Page 72 of The Forbidden Summer
He closes his eyes, lets out a breath that sounds like a prayer, or maybe relief. “Then I guess we’re both in deep.”
“Yeah.” I smile. “And I don’t want to come up for air.”
He kisses me then, slow and sure, like a vow, and we lie there, tangled in each other, until the world fades again.
And nothing exists but this.
Waylon
Van's insatiable.
Every look turns into a kiss, and every kiss turns into… Hands wandering, breath quickening, bodies pressed close like they can't ever get close enough.
He touches me like he’s starving, but careful too—like I’m something sacred. Every look and touch carries heat and reverence, every kiss deepens until we forget where we are, or who we were before this.
One brush of his lips and I’m gone. One sound from his throatand I’m aching.
He murmurs my name between kisses, like a question and an answer all at once, and I can’t stop—don’t want to. The way he tastes, the way he moves, the way he wants me—it undoes me.
And I want to give him everything. Again and again.
He stirs beside me, and I can just make out his form in the moonlight spilling through the window. His foot touches mine, then slides more surely up my calf. He wiggles his perfect ass, scooting back against my body.
“Père?” he asks softly.
“Van,” I sigh, knowing if I reach between his legs, I’ll find him rock-hard. “Can’t sleep?”
The boy is horny all the time, even in his sleep.
“Will you… Can we…”
“I’m an old man, Evander. Old men need sleep. They can’t fuck all night long into the wee hours of the morning.” But God, how I wish I still could. I would live inside of him.
Flopping onto my back, Van follows, snuggling up to my side. He palms my cock, testing to see if I’m hard, or if he can make me hard.
“Don’t say you're old. You’re only fifty-six. Thirty-four years difference in our age isn’t enough to make your dick stop working.”
I can’t help but laugh at his logic. Pressing a kiss to his soft hair, I pull him tighter against my side. “Tomorrow, I’ll fuck you out on the dock, under the sun. But for now,” I say, pressing another kiss to his temple, “we sleep.”
Van grumbles predictably, snuggles deeper into my side, and I listen as his breathing evens out.
The weight of him is perfect, grounding me in this moment.His hand rests over my heart, his legs tangled with mine, as if he’s trying to anchor himself to me even in sleep. I press my lips to his hair, inhaling the scent of him—soap, skin, and something that’s just Van.
The moonlight spills through the open window, painting soft shadows across his face. His lashes flutter faintly, and I wonder what he’s dreaming about. Something good, I hope. Something that makes him feel safe and loved.
My hand drifts to his back, tracing slow, lazy circles. It’s not to wake him—he needs the rest—but because I can’t help myself. Holding him like this feels like the only right thing in a world that so often feels wrong.
I close my eyes, one arm wrapped tight around him, and let myself believe, for just a little while, that maybe this isn’t something we’ll have to give up. That maybe love like this can hold, even in the real world.
But even if it can’t, I have this. This moment. This night. This summer.
Our forbidden summer.
And Van, warm and safe in my arms.
The morning light filters in through the curtains in pale streaks, warm across our tangled limbs. Van moves beside me, mumbling something unintelligible into my shoulder before going still again. His hand is splayed across my ribs, thumb twitching like he’s dreaming.
I lie still as I watch him sleep, drinking in his beautiful features.
