then flush. “I mean, can we have it cold?”

“That’s right, your weird leftover fetish.” He shrugs and sighs. “Fine, but only because I’m still not thinking straight after what we just did.”

“If you really want the full experience, we’ll forgo the plates and eat right out of the Tupperware.”

“You’re a heathen, Hillary Goldberg,” Cooper says. “But I’m in.”

We sit on top of what I’ll forever consider “our counter,” two forks and the open container between us.

“Isn’t it good?” I ask, after taking a big bite and swallowing.

“I’m not about to yuck your yum.”

I laugh. “Do you remember what my cabin used to call spaghetti and meatballs when we were teenagers?” He shakes his head. “Noods,” I say, pointing to a noodle, “and balls.”

“Noods and balls?” he repeats, choking on a laugh.

“Yup. And speaking of balls,” I say, glancing down at his package. “Can we do that again for dessert?”

“We can do that anytime, anywhere you want,” he says, giving me a sweet kiss. I let out a satisfied sigh, happier than I can ever remember being. We could’ve been doing this for the last three weeks!

I’m going to do my damndest to make up for the time we lost, getting as much of him as I can until camp is over.

Which, for me, is in two days.

“Hey,” Cooper says, turning my face toward his. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just so happy,” I tell him. “And so incredibly sad.”

He slips an arm around my waist, and I lean into the crook of his neck.

“I’m sad you’re leaving, too,” he says, kissing the top of my head.

“It’s not just that. I’m sad that we’re losing Camp Chickawah, that I couldn’t save it.”

“If I had a million dollars,” he says, “I’d buy the property from the Valentines and decree that the land only be used for a camp from now until the end of time.”

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