Page 39 of The Summer We Fell

And Luke and I…I don’t know. I don’t know what we could have been. All those could-have-beens—for Danny, for me, for Luke—they threaten to crush me, over and over again.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” I whisper, and Donna pats my hand, giving me credit for the wrong kind of sadness.

I manage to brush my teeth and strip off my clothes before the tears start. In the darkness I weep and wonder how it is that after all this time, nothing has changed. I’m still crying over the wrong guy. I’m still feeling like I will die without him.

I’m woken by my door as it opens. The wood floor creaks loudly beneath Luke’s feet as he approaches in nothing but a pair of pajama pants. I suck in air at the sight of him—at his well-honed muscles, broad shoulders, and the way his pants hang off narrow hips.

Our eyes meet and my heart hammers, but I can’t look away.

It was never like this with Danny, a burning in my veins. I feel stretched thin waiting for something I can’t allow to happen, and the burning continues, grows, making me feverish and blind with it. By the time he finally reaches the bed, I am so strung out, so needy, that I’m past saying no. Incapable of it.

His nostrils flare as he takes me in, as if he hates me or himself for what’s about to happen.

I don’t care if you hate me, Luke. Just don’t stop. Don’t walk away.

He climbs onto the bed, caging me in—a forearm planted on each side of my head. And then his mouth lowers, hard on mine, as if no time has passed at all. His kiss is all heat, his tongue seeking, his hand threading through my hair.

He smells just like he always did, that combination of skin and soap and sand that was always his alone. I breathe deep, wishing I could save this forever, wanting everything to slow and also to move faster before one of us is stricken by our consciences.

Luke lifts himself just enough to pull away the sheet that separates us. His erection presses to my abdomen, his hard chest bearing down. His hand slides beneath my camisole, spreads itself wide over my bare skin, climbing upward, cupping one breast, squeezing and pinching my nipple, forcing a small cry from my throat.

He pulls the camisole down to expose me, and his mouth follows, tugging and sucking while I arch against him, silently begging for more but unwilling to ask for it.

I don’t need to ask; he knows me better than I know myself.

He reaches down and removes my shorts, grazing a single finger between my legs then slipping it inside. A rough exhale pushes past his lips at the feel of me, wet and tight, gripping him.

I shove his shorts down just low enough for him to spring free, and then he is against me, rubbing against my damp heat. I say nothing, just meet his gaze, and that’s enough. He knew the answer would be yes. It was yes from the moment he walked in the diner ten years ago, long before I realized it, and nothing has changed.

He thrusts inside me and groans. “Jules.”

It’s been so long since he called me that.

Pulling out, he then pushes back in, each thrust rougher and harder than the one before it, with his hands palming my ass, spreading me wide to take more of him.

God, I’ve missed this. His weight, his smell, the fullness of him inside me, the way it’s nearly too much. My hands go to his hair, dig into his back. I claw at him, arching to get closer, urging him to move faster. There’s no one to stop us but we might just stop ourselves. We should be stopping ourselves.

He complies, giving me everything, stifling his grunts against my neck, our bodies slick with sweat. I gasp hard as it clicks inside me, as my muscles clamp down on him and heat shoots through me.

“I’m—” is all I manage before I come so hard, so unexpectedly, that it makes the rest of the world go silent. I’m blind, deaf, mute, only vaguely aware of those few sharp thrusts he makes as he follows me, sinking his teeth into my shoulder as he comes.

His weight sags as he collapses, crushing me beneath him, and I relish it. I want this, I want the smothering wholeness of him. I want to stay like this forever.

Luke rolls to the side and pulls me into him, pressing my face to his chest and wrapping his arms around me. It’s all I’ve wanted for years and years, and this could have been us if I hadn’t fucked everything up. But I did, and none of it can be fixed now. I’m going to have to say goodbye to him all over again in a few weeks.

I thought it might kill me before. Now, I’m not sure how it possibly couldn’t kill me.

Tears slip down my face and my shoulders shake. “I think you should leave now,” I whisper.

He freezes, and there’s a flash of pain—pain I’ve seen in the past—before his expression turns absolutely flat.

After climbing from the bed, he leaves without a word.

I hurt him. It’s probably for the best.

16

THEN