by Lexi Ryan
It’s one of those kisses that feels like it could go on forever—until it’s torn apart by the sound of honking behind us.
She jerks upright in her seat.
I barely have time to process that Bailey’s car is coming up the drive before she’s pulling in to park beside us. She looks over and waves merrily, oblivious to what she just interrupted.
A few seconds later, another truck pulls up behind her. It’s Sebastian, with Mason in the passenger seat.
“You invited your friends?” Grace asks.
“Fuck no. Why would I do that? God, I love them all, but lately they’re like a parasite I can’t get rid of.”
She takes a deep breath before pasting on a smile and climbing out of the car.
Bailey steps onto the gravel. On the other side of her car, Mia is climbing out. “Surprise!” they call.
“Sure is,” I mutter. I pull the keys from the ignition and try to think up a good excuse for Grace’s presence.
“Arrow told us Chris was camping out here this weekend. We thought he might want some company.” Bailey’s eyes swing to Grace, and then something seems to click in her mind because her eyes go wide as her mouth opens and then closes again. “Grace, I thought you were visiting a friend this weekend.”
Grace leans against the side of my car and throws a glance over her shoulder. “No, Bail. That’s just what I said so I could have the weekend alone with Chris.”
“What?” Bailey says. Her expression morphs from suspicious to delighted, and she grins. “You two are screwing around? Seriously?”
I hate the assumption that this isn’t anything meaningful, but before I can say anything, Grace says, “Actually, we’re kind of dating.” She turns and locks her eyes on mine. “Chris is an important part of my life.”
And I’m speechless.
But Bailey’s not. She’s clapping and dancing in place. “I knew you two would be so good together. But oh my God, look at us! Interrupting your romantic night. Do you want us to leave? We should leave, shouldn’t we?”
Grace walks around the car and wraps her arm around my waist. She bites her lip as she looks up at me. “I’ve never had a campout with friends.”
She’s so gorgeous and sweet and perfect, and right now she could tell me that she wanted our tent floating in the middle of the lake and I’d find a way to make it work.
“Stay,” I say. “It’ll be fun.”
* * *
Grace
Camping with friends means laughter and beer and s’mores around the fire. Camping with Chris means snuggling against his chest while he plays with my hair, and listening to Mason and Sebastian talk shit about freshman recruits.
I didn’t come here expecting to share our relationship with our friends, but when I saw his face after they pulled up, I knew what I needed to do. Suddenly it clicked that I was cheapening what he was giving me by refusing to share it. I did it for him—because he deserves more than a secret fling. I took the leap and I landed in his arms.
It’s late and the moon is high in the sky when Bailey pops up from her spot by the fire and stretches. It’s impossible not to swoon a little over the way Mason watches her move, the way his eyes drink her in every time he thinks she isn’t looking.
Mia stands, too. “Do you guys mind if I skip on the camping part and head back to the house?”
“Go sleep with your boyfriend,” Bailey says, grinning. “Tell him we’re counting down the days until he can join us out here.”
Mia smiles. “I will.”
“Are you ready to turn in?” Chris asks me after we’ve watched her pull away.
The night has been so perfect I’m reluctant to let it end. The stars reflect off the lake and the fire crackles. I gave my play to Mr. Gregory today, and on Monday morning he’s supposed to give me feedback. That terrifies me. But this moment is warm and peaceful. I feel safe and more myself than I ever have in my life. Somehow, someway, I’ve found myself in this short summer with these strangers.
“Go to bed,” Bailey says, as if reading my mind. “Grace, if I have to watch him make eyes at you for another minute, I’m going to fuck him myself just to put the poor boy out of his misery.”
Laughing, I climb off Chris’s lap and out of the camp chair. I use a bottle of water to brush my teeth and settle for a wet washcloth for my face. When I return to the tent, Chris is propped up on pillows, his chest bare and his legs stretched out over a pile of blankets, a battery-operated lantern next to him.
