Page 154 of Always Meant for You
“I want to make you happy,” I say against the shell of her ear. “I want to keep you safe.”
I hold her close, rocking into her, savoring each gasp that escapes her lips, each ripple of pleasure that moves through her.
Her breath stutters against my skin. “Cal,” she whispers, “you make me so happy. You make me whole.”
Her voice shatters me. I hold her tighter, working her body. We move in sync. This isn’t about chasing release. It’s about claiming every part of each other.
I shift, grinding against that perfect spot, and she cries out, nails digging into my shoulders.
“I’ve got you. I’m right here,” I say, hovering on the edge.
She comes undone in my arms, shaking, crying out into the night. I follow, hips pumping harder as I give her everything, all of me.
Her name tears from my throat as my release hits, and it’s just her and the water and the air. It’s like nature swallowed us, invited us in, and allowed us to tap into her beauty.
We stay locked together, chests heaving, water rippling around us, our heated breaths mingling in the tiny slice of space between us.
The fireflies dance above the surface, and Mabel curls into me, cheek resting on my shoulder. I run my hand down her spine, memorizing the shape of her, and the peace threaded into this moment.
A sharp pop from a shotgun echoes through the trees, and I tense.
“Is somebody shooting?” Mabel lifts her head, her eyes scanning the dark.
I follow her gaze. A narrow beam of light cuts across the far end of the clearing, swinging low to the ground.
My stomach drops. “Christ, I think it’s old Mr. Stewart.”
Her eyes go wide. “Didn’t you say he has vision trouble?”
“He does.”
Another shot rings out, far off, and aimed toward the sky. Not close enough to pose a real threat, but close enough to make my pulse spike.
“This is private property! If you don’t skedaddle, you’ll be taking a bullet,” he calls, voice worn but full of purpose.
Mabel grins, her breath hitching with laughter. “Skedaddle? Who says that?”
“Half-blind farmers with shotguns, apparently. And I thought I only had to worry about your father shooting me,” I whisper, trying not to laugh.
I scoop her into my arms, carrying her toward the bank. Water drips from our skin, her hair trailing across my chest. Another shot cracks through the night. The man’s popping off shots like it’s the Fourth of July.
Mabel covers her mouth, her laughter bubbling over. “Cal, you do know how to make it exciting.”
“I aim to please,” I tease.
“All that time in New York and nobody ever shot at me.”
“Another first?” I ask as another haphazard shot pierces the air.
“It is,” she says, still giggling as I set her down.
The flashlight beam cuts through the trees, drawing closer.
“If we run now, we’ll make it,” I say. “Grab your clothes and head for the truck.”
We scramble. I tug on my jeans and boots. Mabel spins in frantic circles, hair dripping, shirt half on.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
