Page 70 of Conception
The way his hands roamed my body, the sensations he elicited as he buried his head between my legs and drank, sucked, ate, licked, fucked—basically ran the entire gamut—nearly sent me over the edge time and time again. But he didn’t allow that. Hence the torture.
I don’t know what it was. The darkness, the nature surrounding us, the truths I’d just spilled to him that I’d never told a soul left me vulnerable in a way I’d never felt before. A way I never thought I’d want to feel.
Yet, through it all, I didn’t have a single regret. Knox didn’t handle me like I was delicate. He didn’t handle me with sympathy—or, hell, even empathy. He allowed me to tell him what I wanted to say, and then he placed it behind us without my even having to ask.
That’s why I told him he couldn’t make me fall in love with him, never expecting that his response would be the sweetest contrast between lovemaking and fucking that a woman could ever experience.
One simple request. He did the opposite.
That’s why part of me hates him right now, even though I know the truth. I’ve fallen hard and I don’t give a single damn. Because when he leaves at the end of the summer, every second, every memory, every piece of myself that he’ll take with him will have been worth it.
Even if it breaks my heart.
Before him, I was already broken. With the power to put me back together again, just to have it all come crashing down, it’s all in his hands.
It doesn’t matter. Knox has given me something I didn’t have when I came to Crystal Cove the beginning of the summer.
He’s given me backme.
And even if it all falls apart and we say our goodbyes, sure, I might have a broken heart. But I’ll still have myself, and I will forever be grateful to him for it.
I just really,reallyhope it doesn’t come to that.
I have to find a way to make him stay—or start building the walls around my heart to keep him out. Either way, I have a feeling I’ll still be broken in the end.
And I think I’m okay with that.
For now.
Ever since that day in the cave, I’ve felt closer than ever to Amelia. Hell, anyone. Not that I’ll tell her that. It’s been three weeks of settled bliss without another thunderstorm to spook her. Not that I’d mind playing protector again.
She hasn’t brought her parents up again; still, I sense a peace in her that wasn’t there before. Like just talking about them for once, saying it all out loud, was the therapy she needed. Not to let them go—I’d never expect that—but to realize it’s okay to move on.
It’s the closest I’ve ever come to telling her I want more than this, but if she feels the same, she’s tucked those emotions deep down, perhaps where she hides her parents.
She told me not to make her fall in love with me. I should’ve made her make the same promise. Instead, I work on building my own walls. Reminding myself that this is temporary. Wellington is forever.
Why the hell does it seem like that’s not enough anymore?
And why the hell can’t I beat the damn thought out of my mind?
Along with my fucking obsession with Amelia, the heat wave plaguing the summer hasn’t relented one bit. July brings even more brutal temperatures, which makes it difficult for lazy days at the lake or long hours out exploring the countryside. And that makes it easier to spend long days lazing about in bed, getting to know every curve, every inch, and every freckle on Amelia’s body.
On the days we actually venture out, it’s usually to neighboring towns so Amelia can help me with the lake house. She picks out light fixtures and bathroom tile and everything in between with me. I love that her touch is on every inch in the place. I also know it’s going to be a constant reminder of her when we’re finished.
During the last week of July, there’s an unexpected reprieve from the heatwave, so we head out into the mountains for a hike. Amelia’s camera, now practically another appendage, hangs around her neck. As we go along the trail, she stops every so often, taking pictures. She’s been doing this ever since the day I first took her out with her camera, yet she hasn’t developed any of the photos. I don’t question it, even though I’m not sure what that’s all about.
“So, tell me more about your dad’s business. What exactly are you going to be doing when you graduate?” she asks, catching me off guard for a moment. It’s not something we’ve ever talked about before. What’s happening beyond this summer. The future.
“It’s boring,” I tell her, not really wanting to spend my time talking about work. That’s a new development, courtesy of her. “Trust me, your photography is much more interesting.”
She shoots me a look. “My photography, thus far, is a hobby. I only hope I can turn it into a career someday. But you have your whole life planned out. What’s that like?”
Safe.
Comfortable.
Stifling.
