Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(7)

“I don’t think there’s any other way to take you,” she murmurs as the head disappears inside her. She pauses.

Her gaze stays trained on the place where our bodies meet, and she keeps up with the slow hip rolls until her ass meets my thighs. Her fingers trail past her navel, going lower to skim over her clit, stopping at the base of my shaft. “It’s almost obscene how full I am.”

“Just tell me if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not, but if that changes, I’ll let you know.” She rises a few inches, and her mouth drops open, head falling back when she lowers herself. I hold her hips, helping her find a rhythm.

She urges me to raise my hands and presses hers to mine, palm to palm. She laces our fingers together, leaning into them as she chases down her orgasm. Her rhythm falters for a beat before she starts to move again, long, slow strokes that tip me over the edge too. It’s fucking bliss.

“You want to stay the night so we can do this again?” She presses her lips to mine.

“Ab-so-fucking-lutely.”

We make a snack, and then have sex again in the kitchen. We shower and make out. Wake up in the middle of the night for round three. Try for round four with her condoms but end up sixty-nining instead.

At six in the morning, my alarm goes off, signaling skate practice. Clover is passed out beside me. For a moment, I consider waking her up to say goodbye, or leaving my number, but it’s obvious she’s got some years on me—in the best possible way—and I don’t want to make it awkward for her. Besides, I’m heading back to college soon, and she’s got a life to live.

Instead, I write a note on a piece of paper, fold it into an origami crane, and leave it on the nightstand. I walk out of her life twelve hours after I walked in. Maybe next summer, when I’m en route to a professional career in hockey, we’ll cross paths again. Whether or not that happens, I’ve now got a sweet memory tied to this place.





Two





It was Good for a Minute There





Clover





Five weeks later


The beep of the house alarm being disarmed wakes me. I bolt upright in bed, breath caught in my throat. The wisps of my dream fade out slowly. I’ve been having the same one for over a month—more like a memory than a dream. My cheeks heat, and every muscle below my waist is clenching. My summer fling refuses to stay in Pearl Bay. He’s followed me here, to Chicago, and every night I have the same dream, where instead of leaving behind an empty pillow and a paper crane, I wake up with him next to me.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bac-y!” my best friend, Sophia, calls out from down the hall. She lives on the top floor of the duplex, and I live on the bottom. I lucked out that the tenant who previously lived here moved at the beginning of August, giving me the opportunity to take over the lease and live close to my best friend again.

“I’ll just be a minute!” I call back and roll out of bed, sad to leave behind the dream, but excited about what the rest of my day is going to look like. I shrug into my robe as I pad down the hall to the kitchen.

Sophia is already pulling plates out of the cupboard.

“I lied about the bacon and eggs. We’re having muffins for breakfast. And they’re not healthy in the slightest. They’re full of butter and sugar and blueberries,” she tells me.

“Sounds like exactly what I need on a Tuesday morning, and blueberries are healthy.” I head for the coffee maker, which is set to brew at 6:30, so there’s a full, fresh pot waiting for us. Back in July, I was offered an incredible job opportunity at the college where Sophia works—a one-year contract to teach two first-year English and semantics classes—and I couldn’t turn it down. While teaching at the college level full-time hadn’t been something I planned on, the salary was too good to refuse. And it’s a great addition to my resume.

Last week, things got even better when I was offered the opportunity to take over a creative writing seminar course from a professor who had to go on leave for back surgery. He’s off for at least the rest of the first semester, if not the entire year. He passed over the course syllabus, and today I take over the class.

Up until now, I’d been teaching courses as an adjunct professor and writing for several online publications. It paid the bills, but it didn’t leave much left over for savings. A one-year position teaching at a prestigious school definitely pays better. And the addition of the seminar will not only help pad my bank account, but it’s the cherry on the sundae of this experience.

I pour two cups, feeling my phone buzz against my hip. I ignore it for now. I’m pretty sure I already know who it is.

“How are you this morning? Excited? Nervous?” Sophia asks as I set her coffee in front of her and take the seat across the table.

“Both, I guess? I have a feeling tonight’s class will be a lot of fun to teach. All these young minds learning how to create worlds. It’s amazing.”

The English 101 courses are fine, but the classes are huge, and the material is fairly general. The second-year seminar course is much more intimate and the content inspiring. And it should be full of keen minds.

“I’m glad you’re excited for it.” Sophia separates the top of her muffin from the bottom, and despite it being full of butter and blueberries, she slathers more butter on both sides.