Page 61 of P.S. I Miss You

I claim her lips again. And again. And again. Each kiss greedier, less patient. When her hands reach for my fly and yank on the zipper, my cock pulses, aching for her as it grows.

A moment later, she’s shoved my pants and boxers down, and I’ve pulled her tighter against me, my body pinning hers as I devour the bend of her neck, the delicate shelf of her collarbone, and the sensitive trail between her swollen breasts.

Her stomach caves as I take a single, budded nipple between my lips.

I want this.

I want her.

And I want it forever.

Melrose lifts her arms over my shoulder, toying at my hair with her fingertips and exhaling with a moan when I slip my fingers between her folds. She’s so fucking wet for me.

Caught between wanting to enjoy this and needing to take her, needing to bury myself inside of her, I lower myself between her spread thighs, pressing kisses from her lower belly to her apex, where I can taste her addictive desire.

Her legs tremble as my tongue strokes her seam, and her clit swells as I take my time devouring her.

“Sutter …” My name is a breathy gasp on her lips. “I want you inside me.”

I kiss her inner thighs before rising on my knees and grabbing my wallet from my crumpled jeans. Retrieving a gold foil packet, I tear it open with my teeth before sheathing myself.

Lying on my back, I shove a pillow behind my neck and pull her onto my lap. With a sultry smirk, she lowers herself onto my throbbing cock, torturing me inch by inch, and when I’m buried deep inside her, she releases a held breath and grips my shoulders.

Melrose’s blonde waves curtain her face, but I sweep them over her bare shoulders. I want to see the way she bites her lips as she fucks me, the way her gorgeous blue eyes roll to the back of her head just before she’s about to cum.

“You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever known in my life,” I tell her, reaching for her face. “I couldn’t let you get away.”

The grind of her hips slows to a stop as she leans forward and kisses me. Once. Twice. Three times.

“I’m going to miss you so damn much,” I whisper, cupping my hand behind her neck as our foreheads meet.

“You’ll visit,” she says. “And we’ll FaceTime. And it’s only two months.”

“It won’t be the same.”

“Stay home today,” she says. Melrose presses her palm against my chest. “This time tomorrow, I’ll be gone.”

“Already planned on it.”

Her full lips arch and her hips begin to circle. I could do this all day, every day, but only with her.

She’s the only woman I’ll ever need.

The only one I’ll ever want.

CARS WHIZ PAST US at LAX Saturday morning when Sutter parks beneath the sign for Terminal Five Departures. A man in a neon yellow and checkered vest motions for cars to keep moving. We aren’t supposed to park or linger, but the thought of leaving him today sends a physical ache to my middle.

Sutter reaches across the center console, taking my hand, and I lean in to give him a PG-rated kiss since Tucker’s in the backseat of the truck.

Tucker sticks his tongue out anyway, and Sutter smirks, signing for him to “look away.”

The car behind us honks and another car honks at that car.

“I’ll get your bags.” Sutter’s lips press flat and he climbs out.

I meet him at the truck’s gate, and he retrieves my suitcases and places them on the curb.

“You’re visiting soon, right?” I ask as he slips his hands around my waist and pulls me against him.

“As soon as I can.”

“Promise?”

He kisses me. “Yes, Melrose. I promise.”

“I’ll call you when I land.”

Sutter kisses my forehead, and when he pulls away, I bask in his honey gaze one last time—for now.

The car behind us honks again and the man directing traffic blows a whistle.

I leave, heart a-flutter, stomach twisted, and chest filled so full of hope and wonderment and anticipation it could burst.

An hour later, I’m through ticketing, baggage, and security, and perched at a corner table just outside the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. Sipping an almond latte and paging through my script, I try and focus on my lines. I’ve always had this photographic memory thing when it comes to lines. I can look at them once and have them memorized. Gram says it’s genetic. I think it’s dumb luck.

“Hey, stranger.”

I glance up from page twenty-four to find none other than Ms. Aerin Keane herself standing before me, a work bag hanging off her lithe shoulder and a hard-cased rollaway parked at her heeled feet.

“What are you doing here?” I stand, throwing my arms around her. I’ll never understand how she can travel like this—in a pant suit with a full face of makeup and heels, but she’s always been the Queen of Preparedness and a true work horse. Always ready.

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