Page 35 of The Forbidden Summer
Before I can even think, before I can decide what to do with this quiet knot of nerves in my stomach, Père moves.
One second, I’m on his lap, contemplating my next move, and the next, his arms are around me, strong but careful, lifting me with ease. My breath catches as he scoops me up, cradling me against his chest, and I feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against mine.
His skin is warm, and I press my face into the curve of his neck, inhaling the scent of him—woodsmoke, something earthy, and a bit of salt, like the rain-soaked earth outside. I don’t say anything as he carries me through the cabin.
When we reach his bedroom, he pauses for a second. He searches my eyes, but there’s no hesitation.
With a careful gentleness, he lowers me onto the bed, the sheets cool against my skin. I feel every inch of him as hefollows, covering me with his body, his weight pressing me into the mattress, but not in a way that feels heavy, just warm. Solid.
His chest presses against mine, and I feel the soft tickle of his chest hair against my skin. It’s strangely intimate, more so than any kiss or touch we’ve shared. This close, I can feel the texture of him, the heat of him, everything he is, every inch of him.
Père’s face is inches from mine, and I find myself staring into his eyes, searching for the same things I’ve been feeling but haven’t said yet. His hand rests on my waist, and his fingers are warm, tracing little patterns against my skin like he’s still trying to memorize every part of me.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, his breath warm against my lips, and I feel the truth of it, like a promise.
God, I need to hear that from him. Every hour, every day, like a mantra, a vow.
The world outside the cabin fades. It’s just us here. No questions, no hesitation, just the pulse of this moment, wrapped in warmth, skin, and quiet understanding.
And as he leans down, pressing his lips softly against mine again, I feel that connection, that something real, that something more than anything I ever imagined.
I don’t need to say anything, because I can feel it in his touch. I can feel it in the way he pulls me closer, the way he holds me as if nothing in the world matters except this.
Waiting for my grandad, saving myself for him, was the smartest decision I’ve ever made.
All those years of hesitation, of fighting my feelings, of wondering if it was worth it to wait and see if we could find something more than just the familiar bond of family, were worth every second. Even when I wasn’t sure if he’d ever feel the same, even when I thought it was too dangerous, toocomplicated. When I swore the loneliness would kill me. Now, I see that it was the only thing I could have done.
Because this, right here, with him wrapped around me, is everything I’ve needed and more. It’s messy and beautiful, raw and tender, like fate’s been waiting for us to figure it out.
I don’t need to say it out loud. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my heart beats when he’s near.
Père. My granddad. The man I never thought I’d love like this, but somehow, I’ve always beenmeantto love him this way.
And I won’t run from it.
Nor will I let him run, now that I know how perfect we are together.
There’s no going back.
The way he fits against me, the way we move together, how his hands touch me like theyknowme, like they’re writing the story of us in the spaces between his fingertips—it’s all too much. It’sright.
I press my hand against his chest, feel the steady rhythm of his heart, and I lean up to kiss him again, soft at first, but deeper as I feel him respond, his mouth a slow promise against mine.
I break the kiss, but I don’t move away. My forehead rests against his. “I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur, each word a pledge. “Not ever.”
His eyes flutter open, and for a moment, I think I see a flicker of surprise. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced with something deeper, something warmer. I feel it in the way his fingers gently caress my cheek.
“Van…” He says my name softly, like he’s testing it out, tasting it on his lips. He seems to struggle for a second, but then he pulls me closer, his chest expanding with a sigh.
Waylon
Holy shit. Van is in my arms. My grandson, my sweet boy, his body warm and soft beneath me, and I’m holding him close. In my bed.
I’ve dreamed of this moment, but… no, I never even dared to dream of this. It’s more than I could have hoped for.
The only reason I know I’m not dreaming is because he’s writhing and squirming like a horny boy,like my Van, pressing his hard dick against mine for relief.
“Père?”