Straddling him, I trace my fingers down his chest. I’m addicted to the sight of his muscles under my hands. Too often we’re in the dark, and I don’t get to see it enough. I love the heat of his skin under mine and the way he watches my eyes as if he’s waiting for my secrets. I love that I’m beginning to believe that my secrets might not matter.
I want to be with him in every way. I want to give him everything I can.
I dip my head to kiss him, and he takes my shirt in his hands and slides it up my sides. I lift my arms over my head as he pulls it off, and then we kiss again, his hands on my waist, his thumbs skimming the underside of my breasts.
“Whoa!” From outside the tent, Bailey clears her throat. “If you don’t want us to see the silhouette of everything you’re doing in there, you should probably turn off that lantern.”
Chris flinches, and I laugh. “Thanks, Bail.”
“Any time, chica. Now get yours.”
Chris hits the switch, and the tent goes dark. “One of these days, I’m going to touch you in the light of day so I can fully appreciate how fucking beautiful you are.” He pulls back the covers and slides down into our makeshift bed. “Come here.”
I swallow hard before fumbling in the darkness for my bag. I unzip it and find what I’m looking for before joining him under the covers.
Outside the tent lanterns are snuffed out, and Bailey calls, “Goodnight. Sebastian and Mason won’t have a threesome with me, so we’re all off to our tents alone.”
I bite back my laughter and feel Chris’s chuckle against my neck. “She doesn’t mean it,” he says. “Mason and Sebastian both know that.”
“I know.” I sigh in the darkness.
“I think she feels like she can’t be with Mason because of how their relationship started, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as infatuated with anyone as he is with her.”
“It’s not infatuation,” I say softly. “It’s love. He loves her, and she can’t accept it because she doesn’t understand how a guy like him could love a girl like her.”
Chris rolls us so I’m under him and he’s on top of me, his weight on his palms. I can’t see his face in the darkness. “She needs to stop doubting her own worth and accept what he’s offering,” he says. He presses small kisses to the side of my neck, both teasing and restrained.
I shift under him, parting my legs and bending my knees and bringing them to either side of his hips. He’s hard, and the weight of him between my legs causes a physical ache to tangle with the emotions in my chest. “Maybe she’s scared he’ll realize she’s not good enough for him. Maybe she believes he deserves better.”
“Better is irrelevant when your heart belongs to someone else.” He cups my face and kisses me, long and sweet. “You know I’m not talking about Mason and Bailey anymore, right?”
“I was hoping,” I whisper. It’s as if he’s opening his cupped hands to show me my own heart, proving it’s still intact, showing me he can be trusted to protect it. “You don’t know who I am.”
“Then show me.”
“I lost my virginity when I was thirteen.”
He kisses my neck. “That doesn’t change how much I want you now.”
“I’ve slept with six guys since then. I’m safe. I mean, I’ve been tested, but . . . yeah, six.”
“Six guys foolish enough to lose you.”
I’m Easy Gee-Gee and when I was fourteen, you said you’d never put your dick near me. I will my lips to say the words, but I can’t. I don�
��t want to be Gee-Gee anymore. I don’t want to invite her into this tent or let her be a part of this moment.
His lips sweep down the side of my neck. “I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to be mine. You’re the only thing I want.” He slides down my body in the darkness, kissing his way over my belly with a hot, open mouth, then kneeling between my legs and pressing his tongue against my center, licking at me through my panties. I arch into that wet heat, wanting closer, more, again. When he pulls back, he skims over me with his knuckles. “Let me kiss you here.”
After feeling his mouth on me, I couldn’t refuse him if I wanted to. I lift my hips, and he pulls off my underwear before settling his face back between my thighs.
