Page 73 of Set on You

All I can do is nod, distracted at the impressive sight of him.

“I didn’t hear you. Tell me louder,” he commands, not breaking eye contact.

“If you’re not in me within five seconds, I’m going to lose it,” I warn him, parroting his own words back to him.

He grins, swiftly hooking one of my legs around his waist. I open my legs slightly wider to guide him in. He pushes into me achingly slowly, exactly the way he kisses. He slides in inch by inch, moving back out ever so slightly, almost teasing. When I move against him, signaling I want more of him, he fills me completely.

He shudders over me when he feels me adjust and close in around him. He brushes his thumb over my cheek and over mylips. I run my fingers greedily over the ridges of his back, digging my nails in the deeper he goes.

“Holy shit. You feel so good.” He glides in and out, his breath like hot waves against my neck.

It’s more than how good this feels. It’s how he looks at me, all of me, washing away all my worries and fears. It’s how he gets me, knowing exactly what I want before I vocalize it. I’ve never felt connected with someone like this before. It’s a completeness I’ve never experienced. A fullness that tells me I’ll never feel empty again when it comes to this man.

With each movement, our bodies slide together like two pieces of the same puzzle, joining and melding. In this moment, I don’t know how I could ever be without him again.

As we find the perfect rhythm, moving faster and harder together, he never takes his eyes from me. He never stops communicating with me, telling me how beautiful I am or how good it feels. And when he tells me he’s close, my entire body unspools beneath him, over the edge, past the point of no return.

•••

I WAKE UP TOthe awful hissing, sputtering sound the kitchen faucet makes when the hot water is running. I press the pads of my index and middle fingers to my eyes. When I extend my legs under the covers, there’s a dull ache everywhere below the waist. It feels like I’ve done a killer leg day.

I rub the sleep out of my eyes, cracking them open only slightly to take in the stream of light bursting through the space in my blinds I always make a note to fix but never do.

Why do I feel like a nineteen-year-old the morning after a wildrager where I took down too many tequila shots off the bodies of strangers? I didn’t even drink last night.

The faint sound of Tara’s laugh and the deep, gravelly voice that prompted it echo from behind my bedroom door. I grip the duvet with a clenched fist when the realization crashes over me.

Stuck in tree. Cold rain. Breaking all the rules in the book. Mind-blowing sex. With Scott.

The memory comes back full force, like an ultra-HD movie. I remember everything. How he looked at me like he truly gave a shit. The deliciously sweet taste on his lips. How he touched me with such precision, as if we’d been together for years. His rough voice when he told me he couldn’t wait any longer. And how unapologetically loud, masculine, and guttural he sounded when he finally let himself go.

We fell asleep after the first time. Then we woke up again an hour later and had sex again to make up for lost time. It was slower, with me on top. We took our time, memorizing every inch of each other’s bodies, rocking in a near tantric rhythm, not wanting the window of bliss to end. When it was over, he wrapped me in the safety of his big arms, his embrace giving me an overwhelming peace I’ve never experienced before.

There’s a loud vibration on my side table which interrupts my incessant fond memories. I sigh, rolling out of the comfort of my cocoon to check my phone. I squint at my screen. A text message fromDiana.

My stomach bottoms out. The blissful tingles flittering around my body all but disappear when I register the unfamiliar feel of this phone.

This isn’t my tacky bedazzled phone case.

It’s not my phone plugged into my charger. It’s Scott’s.

chapter twenty-four

MY THROAT CONSTRICTS.I’m entirely frozen. From his lock screen, which is a precious photo of a smiling Albus Doodledore, I can’t see what she’s texted him. I hover over the screen, itching to type in his password, which he’s readily admitted is his birth year.

I flex my fingers, willing myself to do it. But I pull back. I can’t bring myself to snoop through his phone. It feels like a massive invasion of his privacy. And to be frank, I’m terrified of potentially unlocking the brutal truth.

I stare at her name for a few more moments, blinking in disbelief until I lose my resolve and creep on Diana’s social media from my own phone.

And that’s when I see it, on Twitter.

Diana Tisdale—Boston, how I’ve missed you! Happy to be home.

Diana is back.

In Boston.

The tweet is from a week and a half ago. The very same night Scott received the mysterious phone call.

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