The Roughest Draft(77)

It leaves me physically ill. This is the woman I love, who I think might love me. Who’s chosen to hurt me instead of confronting our feelings honestly.

Without speaking, I walk upstairs. With even, efficient movements, my heart hammering, I open the drawers of my dresser, shoving my belongings into my bag. I know I’m leaving possessions behind, but I don’t care. Returning downstairs, I feel every second hitting me with force. There’s nothing impulsive or instinctive in my decision. I’m conscious of the finality of my every step, the permanence of this choice.

When I pass through the living room, I don’t look Katrina’s way. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop me. I walk out of the house, leaving whatever was between us to crumble into ash.


? PRESENT DAY ?

I’m coming to life in ways I never have, ever. I move with Katrina, or we move with each other, or—I don’t know, not now, when I feel like my consciousness has shattered into pieces, each one charged with sensation.

It’s impossible to focus on every part of her. I’m forced to experience them in a kaleidoscope of moments, her leg rising while she rolls her hips forward, my hand grasping her thigh, then her head tipping up, leaving me opportunity to press my lips deep into her neck, her scent overwhelming.

I pull back. Our hands move to the pillows. Our fingers interlace.

While I look into her eyes, I know she is spread out underneath me. Her stomach, stretching uninterrupted to where we meet. Her legs, entwined with mine. The knowledge without the visual—I continue staring into her dark irises—is intoxicating in its own way. I press my forehead to hers, watching her eyes close while her fingers dig into my hands.

I don’t know what the fuck we were saying, synonyms and workshopping in her just sexy note. I’m speechless. Katrina is speechless. We’re just rhythm, instinct, heat. It’s ironic, a couple of romance writers rocked so far out of ourselves we have no words. Nevertheless, it’s what’s happening.

She moves on top of me, my hands reaching urgently for her in the moment we lose contact. When she sinks down on me, I know I can’t draw this out as long as I want. This view overwhelms me.

She sucks in a breath, and once more I’m locked in our perfect synchrony, reading her every intention, matching her every move. I press deeper. She reaches her hand to my chest, bending to capture my mouth. I’ve surrendered myself to Katrina countless times. Each page I give her, submitting my words to her red ink. Every discussion of our career. She’s directed the course of my life, and I’m better for it. Right now, pinned beneath her, I feel it with complete certainty. I would put myself in Katrina’s hands forever.

When she shudders, the motion rips through her. I watch, holding her in every way I can. I’m desperate to remain right here, like this, until finally I’m overcome. I lose myself in her.

What comes next I could only call perfect contentment. The sun streams in the windows, my sheets strewn everywhere. I collapse gently into Katrina. Remembering we’re here, in Florida, right now, is head-spinning in its wonder. This is real. This is us. This happened. I hug her to me, her head resting near my heart.

She holds me, our chests heaving together. I know with complete certainty this has only stoked the fire between us. The flames lick ever higher. When I glance at her, Katrina catches me looking.

She smiles, and my heart ignites.





54





Katrina


I’m in no hurry to leave Nathan’s bed. So I don’t, even though it’s the middle of the day. Even though we have work to do.

“Any notes?” Nathan asks next to me.

It takes me a moment to process his question. Like when you’re a kid and you see your teacher on what’s obviously a date at the table next to yours, the contexts misaligned so dramatically that your mind is wiped blank. “Notes?” I repeat.

He rolls onto his side, his eyes lit with humor. “On my performance.”

“Seriously?”

“Katrina, you know how much I love feedback. Yours in particular.”

I laugh. His grin is boyish in a way I’ve never seen before. Nothing like the intentional charm of his author photo. His dimple frames the corner of his lips, and there’s an eager openness in his expression that I can only interpret as genuine happiness. I know he expects me to play this game with him a little longer, stretch out our wordplay the way we both love. I can’t, though. Not while his smile is making me embarrassingly soft. “No notes. You were . . . It was perfect.”

He catches my hand, kissing my knuckles. “It was,” he says.

There’s no way I’m leaving this bed, I decide. I’ll work from here. Possibly forever. I pull on my underwear, wondering if he’s watching—he definitely is—then throw my shirt on over my head. Settling into the pillows, I curl up, grabbing the pages I need to edit from the nightstand. Nathan follows my lead, spreading out across the foot of the bed, shirtless and barelegged except for his briefs. The sun warms the room.

I feel good. It’s so simple, yet so profound I don’t focus on it for fear it will flee under scrutiny.

An hour passes, two, while I work on the pages, sneaking glances at Nathan typing on his computer. I let my cheeks heat remembering his hands everywhere, feeling every inch of me. His mouth kissing my breasts, gentleness and care fighting with hunger in his every movement. I felt good with him, too. Myself. Swept up in the best possible way.