Page 122 of Seven Lost Summers
One word.
That’s all.
And fuck… it slams into me.
My chest seizes, my pulse kicks, and all I can think is how many years we’ve danced around this line.
How many times I’ve wondered. How many nights I’ve buried the thought of what it would be.
Before I can take a breath, Nate moves.
One step and he’s right there.
Heat rolls off him, bare skin brushing mine.
Our chests press together, and fuck, our cocks touch. My lungs stutter.
His hand comes up, fingers rough against my jaw, grounding and destroying me all at once. His thumb strokes my skin, and those blue eyes don’t waver.
And suddenly he’s on me.
Fuck. His mouth slams into mine, all hunger and heat, no pause, no question. His lips are soft, but the kiss is fucking filthy—messy, raw, desperate. Years of want pouring out in one clash of tongues and teeth.
I groan and part my lips for him. His tongue slides against mine, wet and hot, and it’s everything I’ve ever tried to bury exploding in my chest.
We collide harder, chest to chest, cock to cock. Hard. Heavy. Throbbing. The friction makes me hiss into his mouth, fingers digging into his sides as if I can pull him closer when we’re already fucking fused together.
It’s rough.
It’s perfect.
And all I can think is yes.
Fuck yes.
His teeth catch my bottom lip, a dirty scrape before his tongue soothes over it, and I swear to God I could come from this alone. From him. From the taste of him mixed with Quinn still clinging to his mouth.
He pulls back, lips wet, breath harsh against mine. Our foreheads nearly touch, and his eyes lock onto mine, dark and so fucking sure.
For a second, the heat between us is everything. No words. No rules. Just this.
The crash hits hard. Panic pulses through my ribs.
Did we step too far over that line?
I freeze, lips parted, every muscle wound tight, waiting for him to back off. To laugh it off. To shove it back into the box we’ve kept locked tight for years. To pretend it doesn’t mean a single fucking thing.
But Nate smiles.
It’s slow and crooked. His thumb drags along my jaw, rough and steady, and he leans in close enough that his breath brushes my lips when he murmurs, low and dirty, “You taste like her…”
Heat detonates low in my gut.
And suddenly he’s kissing me again.
Slower this time.
It’s a different kind of hunger now. Deeper. Rawer. His hand fists in my hair, tugging hard enough to make my cock twitch, and I groan into his mouth, opening for him, letting him take whatever the fuck he wants. Our tongues clash, wet and messy, and it’s not soft. It’s claiming. Starving. The kind of kiss that says we’ve both been waiting for this without even knowing it.
