Page 89 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
I step out of my clothes and pull off my top and throw it onto the floor. I kiss him, pulling him into my body heat. He dips his forehead to mine and lets it rest there.
We stay like that, like our bodies are in a silent prayer of thanks for the do-over. The second chance we’re both grasping onto and not letting go. Like we’re building something we want to last this time.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder and pulls me tighter. His mouth brushes over my collarbone. My jaw. My lips again. Every touch saysI’m sorry. I missed you. I love you. I need you.
The shower is already steaming, water pouring over us in a steady rush. I run my hands over the planes of his chest, warm and slick beneath my palms, his skin smelling like salt, rain, and the wild outside. He breathes hard when I hold him tighter, like he needs it more than air, and something inside me aches with the need to be that for him. The one he runs to. The one who steadies him. His safe harbor.
He cups my chin, fingers trembling as he tilts my face up. His eyes are darker than the storm outside. “You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “You always have been.”
I can’t speak. I just press my mouth to his, slow and sure, tasting water and want, kissing him deeper, longer, until I’m dizzy.
He reaches for the soap, working up a lather in his hands before spreading it over me with a washcloth. The fabric whispers over my skin, dragging heat in its wake. He’s gentle, thorough, his touch reverent as he glides it over my shoulders, down my arms, over my breasts. His thumb circles my nipples, teasing until I moan into his mouth. The cloth trails lower, over my stomach, in between my thighs. I gasp and clutch at him, my knees trembling at the slick, deliberate stroke of his fingers beneath the fabric.
“Relax,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Let me take care of you.”
He turns me, pulling me back against his chest. I lean into him as he squeezes shampoo into his palms, working it into my hair with slow, massaging circles. His fingers dig into my scalp, firm but tender, and a moan slips from my lips before I can stop it. His cock presses hard at the small of my back, thick and insistent, and I push against him, breathless with the heat curling low in my belly.
I can’t help myself. I turn, sinking to my knees on the wet tiles, the spray pelting my back as I take him in my hand. His head tips back instantly, his groan echoing against the shower walls. I lick the bead of moisture from his tip before sliding my mouth down over him, taking as much as I can. His taste fills me, musky and raw, and I hollow my cheeks, sucking harder, loving the way his thighs tense beneath my hands.
“Willa,” he rasps, his fingers tangling in my wet hair. His hips jerk, shallow thrusts that make me choke and moan around him. The sound drives him wild. “God, you’re killing me.”
Before he loses control, he drags me up, spinning me so my back hits the cold tile. The shock makes me cry out, my nipples tightening painfully against the chill. Then his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding, his tongue claiming me as his hands grip my thighs, lifting me effortlessly.
I wrap my legs around his waist as he thrusts into me in one smooth, hard stroke. The contrast of cold tile at my back and his burning heat inside me is overwhelming. I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as he pounds into me, his rhythm relentless, the water cascading over us in pounding sheets.
“More,” I beg, rocking against him, my moans filling the small stall. He growls low, shifting me higher in his arms, angling deeper until he hits that spot inside me that makes me shatter. I cry out, clinging to him as my body convulses, the orgasm tearing through me like a storm.
But he doesn’t stop. He spins me, pressing my front to the slick tile, his hand fisting in my hair as he thrusts into me from behind. My breasts flatten against the cold wall, my nipples aching with the sensation, every movement dragging a desperate whimper from me. He lifts one of my legs, hooking it higher over his arm to give him better access, and the new angle is devastating.
“God, Tate,” I moan, clawing at the tile, my body arching back to take him deeper.
His hands grip my hips tight, bruising, as he slams into me, his groans ragged, lost to the rhythm. My thighs shake, pleasure building again impossibly fast. When I come this time, it’s louder, harder, every nerve ending sparking as he drives me straight into oblivion.
He follows me over the edge, his roar muffled against my shoulder as he buries himself deep, holding me against him like he’ll never let go.
When the water finally runs cold, we stumble out, bodies slick, hearts pounding. We collapse into the bed in a tangle of limbs, clinging to each other like it’s the only place we’ve ever belonged.
And when he takes me again, it’s slower, softer, like he’s mapping me inch by inch, memorizing a place he never wants to lose again.
Our bodies fit together in a perfect, aching way. His hands on my hips. His lips on my throat. My fingers in his hair. It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’shome.
We move together like we’ve done this a hundred times, but never quite got it right until now.
And when I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer, he buries his face in my neck and exhales a shaky breath that sounds like relief.
After, he gathers me into his arms and pulls the quilt over both of us.
Our skin touches from shoulder to toe. His fingers trace lazy circles into my back. My head rests on his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady.
We don’t talk. We don’t need to tonight. Outside, the storm quiets, but inside, we’re finally still.
“I love you,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’m sorry I left before. I won’t do it again.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper. “And if you ever leave, just take me with you.”
He pulls me tighter. “Deal.”
And I believe him. It’s a new beginning for us.
