Page 145 of Boiling Point
I pulled out nearly all the way, then slammed back in—no gentleness, no pretense of restraint. She met my every thrust, grinding her hips up, greedy and bold, mapping my back, my arms, my ass with her hands, like she meant to memorize every molecule before sunrise.
“You’re perfect,” I rasped, barely holding back. I kissed her throat, the pulse behind her jaw, the soft shell of her ear. “So fucking perfect.” Every thrust was a physics proof—an elegant loop of torque and friction, her body answering mine with equal and opposite need.
She bucked hard, desperate for more, and I gave it. No practiced rhythm now—just brute, hungry pistoning. The sheets twisted beneath us, sweat slicking my back. She was all around me—clutching, clawing—wired directly to me at a thousand nerve endings. The deeper I drove, the more she moaned, a melody of surrender that shorted out all my higher functions.
I couldn’t look away, even as my climax built, slow and devastating. Her hair fanned like a corona, mouth open and gasping. Sweat glimmered along her collarbone. She arched her breasts into my chest with each downstroke. She looked like a woman made for sin. And I wanted her to know it.
“Still with me?” I murmured.
She nodded, eyes closed, lashes trembling. “Barely.”
“Good. Hold on.”
I pulled almost all the way out—then slammed back in. Her breath hitched like I’d knocked the wind out of her. I rocked into her, steady and deep, anchoring myself in the sound of her—those small, helpless gasps she only made for me.
I shifted my weight, angled my hips, and ground down until I found the spot—exactly where she needed it. She bucked, electric, her whole body seizing. She clamped around me, hot and pulsing and wild. Her delicious screams echoed off the walls.
I drove into her, relentless now, every thrust a translation of my undoing. The pressure built, and I let it crest—let it hollow me out, then flood me with a rush that scorched every cell in my body.
I came so hard I could have sworn the air changed, the light flickered, the axis of the planet wobbled. For one wild, ecstatic second, there was only my body and hers, the heat and ferocity of our collision, and then the aftershocks—rippling, unstoppable, rolling through us both.
When my brain rebooted, I was slumped above her, forehead pressed to hers, both of us slick with sweat and trembling in the aftermath. I couldn’t have strung a sentence together if someone held a gun to my head. I just breathed, tasted the salt of her skin, and held on to the moment.
Eventually—though I can’t say when, since time had well and truly stopped—I pulled out and collapsed beside her.
“I felt that…in my feet,” she said between breaths, voice airy and whimsical.
“I felt that in my shoes, and they’re across the room.”
She laughed—hoarse and loose—and rolled toward me, slinging a leg over mine. My skin buzzed where she touched it. “I bet you can’t explain that with physics.”
“I absolutely can,” I said, curling my fingers around hers. “That’s entanglement. Two particles reacting across space, no matter how far apart.” I kissed her knuckles. “Rather like us.”
Chapter 52
Gabrielle
“Hi, Dad,” I whispered, brushing my fingers over the warm bronze.
Clark, Martin Gabriel — B.A. — 1992
The Honors Court was an open-air colonnade, its walls lined in bronze. Each plaque held dozens of names, grouped by graduation year, stacked from floor to sky in neat columns. Nearly two centuries of students carved into permanence—every graduate of Page College, etched name by name. Not just valedictorians or honor grads. Everyone.
I’d never seen another school with anything like it. Then again, I hadn’t seen that many schools. I was a legacy student, so Page had always been the plan.
I used to picture my name in here one day.
I sat on the edge of the fountain and let the silence settle. The morning sun beat against my back.
“Sorry I won’t be joining you up there, Dad,” I said quietly. “Not on that wall anyway.”
I remembered the look on his face the first time I flew a plane solo—pride and terror wrestling for top billing. How he’d gripped my shoulder after I landed, skin pale but voice steady. “Nice job, kid,” he said. “You’ve got this.”
“I thought I was supposed to follow in your footsteps. Do everything right, you know?” My voice barely carried. “But I think my path goes somewhere else. I hope that’s okay.”
A breeze snuck through the corridor, fluttering my hair into my mouth. I yanked it free and tucked it behind my ear. I fought the urge to laugh at myself—talking to someone who’d been gone nearly two years like he was just on the other side of the fountain, waiting with coffee and a crooked smile.
I wanted to believe he’d understand. That he’d forgive me for not seeing this through, for not finishing the arc he started. But I also knew he’d always wanted me to choose my own path.