His touch is tender at first. The stroke of his fingers over my clit, the slide of his tongue around my heat. He unfurls something inside me—with his tongue, with his touch, with his patience. He’s the heat of the sun coaxing the flower to turn her head and open her petals. He’s the rich soil beneath my feet, keeping me rooted in this body and this moment. Bit by bit, I come unraveled, and he seems to as well. His tastes turn greedy, his licking and sucking more demanding before he finally slides his fingers inside.
I have to bite my lip to keep myself from moaning, but sounds slip through anyway, and as I squeeze around his fingers, he covers my body with his again and kisses me to silence my moan.
“Tomorrow,” he whispers in my ear as he slides his hand from between my legs. “I’m keeping you in bed with me, and I’m finally going to see your face when you come.”
I feel around on the blanket beside me until I find the condom I retrieved from my bag earlier. “Here,” I whisper.
He’s silent for a breath, and I hear the crinkle of the wrapper as he tries to figure out what he’s holding. “Is this . . .?”
“I’m ready.”
His sudden, ragged intake of breath is so damn satisfying I can’t help but smile. “You’re sure?”
I want to be brave but I’m scared. Not scared of the sex, but scared of what it means. And terrified that what I feel for him is so strong I’m willing to ignore that fear. “So sure.”
I watch his silhouette in the darkness as he sheathes himself and then lowers over me. He hisses through his teeth as he settles between my legs, and maybe I do too because it feels so good, and I’ve been wanting this for so long.
His strokes are slow and steady and he kisses me while he moves—my mouth, my neck, my shoulder—his hands sliding everywhere, touching every part of me they can.
He whispers in my ear, telling me I’m beautiful, that it’s so good, that he’s thought about this so much. He moves and whispers and kisses and touches.
At first, I don’t want him to be so tender. I don’t need him to treat me as if I’m as fragile as blown glass. But every second that passes under his tender touch, I become that fragile. His sweetness sweeps away my shell and makes me breakable.
And then he shifts his hips and bends to take my nipple between his teeth, and I’m not just breakable, I’m shattering, a thousand glittering pieces on the blankets until he kisses, strokes, and praises in quiet whispers, and puts me back together again.
When he comes, his face is buried in my neck, his hands tunneled into my hair.
It occurs to me that after all the guys I’ve slept with and all the times I’ve let a man inside me, this is the first time I’ve made love.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Grace
On Monday morning, I wake up to the sun slanting in the bedroom window, the sheets tangled around my legs. I’m alone in Chris’s bed but not lonely. This summer is turning out okay after all.
I need to get up, get dressed, brush my teeth, and grab something to eat before I head in to BHU to hear Mr. Gregory’s thoughts on my play. I’m on such a high from the weekend that it numbs my nerves about getting his feedback.
I grab some clean clothes and rush to the bathroom for a shower. I make it quick, dry off, pull on my clothes, dry my hair, and brush my teeth. Chris is meeting me back here for lunch, and when I catch myself fussing with my hair in the mirror, I want to smack my own hands. I’m not gonna be that girl. Chris can like me as I am or not at all.
I’m such a liar.
I get to campus with plenty of time to do my morning coffee run before Mr. Gregory’s arrival, but when I return, I freeze just steps inside the office.
Mr. Gregory is sitting at his desk with my play in front of him. I recognize the black-and-pink folder I used when I gave it to him before the holiday weekend. But he’s scowling at it. That’s . . . not good.
“Mr. Gregory? I have your coffee.” I force myself to walk over to him and keep my eyes off the notes scribbled onto my play.
He takes his coffee in one hand and with the other, he picks up my play and tosses it over his desk. It lands on the floor, and papers scatter everywhere. “Do me a favor,” he says. “Go burn that drivel.”
My stomach clenches, and my whole body goes statue still. I couldn’t have heard him right. He wouldn’t have asked me to write for him if he was going to say something so cruel. “What?”
“Burn that crap. Don’t cling to mediocrity because you’re scared of something good.”
“You didn’t like it?” Stupid question, Grace.
“It’s a waste of everyone’s time. Mine. Yours. Anyone with enough brain to know there are better ways to spend their time. There is absolutely nothing remarkable about that play.”
