Page 218 of The Storm

“Can’t it be both?”

I yelp when he suddenly rolls us over, and I find myself straddling him, his fingers clutching my thighs.

“Show me,” he says.

We don’t get out of bed for a long time.

In theory,it shouldn’t be this easy to intertwine two separate lives. In reality, my life blends with his so smoothly that I never even notice it when our layers fit together and lock into place.

My days start and end in his bed. There are mornings when he wakes me with slow, lazy kisses, and there are mornings when I wake up with his mouth around me, pulling me from sleep and immediately plunging me into pleasure.

Other times the early mornings find us out at the harbor, paddles in hand, the kayak cutting its way through the water while the city wakes up somewhere in the periphery. He splashes me, and I laugh and retaliate, and later I kiss him as droplets of water gather on his lashes.

We cook dinner in his kitchen once we’re both home and tell each other about our days.

And at night…

I’ve dreamed of this. Him pushing inside me slowly, or me sinking into him until we’re so deeply connected it’s not possible to get any closer. Only it’s better than a dream, because it’s real. Everything about him is flesh and blood andmine. Because he wants this. He wants me.

The heat of his body above me and underneath me is real. The way his skin burns under my touch is real. The hunger I feel for him is real.

All those broken pieces inside me are gently picked up and put together again and the cracks are glued back together and painted over, and I don’t mind the lines those broken pieces leave.

I don’t fall for him. I just am. There’s just him and me, souls and hearts knitted together.

It’s terrifying to be this happy, but there’s new strength in facing that fear and lifting my chin defiantly because I will not be scared and back away. This happiness is mine, and I will hold on to it and bloody my knuckles for it if I have to.

He tells me about his life, all the pieces he’s kept to himself over the years. I get them all now. Nothing is off limits. Almost nothing. We both ignore thealmost. Instead, we share memories, both good and bad. We hand over the beautiful parts and the ugly moments, dust them off, and find places for them in our lives.

I get to see the moments we’ve spent together from his point of view.

His fingers move over my bare back absently when we’re lying in a mess of sheets on the bed, and I get confessions tinged with laughter. How off balance he was when he first saw me.

“My hands shook,” he says with a husky laugh. His thigh is thrown over the backs of mine as I lie on my stomach. His toes brush over my calves. His fingers keep counting the ridges of my spine absently.

“You were so fucking pretty, Blue. I hated you for being so pretty, and all the while I couldn’t stay away from you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” I press a kiss to the back of his hand and smile at him.

He lowers his head and kisses me. My breath catches, and my chest jolts. Like it always does.

And I love him.

I love him.

I love him.

I love him.

SIXTY-FIVE

INDY

Once summer fully kicks in,most of my job becomes about curtailing Callum’s impulsive side. The off-season bores him to the point where it starts to feel like I actually should be called a babysitter, because it’s like wrangling a freaking two-year-old on a sugar high. He pouts like one, too.

“No one would know,” he tells me.

I ignore him.