Page 51 of Moving Forward

“Most likely,” I admit.

“Could get mighty boring just sitting around here,” he says, his voice suddenly raspy. He leans forward until his face is mere inches from mine. My breath hitches and I beg him with my eyes to bridge that gap. I can barely stand that small space between us—I need it gone. He lets out a low chuckle that tickles my skin. “Think we need to do something about that.”

“Yes,” I agree, fighting to keep my breathing even.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Only what you want.” And then his lips meet mine.

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For a long time, I thought kissing was all about the setting—in the rain, on a couch in candlelight, on the front porch, in a car. I thought a particular setting made the mood right—that’s what made people lose control. Like the fact that you were alone, lost in the romanticism of the moment, made you uninhibited. Now I see how juvenile that thought was.

When I met Ethan, I realized kissing was about more than the setting. Up until then, I’d dated a few guys who all begged me to go further when things got heated, but I was never into it. Something was off—and I’d always attributed that to the fact their parents were upstairs, or we were in a movie theater, or anything else I could think of. I didn’t understand it was about how you were kissed.

In my time with Ethan, I’d been kissed playfully, lovingly, angrily, apologetically. He’d kissed me in a million different ways a million different times, none of them a repeat. I thought when we were sixty, sitting on our porch in our rocking chairs and watching the grandkids play in the front yard, he’d lean over to kiss me and even then it would be new. I thought those kisses were in unlimited supply and would never go extinct, even if people did. They’d always exist somewhere. In memory, in heaven, in a parallel universe. Everlasting and stealing away breaths.

Right now, kissing Cain, my thoughts are validated.

From the way he was looking at me before, I didn’t expect Cain to be kissing me the way he is. I thought it would be hot and heavy, but I’m quickly learning that isn’t the way Cain kisses. At least, not at first. He kisses with all the control in the world, sensual and deep and excruciatingly slow. Kissing Cain must be like how it feels to be inside of a volcano right before its explosion. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are cinders and molten lava oozing from my pores.

His tongue sweeps across my own and I can’t stop a moan from escaping. My cheeks go bloody red, embarrassment settling in. I didn’t even know I was capable of sounding like that. He pulls away for a second, a dangerous look in his dilated eyes.

“Fucking love that sound,” he growls, the words forced and uneven.

Cain pulls at my bottom lip with his teeth and then delves into another deep kiss. His hands move to grip my hips and lift me. I clumsily lock my ankles around his waist as he backs us up toward the seating at the back of the boat. He lays us both down, his body on top of mine, but not crushing me. By some act of God, his lips manage to stay connected to mine.

He breaks away and his mouth travels down my neck, and all I can focus on is the pleasure of the moment. Every place we’re touching and every place we’re not. I need something more. Something to aid the building pressure between my legs.

My hips involuntarily arch up against his thigh. Even if he’s acting like he has all the time in the world, he doesn’t. I can feel his erection straining against my stomach. I shudder, the sensations too much, but so perfect at the same time.

He raises his head and asks through heaving breaths, “Keep going?”

I sigh, at a loss for words. With him so close, all I’m capable of are sounds. The embarrassing ones that spur him on. Not that it’s a bad thing. I’ll take mortification any day, as long as he doesn’t stop.

“Tell me when,” he commands. His hands circle around the back of my neck. His fingers find my bikini strings, untying them so expertly I can’t stop from wondering just how many times he’s done this.

As quickly as I start to panic about his experiences versus . . . well, my lack of experience outside of one person, my mind goes blank. Tugging the final string, he pulls my top away and throws it to the ground.

Reality settles in. I’ve never been naked in front of anyone other than Ethan. I didn’t think I’d be naked for anyone except him again. I thought I would never have a first time again because he would always be my last. I still wish to God that was the case—that I would never have to want or need anyone but Ethan. Only he’s not here, and I do want and need someone else. I’m beginning to want Cain more. I’m beginning to want to give Cain my future—all those lasts.

I bite my lip, needing him to do something before I completely lose it. He doesn’t seem to sense my guilt or pain . . . and I don’t want him to. That other day I might not have been ready for more, but today I am. I’m always going to feel guilty and carry painful memories no matter what. I just need to learn to allow my happiness to override them.

He cups his hand over one of my breasts with all the delicacy in the world. His expression glazes over as his thumb brushes my nipple. My breath catches in my throat from the sheer amount of pleasure. He gives it a light pinch and a tug, licking his lips as it hardens from his touch.

I arch into his hand, letting out a satisfied moan. He tears his gaze away from my breasts and his eyes bore into mine. “So fucking gorgeous,” he whispers, sounding far away, then leans down. Only he isn’t going toward my mouth. With a swift motion, his mouth takes my breast, his tongue circling and flicking my nipple.

All I can do is whimper, my hands fighting their way through his hair. How in the world could I ever be expected to stop when he has me nearly begging him for more? I don’t even have a voice, let alone willpower.

His other hand flattens out on my stomach over my belly button. I close my eyes. Yes, please keep going. If it was possible to will someone to do something, now would be the time for that to happen. I can’t scream out any louder, rub against him any harder. I’m already on the edge and I know even if he doesn’t touch me, I’ll come. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to. My body might explode if he doesn’t.

“Please,” I whimper, arching further.

His attention focuses on me, and he slants his head, a small smile tugging at the side of his mouth. Not a smile. Just a look of contentment. “Peaches,” he murmurs and kisses my lips lightly.

His hand finally glides down my stomach the rest of the way, over my bikini bottoms. His fingers dig in through the material, finding that bundle of nerves that’s been neglected for far, far too long. My pelvis bucks and grinds against his hand greedily, seeking anything and everything he’ll give me.

“Come for me, Peaches,” he breathes against my lips and that’s all I need. As he presses harder, going deeper, circling those nerves, I come completely undone for him.

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