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“I want it all.” His voice is low, desperate, a prayer against my lips. “A life with you. All of life—all of you.”

His thrusts accelerate desperately, each one slamming deeper, harder, until I can’t breathe, can’t think, my mind and body and heart full of nothing but Evan, the ecstasy of him. I clutch him tighter, nails sinking into his skin, his muscles, pulling him as close as I possibly can as pleasure blooms, unbearable, curling, rising, tipping me over the edge.

“Evan.”

My orgasm bursts through me like an unstoppable wave, stealing my breath, shattering me into a thousand incandescent fragments. My body clenches around him, my spine arching violently, a cry ripped from my throat as Evan drives into me one last time, spilling himself deep inside, shuddering, his voice a broken rasp.

And I whisper into his skin, into his breath, into his hands gripping me so tightly, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

Yes, yes, yes, yes.

Yes to all of it, all of the time, for the rest of our lives.

44

Fall

Sophie

Cambridge is shrouded indusky gloom, the first chill of autumn creeping into the stone. The rain never came today, but the air still smells like it should have, a wet heaviness hanging in the dark.

Night has already fallen by the time I step out of Blackstone Hall, wrapping my scarf around my neck. A tiny smile flickers to life on my lips.

Evan’s waiting at the bottom of the steps. He’s in jeans and a plain jumper, golden hair windswept, a massive bouquet of white tulips in his arms.

I stop short, watching him.

He looks as athletic and confident and carefree as I’ve ever known him, but he’s different, too. The way he stands, so comfortable in himself, sleeves pushed up just slightly to reveal a simple watch, a gold bracelet, the black hair tie he never gave me back.

Warmth shines inside my chest like sunlight.

Something bumps into my elbow, breaking the spell of the moment. I smell a rich jasmine perfume and the artificial sweetness of vape smoke. A haughty voice sneers in my ear.

“Ugh, your boyfriend’ssoembarrassing.”

“Careful, Dahlia,” I tell her, turning to look at her. “If I didn’t know you love misery, I’d think you were jealous.”

“Hardly,” she says. “I prefer something a little more complicated than having a lovesick puppy chase me around.”

“You’re missing out.” I pull out a folder from my bag and hand it to her. “MyUnited States v. Nixonnotes, as promised.”

She takes the folder and flips through the dense sheaf of paper. She’s in a wine-red jumper and dark jeans, her dark gold hair loose, her eyelashes cartoon-long, her mouth a perfect pout.

She looks good since she came back from the summer; I hear she ended up securing a new internship, shadowing Olivia Langley. She’s not mentioned it herself, but then we’re hardly bosom friends, and Dahlia, I’m learning, is even meaner to the people she likes than those she hates.

“Those are very thorough,” she says with obvious reluctance. She looks up at me. “Really pays off having no social life.”

I roll my eyes.

“Enjoy your weekend at Martha’s Vineyard, Dahlia. I’ll spare you a thought when my lovesick puppy is giving me my third or fourth orgasm.” I turn to walk away, and wave to her, calling from the steps, “Oh, and tell Anthony and Max I say hi.”

I don’t hear her reply: I’ve barely reached the bottom of the steps before Evan is sweeping me up against his chest with one arm, catching my lips in a hungry kiss. I throw my arms around his neck and laugh against his mouth.

“This isn’t correct first date protocol, Knight.”

“Oh, yeah.” He gives my bottom lip a tiny bite but releases me, setting me carefully down. He hands me the tulips, which I take, admiring the milky petals, the thick green leaves. The white tissue paper is bound with a thick ribbon, which I caress with the tip of my fingers.

“Are the flowers too much?” Evan asks, suddenly frowning.