Dropping In (Snow-Crossed Lovers Book 1)

by Carrie Quest

  My plane leaves early, so I toss all my shit near the door and head back down for bed. Then the Treebeard figure catches my eye. If I’d never left that outside her door, would any of this have happened?

  I have no idea why, but I grab the tiny plastic tree, creep up the dark stairs and put it in the same place I left it the first time. Because I’d do it all again, even knowing we were going to fuck it all up and I was going to hurt like hell.

  I wake up to Natalie kneeling next to my bed. She’s wearing her jacket, and she smells like the rain I hear falling steadily outside. I lie still for a minute, afraid to move or speak because I don’t think this shit is real and, if it is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.

  Finally, I work up the courage to reach out and touch her. Warm skin. Soft hair. Natalie. I sigh.

  “I had to see you,” she whispers. Then she stands and unzips her jacket. I watch silently as she strips down to her panties, and lift up the sheet when she comes closer and climbs into the bed.

  I hold her tight, giving myself this moment, and breathe her in. She hugs me back briefly, then touches her lips to my neck and moves up my body, straddling me.

  She rolls her hips and fuck; my dick is wide-awake now even if the rest of me hasn’t quite caught up. But I don’t give in to the desire building up inside of me, not yet. Instead, I grab her face, trying to read her eyes in the little bit of light that’s drifting in from the open door at the top of the stairs.

  “Did you change your mind?” I ask. “Are you coming?”

  She shakes her head and her damp hair clings to my hands. I grasp a handful of it and gently pull her lips down to mine.

  “I need you,” she whispers. “Just for tonight. One more time.”

  One more time. My heart sinks and I know this is fucked up, that it’s probably only going to make both of us hurt more, but I’m not strong enough to stop. Because one more time with Natalie is worth the pain.

  I pull her face to me and kiss her hard, sweeping my tongue into her mouth when she sighs. She rocks on top of me, and I bring my hands down to her hips, pressing her even closer. The only thing between us is my boxers and her panties, and I feel can feel the heat of her through the thin layers of material. She’s burning up, and when I buck my hips up, she gasps, breaking our kiss, and presses her face into my neck.

  “You have me,” I say, my voice like gravel. “You’ll always have me, Natalie.”

  She answers with her tongue, licking her way up my neck to right beneath my jaw, where she stops and sucks, a gentle pull just hard enough to remind me of what those lips can do when they’re fastened around my dick. I groan and clamp my hands harder on her hips, trying to keep myself from being a total animal and pushing her head down to where I want her. She must read my mind, though, because she shakes me off and wiggles down my body, her tongue trailing over both my nipples before she stops and nips at one. That curtain of gorgeous hair hides her face, so I can’t see her smile, but I feel it against my skin when I groan again.

  Then she’s there, her face hovering over my dick, dropping sweet little kisses on me through my boxers. I lie still for as long as I can, wanting to savor this, but I’m harder than a fucking rock and aching to feel her lips on me. When I can’t hold on anymore, I growl, deep in my throat, a desperate sound I’m not proud of, but it’s one she seems to like because she sits up and rips my briefs down my legs. She pauses to kiss my knee, like she did before, and I let her this time.

  She doesn’t linger there, though, thank god, because I don’t want to think about that morning or my knee or any of that shit. I don’t want to think at all, except about how fucking good it feels when she licks her way up my dick and swirls her tongue around the head, getting me all wet and sloppy, just the way she knows I like it.

  “Fuck,” I grunt out. It’s all I can say. I couldn’t even tell you my own name right now, that’s how amazing this feels. She’s got one hand on my balls and the other one sliding up and down my shaft as she circles the head again and again with her tongue every once in a while, letting it pop out so she can rub me all over her face, which is wet and slippery from her mouth and my cock.

  She flicks her tongue at that spot under the head that drives me insane, and that’s it, show’s over, I’m coming. My hips jerk up, I can’t stop them, and she stays with me, fastening her lips on my dick and drinking down every last bit as I pump into her.

