Page 49 of The Forbidden Summer
I nod, my throat tightening again.
Because that’s what love feels like, doesn’t it? A letter you write and tuck into the corners of someone else’s life, hoping they find it when they need it most.
And I wonder, when I go, will I leave behind something like that for him?
Will he know?
His fingers slide over my thigh, seeking my hand. He doesn’t grip, just rests them there, light as breath.
I turn my hand over, let him slip his fingers between mine.
It’s nothing dramatic. No big declarations. Just warmth and reassurance. Exactly what I need.
I turn to look at him. His eyes catch the porch light, all shadow and gold. I don’t say anything as I watch him. Because I want to remember this. The way he looks in this moment. The way he feels beside me.
And maybe he feels it too—the ache of it, the sweetness—because after a moment, he leans in, slow and unhurried, and presses his lips to my shoulder.
It’s so simple. So intimate.
My whole body exhales.
The heat from his lips lingers like it’s trying to say more than words ever could. I don’t move at first. I just let it settle, let it soak into my skin, into the parts of me that are always bracing for things to break.
Then I turn. Not a lot, just enough to face him, enough for our knees to brush and for our hands to still be tangled. His eyes find mine in that quiet way he does when he’s unsure if he’s allowed to want something.
So I close the distance for him.
Our mouths meet, slow, deep, like we’ve got all the time in the world and still not enough. His fingers slide into my hair, gentle but possessive, and I let him pull me closer until I’m practically in his lap, the swing creaking beneath us.
His hands roam my back, under my shirt, fingertips skimming skin, making me shiver. I kiss him again, this time with more want, more need, like I’m trying to memorize the shape of his mouth before the summer takes him from me.
I straddle him, our bodies pressing flush together, and he exhales against my neck, this soft, broken sound that goes straight through me. My name in a whisper.
“Van…”
I thread my fingers through his hair, tug just enough to tilt his head back so I can kiss down his jaw, his throat, tasting the natural salt of his sweaty skin. His hands grip my hips, grounding me as mine wander—over his chest, his waist—until we’re both breathing harder, caught in something deeper than just heat.
It’s not just wanting him. It’s needing to feel close, to make the most of every second we still have.
Because I know this won’t last forever. But right now, I need him to feel it too—that this matters. Thathematters.
That we could have a future just like this.
Père’s breath stutters when I move against him, my hips rolling slow and deliberate. His grip tightens like he’s trying to hold onto the moment, or maybe to keep himself from falling apart.
I don’t want to rush this.
Not with him.
I want to feel every second of it, the way his hands roam like they’re memorizing me, the way his body responds with this quiet, desperate honesty. I want to make him feel as wanted as I’ve felt since the day I showed up here, and he looked at me like I might ruin him.
His shirt is the first to go, damp and clinging, peeled off between kisses and laughter muffled against skin. I trail my mouth down his chest, tasting him, and the sharp inhale he makes when I reach his ribs. He’s so sensitive there. I file it away for later.
I kiss him again, slow and deep and wanting, and he arches into it, gasping my name like a prayer he doesn’t even know he’s saying.
We move together like we’ve done this a hundred times in our dreams. Like our bodies already know the way.
The rusty chain protests our movement, but I couldn’t care if it quits on us and we fall flat on our asses. There’s not a chance in hell I’m stopping now.
