Winter (Four Seasons #1) (10 page)

The man and
woman, both rugged up in thick coats, laugh. “It’s cute all right,”
the woman agrees.

“
See?” Noah
thanks the couple by giving them a low bow, which is hilarious, and
they go on their way, their boots crunching in the snow. Noah takes
a step toward me and suddenly there’s no more space between
us.

“
I thought you
weren’t going to kiss me,” I mumble, suddenly panicked and awkward
again, my breath catching in my throat.

Noah purses
his lips, staring down at me for a second. He really is tall. I
freeze when he reaches up and gently brushes my hair back again,
this time with both hands. His fingertips graze my jaw on either
side when he lets them fall.

“
I’m not.” He
touches his index finger to the tip of my nose and smiles, backing
away. “Might do soon, though.”

“
If I let
you.”

A dangerous
smile spreads across his face. “If you let me.”

I pace up the
steps and open the door to the apartment building, and the whole
time Noah backs away down the street, watching me with that same
mischievous look on his face. I’m single, and so is Noah, which
means I am allowed to enjoy him flirting with me, teasing me with
the promise of future kisses to come. So then why does it feel so
wrong? I head inside with Luke’s greeting from earlier ringing in
my ears:

Hello,
Beautiful.

******

The darkness
is almost perfect, which is the reason why every single one of my
senses seems to be compensating. My sense of smell, my hearing,
taste — everything is heightened. And there's my skin, of course.
Every square inch of me is lit up like a Christmas tree. My
breathing twines with the breathing of another, someone else
sharing my bed with me. The syncopated harmonics of our inhalations
and exhalations combine with the delicious rustling of skin on
skin—our bodies wrapping around one another.

I don't think
about who I'm with, where I am. The only things that matters are
his hands on me, his mouth on mine, the growing need that exists
between us.

"Avery." The
voice is familiar, I know it, have known it all my life. But I've
never heard it in this context before. Never heard it breathing my
name like it's a plea for help, like I am the only person capable
of saving him.

"Luke, oh my
God…" I can't think straight. There is something about this
situation, something strange, but I'm too wrapped up in him,
wrapped up in my sheets, in the way my heart is hammering in my
chest to do anything about it. I don't want to do anything about
it. "I need you. I need you so badly." Strong, capable hands rove
over my body, cupping my breasts, leaving a trail of fire down my
belly, and hesitating between my legs. I want him to touch me
there. I want him to touch me there so badly. I curve my body into
him, unembarrassed by my need.

"Avery, what
do you want? What do you want me to do to you?"

I want
everything. I want him to consume me, to own me, to light me on
fire. "Touch me," I whisper. "Make me come. Make me come all over
your fingers." There’s something inside me, something possessing
me. I would never normally say those words, never know how to ask
for what I want. But right now, I'm happy to direct his hands, his
mouth, his entire body to exactly where I need it. Strong arms wrap
around me, lifting me up from the bed. My naked skin slides like
silk across Luke's, and then he is underneath me. I can feel him
rock solid between my legs, his hard-on pressing insistently
against my opening, and I lower my body weight fractionally,
enjoying the way his body tenses at the contact. He wants me, I can
feel it. He pushes me back gently so that I'm sitting upright,
straddling him, and then his hands find their way to my hips. His
right hand grazes my skin, sending shivers of pleasure exploding
through my nerve endings. And then his fingers…his fingers head
south, searching out the very centre of me. It doesn't take long
for him to find what he is looking for.

"Slowly," I
murmur. I grind into his hand, feeling liberated and whole and
incredibly brave. Luke's hips press up beneath me, applying the
most amazing pressure to my core, and all the while he strokes his
fingers in small circles against the swollen bundle of nerve
endings that seem to be controlling my brain.

"Is that good,
Beautiful?”

"So good. So
good," I pant.

"You want me
to fuck you?"

I really do
want to Luke fuck me. But I need him to make me a promise first.
"On one condition," I moan.

"Oh yeah?
Anything. Anything you need."

I take hold of
Luke's hand guiding his fingers as they move on me. I hear his
sharp intake of breath, his moan of pleasure. "I need you to swear
you're going to fuck me as hard as you can. I want you to promise
you won't stop until we both come together, until you make me
scream your name. Think you can do that?"

Luke's
laughter is strained, laboured. A little surprised. "I can do that.
I can do that no problem."

"Then do it.
Make me scream." I dig my fingernails into his chest and he groans,
hissing in a combination of pain and pleasure. The next thing I
know he's pushing my body back and sliding me forwards, his hands
on my hips again, pulling me down onto him. Having him inside me is
like nothing else I've ever felt before—he stretches me, thrusting
deep inside me, and suddenly it's not dark any more. Fireworks
light up my head, sucker punching me straight in the consciousness,
and Luke makes good on his word. He fucks me hard. He fucks me
until I'm screaming his name.

******

"Luke!"

I sit bolt
upright in bed, adrenaline laying siege to my heart.

What the fuck?
No seriously,
what the
fuck
?

What the hell
was I just dreaming? The answer to that question is ricocheting
around my head like a goddamn pinball. Breathing way too hard, I
find myself pressing my thighs together, fighting the sensation
that I was on the brink of something very amazing only two seconds
ago. "No. Fucking. Way." There is no way I can handle dreams like
that. Not with Luke Reid. I just can't allow it happen. I let my
head fall forward, catching my breath. My sheets are a mess,
completely wrapped around me and drenched with sweat.
Perfect.

I fling them
off, climbing out of bed and scrubbing my hands over my face,
trying to rid myself of the sensation that I was having the best
sex of my life a moment ago. And with a guy I really shouldn't be
thinking about to boot. It seems my subconscious is deadset on
finding the most unique and cruel ways to torture me.

