Page 68 of The Forbidden Summer
“You didn’t really doubt me, did you?” he asks, his voice easy. The kind of easy that makes my heart skip a beat.
Unfortunately, I did. Countless times. Endless lonely nights where I wished he were beside me.
I reach over, my fingers brushing against his briefly before he threads his hand through mine. We don’t need words for this. It’s the connection, the way we fit, the way wearewhen we’re like this, quiet, in sync, without any pretenses.
Van’s voice pulls me back from my thoughts. “You ever think about what’s next?” he asks, his tone casual, but there’s a hint of something more underneath.
I shrug, squeezing his hand. “Every day,” I admit. “But I'm more focused on right now. I think... I think I'm okay with that for a little while. Just being with you.”
The music melts into another soft ballad, and we both settle into the lull that’s comfortable between us. The kind of silence that isn’t filled with the need to say anything, just the peace of being together.
As we approach the turn for the cabin, the lights of Stony Creek still twinkling off in the distance, I pull the truck onto the gravel road. The engine slows to a purr as we pull into the driveway, the lights of the cabin casting a warm, familiar glow against the trees, welcoming us home.
I’m not sure what tomorrow holds, or next week, or what this thing between us looks like in the long run. But right now, right here, it doesn’t matter.
We’re together, and that’s all I need to know.
I kill the engine, and for a moment, we just sit there, the music still playing softly in the background, the night wrappingitself around us. I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes for a second.
Van squeezes my hand again, and I open my eyes to find him looking at me. “Come inside,” he says, his voice low, inviting. “I can’t wait to shower and fall into bed with you.”
And without a second thought, I nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
All I want is to hold him in my arms and make love to him.
Worship him.
Thank him for returning the other half of my heart.
Van
This is it, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for all summer. Actually, I’ve been waiting years for. The moment I can finally feel my Père moving inside me. The moment I become a man.
Hisman.
Inside, the cabin feels impossibly quiet, and I swear he can hear my heart pounding with excitement and nerves. I kick off my boots, letting my socks slide against the cool wood floor. Père’s already moving, peeling out of his jacket, the muscles in his back flexing under the thin cotton of his shirt. The smell of him curls around me and drags me closer without even trying.
My hand finds his waist, fingers sliding under the hem of hisshirt like they have every right to be there. Père turns to me, and it’s all in his eyes. That pull. That need. That love I can’t ever seem to put into words.
I kiss him hard, no space left between us, my hands clutching the fabric of his shirt, desperate to feel more. He makes this sound low in his throat that shoots straight through me, grounding me and setting me on fire all at once. His hands are everywhere—skimming under my shirt, tracing my spine, pulling me closer like he’s afraid if he lets go, I’ll disappear.
I yank his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind me, not caring where it lands. His skin is hot, damp from the day, and when my palms slide over his chest, he shivers like I’m something he’s been starving for.
The back of my knees hit the couch and I fall into it, laughing against his mouth as he follows me down, covering me completely. His weight pins me to the cushions, solid and real, and I never want to move again.
We lose our clothes piece by piece, kisses deepening, hands roaming with a kind of reverence that makes my heart ache. “Van,” he whispers against my throat, against my shoulder, like a prayer or a promise.
Every brush of his mouth, every graze of his fingers leaves me unraveling. I press kisses to the hard planes of his chest, the slope of his belly, the dip of his hips, drinking him in like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.
When he kisses me again, slow and deep, like he’s trying to stitch us together from the inside out, I melt against him.
There’s no fear here. No shame. Just us.
Two men who were meant to be together from the start.
Two men who have finally found their way.
“Shower with me?” Père asks, sounding husky and sexy.
