Page 38 of Stick Break
“This…” she starts quietly, biting her lip. “This is about escaping reality, right? It’s not about who we are right now, in this moment. Not about who we are outside this bubble?”
I tilt my head, reading between the lines. Is she worried about the mess she’s running from? About me thinking less of her?
“Like I said,” I say softly, “This isn’t Vegas, but what happens in this bubble we have here at the cottage stays at the cottage.”
She nods, a small smile returning. “Except for memories. We get to take those with us.”
“Yes, beautiful,” I murmur, my fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “We get to take them with us.”
She relaxes, sinking deeper into the mattress, looking soft, warm, and absolutely ready. My eyes roam over her again, and when they meet hers, I see the fire burning there — fierce, hot, and explosive.
Goddammit, I’m so ready to make her forget the real world.
“Nice,” she whispers.
“Really nice,” I say as I lean closer.
She parts her legs like an invitation. “Now, what was that about putting your hands and mouth on me? And I believe I remember something about tasting every inch?”
My brain shorts out, fireworks exploding in my chest as need zings through me.
I growl low and wild—like some feral animal about to claim its prize—and climb onto the bed, sliding between her silky thighs.
Just like that, the world outside ceases to exist.
It’s just us.
Want. Need. Heat.
Two broken souls chasing one perfect moment before reality drags us back.
And I swear, I am going to give her a memory worth keeping. I’m not sure why it’s important, I only know that it is.
10
Charley
My heart pounds fast, as the man between my legs leans over me, his lips seeking mine. My lids flutter and I’m about to close my eyes, to slip into this real-life fantasy but stop when he whispers, “Keep them open. I want you to see me, and I want to see you.”
God, no man has ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not with so much quiet conviction and care.
One big hand touches my hair, and he rubs it between his fingers before he gently pushes it from my face. I lay still, and honestly, I’m not sure what I expected from Ripley Stripley, but tenderness…that wasn’t anywhere the top of the list. It actually wrecks me a little.
But until this moment, until his body was on top of mine, I hadn’t realized that it was tenderness, and safety that I craved all along.
“Rip,” I murmur, pouring everything I feel into his name.
And somehow, impossibly he gets it. “I know babe,” he breathes. “I know.”
His mouth meets mine, and the sound he makes—a low, hungry moan—shakes me from the inside out. His kiss is slow, reverent, like he’s trying to imprint himself on my soul. Like we’ve got all the time in the world and he wants to savor every single second.
I curl my hands around his back again. Only this time, I’m not pretending it’s to stay afloat. I’m not hiding anything. I want to touch him. I want to feel every inch of this man. My hands roam—exploring, mapping, claiming—and when he groans against my mouth, I feel the tremor of it echo inside me.
“For the record,” he mutters, breaking the kiss just long enough to brush his nose against mine, “I like when you touch me too.”
So I do.
God, do I.