Eight

Surprise,
Surprise

“
So you didn’t
even get kissed last night?”

“
Nope.” Well,
Noah didn’t kiss me, anyway. And dream lays don’t count. I crunch
down on a carrot, knowing how much it annoys Morgan when I eat on
the phone. “Noah said something about wanting to have the
opportunity to do it more than once.”

“
You know what
that means, don’t you?” Morgan sounds a little strained. She’s
nursing the hangover from hell, courtesy of a night in with her
parents. Apparently, the only way to handle such an event is to get
roaring drunk on expensive tequila.

“
No, what does
it mean?”

“
It means he’s
a player. He must be okay with
kissing
some girls just once, if you
catch my drift.”

“
It could mean
that,” I concede.

“
And that’s
okay with you?”

I think about
how complicated everything is for me right now; do I really need
the potential for something serious with a guy on top of all that?
The answer is a resounding Hell No. I’m definitely not ready to
think about emotions and feelings and all that other complicated
stuff. That might require me to analyse the foray my subconscious
took into porno land last night. “Yeah, I think I’m okay with that.
I mean, he’s an exchange student for crying out loud. He’ll be
going back to Ireland at some point. Plus I won’t have to explain
anything about before, if we’re just having some fun.”

Morgan makes a
choking sound down the phone. “Excuse me? Did I just hear you
say,
‘having some fun’
? I think all the hard liquor I drank last night has my ears
on the fritz.”

Morgan Kepler,
queen of hyperbole. I pop the rest of the carrot into my mouth and
chomp extra hard. “I’m not that straight-laced, Morgan. At least I
don’t think I am.”

“
Trust me. You
are.”

“
Hey! I resent
that.”

“
I resent
being accused of many things, but that, unfortunately my dear,
doesn’t make them untrue.”

“
All right,
well maybe I don’t want to be straight-laced anymore, then. Maybe I
just want someone to take my mind off things. That’s what Noah did
for me last night—he made me forget for five minutes. That felt
really good.” Until we hit O’Flanagan’s, of course. I’ve left that
whole section of the night out of my story. I don’t feel like
explaining Luke and his incredible voice, or the fact that he sang
Blackbird. Morgan will only pick every single second apart and that
will confuse things even further. And right now, some clarity would
be great, given how muddy the water has gotten.

“
I’m happy for
you, chica. You need some light entertainment in your life. And I’m
sure that lovely Irish boy knows at least a hundred different ways
to keep you lightly entertained.”

I let out a
loud sigh. Maybe she’s right. “When are you coming back to
campus?”

“
Late tonight.
You wanna grab a coffee at lunch tomorrow?”

“
Sure.” I hang
up, feeling lighter than I have in days. I’m sure part of that has
something to do with Noah and how our lack of history is like a
clean slate. Something fresh and new and untainted. Maybe it’s time
to put Lucas Reid out of my head once and for all. If I’m honest
with myself, he’s been on my mind a lot since that night outside
Tate’s frat house, during waking hours as well as in my dreams. It
makes me angry that I’m letting myself think about him when I know
it’s just another road to pain and misery for me. For starters,
Luke knows all the hideous details of my past. He
found
my dad, for fuck’s
sake. We’ve been meeting up since I was a kid so he can make sure I
am okay. So he can try and find some sort of closure to the whole
affair. Undoubtedly, he still sees me as the snot-nosed kid who
kicked and screamed and smashed the window to the living room when
she found out her father was dead. Those are the reasons I know
with a certainty that Luke will never feel anything for me beyond
pity and perhaps a protective sense of duty.

There are
other reasons, too. Normal ones. He’s older and has lived in the
city on his own for years, and I’m just starting out at college. I
know he’s incredibly good looking, even if I pretend that doesn’t
affect me—it totally does—and that means he can probably have any
girl he wants. On top of everything, I desperately don’t want to
feel anything for him because every time I look at him, I see his
face on the day he came to our front door. I witness the horror of
what he saw, the guilt of what he had to tell us. I see Breakwater
and everything I want to leave behind. I need the man out of my
life for good.

******

Tinsel wraps
around the banisters in the stairwell in Luke’s apartment, red and
blue, which seems a little weird. It’s a little early for Christmas
decorations, and usually most places are decked out in red and
green, anyway. Maybe
everyone
who lives in his building is a cop. I hike all the
way up to the top floor and stoop down to leave the NYPD sweatshirt
I’ve bundled inside a Macy’s bag. Luke’s is the only apartment up
here so the chances of someone else finding it before he returns
from work are practically non-existent. I’m about to turn and walk
back down the stairs when the apartment door opens and Casey Fisher
steps out wrapped in a black and grey hound’s-tooth trench coat. I
freeze, completely stunned by the fact that Luke is back so early
from his supposed twelve hour shift, and that his ex girlfriend is
coming out of his apartment.

“
Iris
Breslin
?” Casey sputters. She straightens
and looks me up and down, the way people do when they’re mortified
and intrigued at the same time. She’s cut her long black hair since
high school but she still has a look of Snow White about her:
bruised, pouty red lips, incredibly pale—that sort of thing. She’s
the type of person to stay out of the sun so her skin won’t age.
Much thinner that she used to be, she has a rake-thin New York chic
working for her.

“
Who are you—”
Luke appears in the doorway behind Casey, shirtless, his dark hair
all over the place. The tattoos that were playing peekaboo below
his shirtsleeves the other day are much more extensive than I’d
originally guessed. I would check them out if I weren’t locked to
the spot by the horrified look in his eyes. There’s panic there,
too. “…talking to?” he finishes.