Page 22 of One Hot Summer
Blue eyes stared into mine as if he could see into my soul. “I want more of this. More of you, of us. I want a chance to truly explore what’s happening between us without the rest of the world butting in.”
“I want that too,” I admitted, grateful that he was willing to give us a chance.
We stood like that for a while, the wind picking up and making the leaves tremble. The sun slipped behind the ridge, and I wanted to bottle the moment, to freeze it forever. “I’m scared,” I admitted. “I don’t want to lose Dalton. He’s the only family I’ve ever had. And I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to choose.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think you’ll lose him, Adam. I may be biased since he’s my son, but he’s truly one of the best people I know.” He ran his thumb across the back of my hand, a gentle rhythm. “But we’ll tell him when the time is right. That is, if you aren’t sick of me by the end of this trip.”
Feeling emboldened, I brushed the pad of my thumb over his bottom lip. “I will never be sick of you.”
He pulled me into a hug, arms wrapping around me, chin resting on the top of my head. I melted into him, the world shrinking to the span of his chest and the scent of his skin and the thump of his heart under my ear. When he kissed me, it was nothing like the desperate, frantic movements of the night before. It was slow, careful, a question instead of a demand. I answered it with everything I had, and when I tasted him—wine and wind and want—I knew I’d never get enough.
We moved inside without really discussing it. I followed him up the stairs, both of us quiet, but the silence was different now. Not a barrier, but a cocoon. In his room, he shut the door and turned to me, not saying anything. He just cupped my face in his hands and kissed me again, lips lingering, then moved to my jaw, my throat, the hollow of my collarbone. Every touch was deliberate, as if he was memorizing me with his mouth. I let him undress me, piece by piece, until I was standing in the dim light, completely bare. For the first time, I wasn’t shy. I wanted him to see everything. I wanted him to want it. To want me.
He took his own shirt off, then shorts, then boxers, and the air around us crackled with anticipation. I expected him to push me down, to take control, but instead he walked me backward to the bed and stood there, just looking at me for a long time.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and the words made my skin go hot. No one had ever said those words to me, but the honesty in his gaze made me believe them.
I kissed him, and he kissed me back, and then we were horizontal, our bodies tangled together, every inch of me pressed to every inch of him. He took his time, kissing every part of me, trailing his fingers down my chest, my stomach, my thighs. When he touched my cock, it was with reverence, as if it was something sacred.
He rolled me onto my back and hovered above me, his eyes searching mine. “Is this okay?”
“It’s more than okay,” I said, my voice shaking.
He reached for the lube in the nightstand, warming it in his hands before touching me, prepping me with slow, gentle motions. I moaned, high and breathy, and he smiled against my shoulder. When he finally pushed into me, it was different than before. He was careful, going slow, watching my face for any sign of pain. There was still heat, still hunger, but it was tempered by a kind of awe, a mutual recognition that this meant something. That it wasn’t just bodies coming together, but a promise.
We moved together, sweat slicking our skin, breath mixing in the space between us. He kissed me through it, lips soft and desperate, and when I came, I cried out his name, clutching at his back. He came a minute later, burying his face in my neck, groaning so low and rough it made me tremble.
Afterward, he cleaned us both up with a damp towel, then climbed back into bed and pulled me to his chest, holding me so tight I almost couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want him to let go. We lay there, tangled up, the moonlight painting the sheets silver.He traced the line of my jaw with his fingertip, then pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I wish I could keep you here forever,” he whispered.
I smiled, sleepy and sated. “Maybe you can.”
He laughed, and the sound vibrated through me. “Dangerous words.”
I nestled closer, fitting myself to him. “Worth it.”
I fell asleep like that, wrapped up in his arms, listening to a storm rumble somewhere in the distance. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I felt wanted. I felt home. And I didn’t care if it was complicated, or messy, or terrifying. As long as Griffin Price wanted me, I was exactly where I belonged.
Chapter Eight
GRIFFIN
Adam draped across my chest, a sleep-heavy weight that pressed me into the mattress and made it hard to remember why I’d ever spent a night alone. His bare thigh was slung over mine, skin hot and smooth, and his hand was curled under my ribs in a way that was both possessive and vulnerable, like he was afraid he might lose me in the night. His head was pillowed on my biceps and his hair stuck to my arm with a sheen of dried sweat. I could feel every exhale against my skin, each breath a humid tickle.
I lay there for a while, not moving, just listening to his breathing and feeling the steady drum of his pulse against my side. Outside, the mountains were blue and hazy with morning fog, but in here the air was thick and still, our world reduced to the square footage of a single unmade bed.
I’d never been a sentimental guy. Most of my relationships, such as they were, had been defined by the ways we left each other, by all the tiny silences that crept in before the inevitable fade-out. But this… this was a kind of hunger I’d neverexperienced. Not just for his body—though God knew I wanted that—but for the easy way he fit against me, the lack of apology in his touch. He’d gone from an intrusion to an addiction in less than a week.
I slid my hand down the length of his spine, feeling each knot under my palm, and watched him stir. He blinked up at me, eyes unfocused, then yawned so wide I thought his jaw would unhinge. His morning face was a mess—red marks on his cheek where it had pressed into my arm, hair going every direction at once—but I didn’t think I’d ever seen anything so fucking beautiful.
“Morning,” I whispered, kissing the top of his head.
He grunted, squinting at the clock on the nightstand. “Is it legal to be up this early?”
I snorted, tightening my hold on him. “You weren’t complaining last night.”
He shifted, burrowing closer, and nipped at the skin over my heart. “Last night was different,” he said, the words muffled by flesh. “Last night you had your tongue in my ass before the sun even set.”
“Correction,” I said. “It was after sunset. I’m not a total animal.”