  I lie there, shivering as the little aftershock tremors rock through me, as she crawls back up to me, stopping when her face is inches from my own.

  “I love you,” she whispers. I try to answer but her lips are there, swallowing my words the way she just took in everything else. She kisses me until she feels me getting hard again, then rises up, grabs a condom from beside her on the bed, and rolls it on me.

  “No,” I grunt out. “Not like this.”

  She freezes. “You want me to stop?”

  “Fuck no,” I say. I flip her onto her back and settle between her legs. She’s so wet and ready that I slide right inside when I rock against her, a taste that has both of us groaning. I pull out, though, because this might be the last time I get to do this, and I don’t want it to be fast.

  “Give me you,” she repeats softly. “Please.”

  “Oh, you’re getting me,” I promise, rocking through her slickness again. “But you’re getting me slow.”

  She groans in protest and wriggles against me, so I push myself up on my elbows until I’m hovering over her, not touching her anywhere except for her swollen lips, which I kiss deep and hard.

  “Slow,” I repeat, catching her hands when she reaches for me. I pin them over her head and hold them there, then lick my way down to her breasts and tongue her nipples lightly until she’s writhing under me, begging for my mouth and my teeth and more, Ben, more. So I give her what she wants, sucking one sweet peak deep into my mouth, hard enough to get one of those beautiful gasps that make me wild.

  I stay there for a long time, moving back and forth from one breast to the other, nipping, soothing, sucking. Worshipping. I would have spent more time worshipping all the parts of her if I’d known how soon this was going to end.

  When her hips are writhing so hard she’s about to buck me right off her, I finally move, letting my hand wander slowly down so I can slide one finger into her silky heat, groaning when I feel the way she’s dripping down her thighs. Soaked. Past ready.

  Fuck it. Slow is overrated.

  I grab her hips and push her up the bed as I move down. She breathes out, “Yes,” and helps me, wriggling up toward the headboard and lifting her hips, searching for my mouth.

  I pause for a second, inhaling the musky scent of her, and then lick slowly from the bottom of her slit to the very top, circling my tongue lightly over her clit. I try to hold back, but her peppered honey taste and the way she cries my name are too much and I attack her, plunging first two, then three fingers inside and moving them over the spot I know will have her coming soon.

  My other hand is on her hips, holding her down, and she grabs my wrist, clutching and grasping as I work her over with my tongue and my fingers. I feel her stomach muscles clench, and she’s got my wrist in a death grip that’s going to leave bruises tomorrow, and then she’s gasping and crying and mumbling my name over and over as her pussy clenches around my fingers and she comes.

  I’d stay down here for hours if she’d let me, but in two minutes she’s pulling me up, yanking at my arms until I move. When our faces are inches apart, she cradles my cheeks and kisses me deep, moaning when she tastes herself on my tongue.

  “I love you,” she whispers again.

  “I love you too,” I say. And then I can’t say anything else for a long time, because she reaches down to bring me into her, and she’s hot and tight and wet and Natalie and I’m gone, moving deep and slow for as long as I can, waiting until I feel the flutters around my dick that tell me she’s coming again.

  “Ben,” she gasps. “I’m there.”


  “Come,” I urge her, “come for me.”

  Come with me.

  Then I’m plunging into her, my hips moving beyond my control, so deep I bottom out, and it’s like my whole body is on fire, burning up for her as the heat and pleasure move through me.

  I don’t close my eyes all night, just lie there and watch her sleep in the dim light, memorizing her beautiful face. It’s too dark to see the little freckles under her eyes, but I know they’re there, like I know the sound she makes in her sleep and the way she burrows into her pillow when the sheet slips off her shoulders and she gets cold.

  I know her.

  Every hour or so her eyes flutter open and she reaches for me, pulling me in. We make love four times, sweet and slow and fast and hard and sad and perfect. When she falls asleep after the last time, I get up and stumble to the shower.

