I must have made some sort of a sound because he looked up at me, and I couldn’t stop my eyes from begging, couldn’t stop my hands from pulling slightly on his shoulders, couldn’t stop one of my legs from slowly dragging up his shoulder, my foot finding a resting place, my body opening even more. He held my eyes for one, long second, his tongue dipping into and out of me. Then he closed his eyes, as if in bliss, and leaned forward, his head dropping, his hands sliding up my thighs and under my butt cheeks, lifting me up into his mouth.
I couldn’t tell you the things I said. The things I screamed so loudly that my lungs hurt. The man shouldn’t be allowed to have a mouth. Shouldn’t be allowed to use that thing like a weapon, to cut open a woman’s soul, her secrets, her control, and rip them all to shreds. I lost myself, in those minutes with his head between my legs. He took all the pieces that made me Summer and swallowed them whole, made them his. I screamed his name and laid myself bare, and when I came I think I told him I loved him. I didn’t really know. I didn’t know who that woman, naked on a kitchen counter, was. I didn’t know who that man, that heartbreakingly beautiful, sexual freak of nature, was. I just knew that right then, in that instance, I loved him.
And at that moment, in that breakthrough, he stood up in the midst of my orgasm, yanked me back to the edge of the counter, and he pushed himself inside of me. Pumped his hips quick and fast—deep, furious strokes that made my orgasm never stop, never slow; it just stretched further and further until I lost it, somewhere along the line, and it just became gorgeous, beautiful sex. I wrapped my arms around his neck and his lips found mine. He kissed me, then moved to my neck, his teeth grabbing, then his tongue, and I held on to his shoulders and wrapped my feet around his back and I held on to him with all of my strength and what little control I had left. And when he came, I felt his break, felt his mind fall apart, heard him gasp my name, over and over, over and over, a stream of incoherent mumblings as he lost everything and found it in me, his arms locked around me, hugging me to him, and then I was off the counter and on the floor and against his chest, and the kitchen was finally quiet, save our shaky breaths.
CHAPTER 97
He loved her. He did. He fucking loved this woman. He loved her giggle when she couldn’t control it. He loved the mischief in her eyes when she was playful. He loved how her body stiffened and hands balled up and her gaze could eat through a grown man when she was mad. But none of that compared to how much he loved her sighs, the sound of his name when she screamed it, the way her mouth responded to his kisses, her scent—God he could bottle her juices and become a billionaire, but he would never because he couldn’t, in that moment, ever imagine another man with her. He would kill to keep her his, pay every cent of his fortune, destroy his career and never have another if it would keep her his. This was not a rebound, this was not infatuation, this was the end of his life as he knew it, and the realization hit that even if she didn’t want him, he would never ever find another woman like her, he would never ever get over her. He closed his eyes, felt her leg move against his, her chest heaving against his, her mouth by his neck, and he had never been so terrified.
CHAPTER 98
The decision was made, after I finally rolled off him, my shoulders hitting the cold tile, my legs trembling when I stood, a moment of awkward silence between us before I giggled and he smiled, that we needed dessert. Ice cream, preferably. On that we agreed. I went to the bathroom and felt a moment of panic when the evidence of his orgasm came out. Right. Another unprotected experience. Good thing I had just finished my period, my window of fertility not open yet. Still, I should probably go back to Tallahassee. I should also have my head cut open and examined because I had lost something, somewhere, that kept me intelligent.
Quincy had no ice cream shops, at least not that were open on a Friday night past ten. We debated over our problem, but there was really only one solution.
“Walmart?” Cole looked at me as if I had suggested we stage a coup and overtake the Quincy government.
“Yes. You know, giant superstore, has everything at every moment of the day?”
“I can’t go in a Walmart.”
“Because…”
“Not to sound like a pompous prick, but because of who I am. There will be crowds. Paparazzi. And DeLuca will have my ass if I am photographed with you. Especially with…” He made some general hand gesture that I’m pretty sure was meant to encompass my magazine article.
“It’s Quincy. At ten-thirty at night. There will be, like, three people there. And look—” I opened the curtain and pointed. “All the photographers are camped out at my house. Waiting for me to go batshit crazy.” It was true, they were still there, a line of six of their cars, stretched out politely to the left of the Holdens’ gate. Mama was going to turn the lights on and off through the night and keep the blinds drawn, television on. She’d wanted to get more creative with the ruse, but I shut that down. Mama, when she got creative, could go a little overboard. “We could get treats for Cocky there!” I added.
“There are still security cameras in Walmart.” He shook his head at me. “No.”
I twisted my mouth, then got an idea.
CHAPTER 99
“We’ll look like robbers.”
Summer looked at the two bags laid out on the dining room table, with a serious face. “You’re right.” Her forehead wrinkled, and then she looked back at him, an excited look on her face. “We should decorate them.”
He scowled in response, a grin pushing at the corners of his mouth. She clapped her hands in excitement, and it was officiaclass="underline" he’d never be able to tell her no.
“This is stupid.” He pulled at the bottom of his paper bag and scratched an itch the paper was causing against his neck.
“Shut up,” Summer chirped, leaning over the gearshift and adjusting it, his eyes suddenly better lined up with the holes. They were face to face, her own paper bag covering her features, her eyes the only thing visible, shining through two oval circles, her holes much more ‘feminine,’ according to her, than Cole’s basic circles. She’d added blue eye shadow, giant lashes, and carefully drawn eyebrows, courtesy of a thirty-pack of markers they’d found in the study. “Your eye makeup looks fantastic,” he whispered and became suddenly aware of her hand, on his thigh, where she was resting her weight.
“Thank you,” she whispered back and giggled. “Though you should get that mole looked at. It’s worrisome.” Oh yes, the mole that she’d felt the need to add, drawn on his cartoon cheek. She’d added a thin hair coming out of the top of it, and just like that, his paper bag self was suddenly ugly. He’d compounded the issue, drawing worry lines on the forehead and bags under his ‘eyes.’ “He looks stressed,” she had said, then added a cigarette, limply hanging from his mouth. “There,” she said triumphantly. “Now he has a reason.”