Page 112 of The Love of My Next Life
He kisses me again, more fiercely this time, and he starts to speed up his thrusts.
“Yes,” I whisper against his mouth.
I drag my nails down his back and move my own hips, meeting his thrusts. It feels amazing, and all I can do is what I’m doing. All I can think about is him, and me, and us.
I don’t care about anything else. Just him. Just us.
He reaches between us and rubs my clit in tight, fast circles in time with his movements. My body starts to tingle, similar to the time in the concession stand, yet totally different. It’s erotic and fascinating and I want more of it.
“Keep doing that,” I tell him, and seconds later, I come with a cry.
He kisses my chin, my lips, my cheek, as my mouth opens and my body tightens with my orgasm. My moan is strangled and blissful, and the moment my orgasm dissipates, Macon pulls out of me and comes all over my pelvis and thighs.
He drops down next to me and we lie on our backs, side by side, in silence as we catch our breath.
Once my pulse steadies, a giggle slips past my lips. Then another. Then another, until we’re a giggling, giddy mess of euphoria and naked flesh.
After a shower, I lie with my head on Macon’s shoulder, tracing my finger over the broken clock on his pec. His arm is wrapped around me, his hand is resting on the curve of my hip, and he lazily runs his finger back and forth over my bare skin there. I sigh. This is contentment. If I could do this every day for the rest of my life, I’d be happy.
His breathing grows deeper, and his fingers move slower on my hip.
“Why is it broken?” I ask softly, hoping to catch him before he drifts off to sleep.
His chest vibrates on a hum.
“Because even a broken clock is right twice a day,” he mumbles. I smirk.
“But it doesn’t have hands.” I yawn and close my eyes. “It can’t be right at all without hands.”
He doesn’t answer, and I fall asleep nestled to his chest.
TWENTY-FIVE
I stretchmy legs and arms, relishing the ache I feel between my thighs.
I smile. The ache means it happened. It wasn’t a dream.
I roll over in the cool, soft sheets and reach for Macon, but my hands only touch more bed. I train my ears for movement but hear nothing. No breathing. No shower running.
I tense, and my heart starts racing. I crack an eye open and feel immediate relief when I see a sticky note resting on his empty pillow. I sit up slowly, noting my sore muscles, and pluck the sticky note from the pillow.
It’s the same one from the coffee mug. The one I hurled at his head after that terrible night over winter break. I wince at the memory, then smile when I realize he saved the sticky note.
Don’t give up on him, it says. Don’t give up onusis how I take it.
Us.
Me and him. Macon and Lennon.
“Okay, Macon Davis,” I say with a smile. “You got me.”
I stand and dress quickly in my prom dress, wishing like hell I had something else to change into. Maybe Macon is bringing us coffee. I try to call him, but my phone is dead, and I don’t have a charger.
I turn the TV on and scroll through the channels. I watch some of the morning news. Every time I hear movement in the hall, I sit up straight and stare at the door, hoping to see it open with Macon on the other side. It never does. I make a cup of the hotel room coffee, then promptly pour it down the sink.
I wait patiently for the first thirty minutes. Making excuses.
The next thirty minutes, I wait concerned, running through all the possible things that could have gone wrong. By the time eight a.m. hits, I’m bouncing between terrified and infuriated.