  I leave her there, tangled in the sheets, load up the coffeemaker for her and set the timer. It’s too early for me to go get her bagels, but I put bread in the toaster and peanut butter on the counter. Lame, probably, but it’s my last chance to take care of her and I’m not going to waste it.

  I load up the car, debating on whether I should wake her up, or if the sight of her will break me. I don’t have to decide, though, because when I come back in, she’s waiting for me at the door, her hair in a messy braid down her back, her tanned legs bare under one of my old t-shirts.

  She doesn’t say a word, but falls into my body and wraps her arms around my waist. I hold her close, breathing her in for the last time, rubbing my hand up and down her back.

  Then she steps back and looks up at me, her eyes shiny with tears.

  “Stay safe,” she says.

  I nod. There’s nothing left to say except goodbye and the words won’t come. I’m not strong enough to say them.

  I reach for one last hug, but she steps back and shakes her head. “I can’t,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  Then she turns and runs up the stairs, and it’s exactly like the day we met, me watching her perfect ass and wishing she were mine. But she’s not. Not anymore.

  29

  Natalie

  My grandma used to tell me there was a plus side to every situation. She also used to tell me her cat was a reincarnation of Winston Churchill, though, so she wasn’t exactly a trusted source.

  Still, I think she was right about the plus side thing. If you look hard enough, you can always find something good. Or at least something not as shitty as the rest of the clusterfuck that is your life. For some people, the plus side of a broken heart might be reevaluating their food choices and deciding to eat healthier.

  Not this girl.

  In the weeks after Ben left, I ate so many Pringles I could’ve built Elsa’s frickin’ ice palace with the empty tubes.

  No. The plus side of my broken heart was I couldn’t stand to think about my own life, and my old stand-by distraction of finding a casual hook-up held absolutely no appeal this time, so instead, I dove into writing. And I got so deep into my book I solved the love story problem.

  I did not eat a single vegetable.

  I did not sleep more than a couple hours at a time.

  I did not leave the house (except for walking Thor to the store to get more chips).

  But I did finish the book.

  I. Fucking. Finished.

  And I think it’s okay. Not, like, the best book in the history of the universe, but good. I like it. Typing “The End” was both the best and worst feeling ever. I’ve honestly never felt so proud of myself. I just kind of sat in the chair, staring at those two little words, and this huge, warm feeling blew up in my chest until I was grinning at a Word document like an absolute idiot. Like it was a meme of a sea otter and a puppy cuddling while watching a baby imitate some fluffy kittens.

  The sad part was, I was smiling all alone. My hair was greasy, my teeth were mossy, and my desk was an island surrounded by a fleet of crusty coffee mugs sailing on a sea of potato chip crumbs.

  I did not document that shit for my Instagram.

  I texted Piper, hit send on some emails to agents, and fell into bed, hoping I was exhausted enough to sleep without dreaming.

  I wake up early, with Chuckles purring on my chest. My fight-or-flight response kicks in and I try to push him off, but he just purrs harder and gives my face a lick.

  “How does your breath smell like fish? I haven’t given you a packet of the fishy food in days. Have you been begging at the neighbors’ back door again?”

  He licks me again. Ewww.

  Ever since Ben left, Chuckles has been all over me. He’s a fool in love. No more lurking in the shadows to attack me whenever I walk past. No more raking my arms with his super-claws whenever a cooking show is on and I try to change the channel. The scabs on all my cuts have nearly disappeared.

  My brain hasn’t caught up to this brave new world, so I still jump a little whenever I see him, but he’s apparently no longer plotting to kill me and feast on my face.

  Or maybe he is, but he’s working a long con.

  Piper says he’s a loving soul who can sense that I’m hurting. I think he just senses I’m sad and lonely enough to buy him chicken at the store, but whatever.

  I check the clock, then give him a bigger push and roll out of bed. Crap. I promised I’d bring Adam lunch today, and if I don’t shower first, the hospital will probably assume I’ve contracted some hideous body odor disease and stick me in quarantine.

