Page 112 of Every Beautiful Mile

“Looks like it.”

The only place to go is in.

Forty-two

In the middle of the houseboat in damp clothes, I’m terrified. It’s smaller than before, like the rain is making it shrink, and soon, there won’t be enough oxygen for both of us.

As the drops pelt on the metal walls, its rhythm races that of my pulse. I don’t need to ask what’s about to happen. I already know.

Despite all the ways my body is begging for this man to make it feel good, I’m frozen. I haven’t had sex in eighteen months, and suddenly, I am both highly aware of this and extremely self-conscious.

Ethan is a perfect specimen, and I’m just… not. For two decades, the only man who’s seen me naked is Travis. By the time he died, we were far from the nervous kids we were when we met. He knew my body better than I did. He watched me stretch and soften with pregnancy and age, yet always seemed to know what I needed without me ever using words to say it. We fit like a favorite pair of faded blue jeans.

The wild anticipation that drove us when we were younger had been replaced by a comfortable longing after years of practice. And while I expected that to be boring when I had imagined growing old with someone, it wasn’t. It was a familiar kind of pleasure.

Here, in this room, I’m an inexperienced kid all over again. Only this time, I’m forty-one and hyperaware of the lines that have been drawn on me with a paintbrush wielded by the hands of time.

I watch his chest rise and fall with his breath as he closes the space between us with a small step. We aren’t touching, but it’s the only thing I can think about. His hands on me. My mouth on him.

“I… I haven’t done this in a while and…” My voice is a trembling mess. “I might be, you know, bad, or something.” I pull at the hem of my shirt.

He lifts my chin with his knuckles, his gorgeous eyes meeting mine. “You could never be bad, Nel,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Then his eyes drop to my mouth and my lips part like an unspoken invitation.

That’s all it takes. He knows. He presses his mouth against mine in a kiss that steals away what little breath I have left. Every swipe of his tongue feels like water in my lungs, drowning me slowly into the entirety of him.

Heart be damned, I want this more than I need to walk away from him unscathed.

The softness of our kiss turns to a frantic fury of tangled tongues and nipping teeth. His hand fists my hair, and the way he tugs it, just enough to let me know he has me, makes the blood in my veins turn hot.

We knock into the table and a chair falls as we stumble past. When I laugh into his mouth, it’s only for him to steal it with another deep, hungry kiss.

Arms overhead, my shirt is off. Hands at my waist, my jeans drop.

A trail of what we’re doing covers the short distance to the bedroom.

“Nel,” he says against my skin, making my whole-body clench at the rough way he says my name. “I’ve wanted to do this from the first night we met.”

I say something, but I’m not sure what. The ache that’s forming in me is the only thing I can focus on.

My bra drops next. Before I can even think about feeling uncomfortable, his hands replace it while his lips, tongue, and teeth never stop scraping across my skin.

The fact that I’m nearly naked, and he is fully clothed is both extremely unfair and undeniably hot.

When he gently pulls and pinches my nipple, I whimper. Once again, he’s undoing me with just a touch. Once again, I don’t care. He gives me everything I don’t know to ask for in every way as his fingers glide across my skin.

His hungry mouth replaces his hand, and I run my fingers through the thick hair on top of his head.

“Ethan…” His name is a breathy beg on my lips as my head drops back. I want more. I need more.

His hands are everywhere, his mouth is everywhere, and I can feel how hard he is for me. For us.

He pulls his shirt over his head, and I trace the dusting of hair that covers his broad chest and subtle ripple of abs. When I get to the bulge in his pants that is making my entire body throb, I drag my fingers along the outline of it.

The guttural moan he gives me from that touch alone feels like a reward across every inch of my skin.

His hands grip my ass, lifting me up, and dropping me onto the bed—there’s an urgency in the way he moves. A neediness.

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