I can’t decide if I want to crumple into a ball and cry or scream at him for being so cruel.
I don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter because after that series of blows I can’t catch my breath anyway. It hurts too much to draw air into my lungs.
He pulls a bottle of whiskey from his bag and adds some to his coffee. “Try again,” he says, not looking up at me.
Why? What’s the point? That play is the best I could do. The best I had to give. And his reply was that I should “burn it.” I’m kidding myself. What’s the point in trying again?
I stare at him. I was really proud of what I created, and his reaction doesn’t just hurt—it has my dreams by the throat. It’s scary to stand here and know I’ll never write something good enough to impress him. It’s terrifying to know that my very best is still mediocre.
Maybe all I have going for me is a pretty face.
He snarls, as if I’ve insulted him. “Quit looking at me like I just kicked your puppy, and get to work.” He waves a hand toward the door, dismissing me.
As I leave, I want to tell myself that he’s a stupid old drunk, that his ego is getting in the way of him seeing my talent, that he’s putting me down to make himself feel better about his own inability to produce.
I want to tell myself those things, but I don’t believe them. I want to believe that the pride I felt for that play came from my confidence in it and not from naïve hope that hours and hours at my keyboard would be enough. I knew all along that my play lacked the magic that brought me to playwriting to begin with, that there was nothing particularly remarkable about what I created. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about me.
I leave his office and rush down the stairs, out of the department, and straight home. All I want is to see Chris. He’ll pull me into his arms and quiet this ugly voice in my head.
But when I get to the door, I hear three voices inside the apartment. He’s not alone.
The door’s unlocked, and when I step inside, I find three guys are sitting around the coffee table. Mason’s in the chair and Chris is on the couch. Another guy is beside Chris, his back to me.
Chris looks up first, and I love how his face softens when he looks at me, how the corner of his mouth draws into a crooked smile. “Good morning.”
My cheeks heat because that smile makes me think of last night, the way his hands moved over me, the way he moved inside me. “Morning.”
“How’d you sleep last night?” Chris asks.
Mason clears his throat
. “Not much, from the sound of things.”
Chris narrows his eyes at Mason. “Seriously?”
Mason holds up his hands. “Got it. Not another word.”
The other guy looks up at me, smiling and extending a hand, then his smile falls away and so does mine. “Gee—”
“Grace,” I say, shoving my hand into his, and I plead with my eyes for him to keep his mouth shut. All the happy warmth I felt under Chris’s smile fizzles away.
“Yeah. Jewel told me you were living with Montgomery.” He grimaces. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we’re together now. She’s been fucking beside herself knowing you and I would be in the same town this summer. She’s a jealous one, all right.”
That’s why she’s been harassing me all over again.
Isaac shifts his eyes back and forth between Chris and me. “Are you two . . .?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I want to curl into a ball. I want to run away. Hide under the covers, under the bed, in the back of a cold, dark cave. At the beginning of the summer, I told myself that I didn’t care if Chris knew who I was. I told myself letting go of the past meant I didn’t have to tell him, that I was strong enough to bear the burden of the memory so he wouldn’t have to. But here I am, seconds away from him discovering the truth, and I don’t feel strong at all. I want to hide.
“You two know each other?” Chris asks. He shakes his head. “Right, high school. Grace remembers me, and I feel like such a dick because I don’t remember her.”
I swallow hard and bow my head. I can’t look Isaac in the face.
Isaac clears his throat and laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, I remember Grace. I’m surprised you don’t remember, Chris.”
Why is he here? Is this some kind of joke? Did Jewel send him to make sure I couldn’t escape my slutty past?
I can’t bring myself to look up to see either of their facial expressions. Is something clicking for Chris? Is he remembering?
I set my jaw and stride toward the coffee pot. I grab a travel mug from the rack, fill it, and slam the lid on with more force than necessary.