  Adam has been texting me since Ben left, asking to see the completed revisions and just generally checking in. We got pretty friendly this summer, and it’s nice he’s looking out for me, but I’ve been putting him off because I know it’s going to be awkward as hell. At least Piper will be there, so hopefully their will-they-won’t-they weirdness will distract them both and they won’t ask me about Ben.

  Anyway, I owe them both a hell of a lot more than a burrito. They’ve read chapters in the middle of the night, put up with my crazy “what if…” emails, and talked me down from the ledge when I considered making all the characters were-swans. (I ran out of Pringles. It was a dark time.)

  I have to go. And if either of them mentions Ben, I’ll just smile and change the subject. Or run away. Whatever.

  I check my email before I get in the shower. Nada. Nothing. Zilch.

  Damn.

  It was probably delusional to expect that any of the agents I emailed last night happened to be at their desks in the middle of the night, bored and waiting for my manuscript to arrive and entertain them. But I also sent it to Ben.

  He would have received the message at six o’clock in the evening New Zealand time. Probably while he was eating dinner. Or driving home from the mountain. Or sitting in the hot tub with Autumn.

  Plenty of time to start reading it.

  He hasn’t replied, which doesn’t surprise me. It was probably a dick move to email him at all, especially after I told him not to contact me, but I thought he might want to know. And that maybe, if he doesn’t hate me too much, he’d send back a word or two.

  Like Good work!

  Or Yay!

  Or I love you more than a hobbit loves his second breakfast and I’m on my way home.

  I pull up the message I sent and scan it. I told him I finished. I told him I missed him. I told him I was sorry. I did not tell him that I lied about our relationship being a mistake because I was hurt and angry he put snowboarding over me and then expected me to change my whole life while he just did whatever he wanted.

  I signed it Love, Natalie.

  Fuck, I’m an idiot.

  I could be in New Zealand right now, asleep next to Ben, curled up in the crook of his arm, breathing in the scent of snow and cedar on his skin.

  But then I wouldn’t have finished my book, and I wouldn’t be excited about my classes for the first time in my college career. I know this in my heart, and that knowledge is the only thing that’s keeping me from crawling back into bed and letting Chuckles flood my face wit
h fish breath until I die of asphyxiation, or general disgust.

  I couldn’t go to New Zealand. I couldn’t give up my whole life to follow him around.

  But I still wish I was there, or wherever Ben is, and I probably always will.

  Piper and Adam both go completely silent when I walk into the hospital room an hour later. I wave and they each nod, then look at each other for a brief second before turning their eyes to the window. Or the floor. Or anywhere that isn’t in my general vicinity.

  “What were you guys talking about?” I ask.

  Me, by any chance?

  “The Rockies,” Adam blurts out, right as Piper says, “Pizza toppings.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Piper blushes. “Did you send the emails?”

  I nod, and she does a wild shimmy in her seat that makes her boobs shake so hard that Adam actually stops eating. Huh. I guess we’ve found the one thing that comes between him and burritos.

  “That is so exciting!” she squeals. “I’m so proud of you, Natty!”

  She stops moving and Adam shakes his head, like he’s coming out of a trance, and tears his eyes away.

  “It’s awesome,” he agrees. “You’re going to kill it with those agents. They’ll be begging to represent you.”

  He takes another bite and his eyes flicker over to Piper, who shakes her head at him. Yup. They were totally talking about me.

  He makes a face at her and finishes chewing.

  “Did you send it to Ben?” he asks, all casual.

  “Adam!” Piper throws a sopapilla at him, and he neatly catches it and shoves it in his mouth.

  “Damn,” I say. “Your reflexes are amazing. You must be kicking ass at beanbag basketball.”

  “Destroying all challengers,” he says. “That’s why they’re letting me out of here next week.”

  “No way!”

  He grins. “Yes way, my soon-to-be-agented friend. I am going to be a free man.”