Page 29 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)
Kellan
The morning light poured through the curtains in thin golden stripes, warm across my bare shoulders.
Emmett was curved against my back, his chest rising steady and sure, his legs tangled with mine like we’d always slept that way.
My muscles ached, my body used in ways it never had before—yet I didn’t feel broken down.
I felt held together, like something inside me had finally snapped free of its cage.
Grounded.
Claimed. Safe.
For a long moment, I just breathed him in.
The faint scent of soap and sweat, the way his breath ghosted over the back of my neck.
I’d woken up plenty of mornings with someone beside me, but none of them ever felt like this.
None of them ever felt like home.
Still, the thought pressed at the edge of it, unwelcome but insistent: two weeks.
In two weeks, camp ended, and I was supposed to head back to LA.
Back to the empty apartment, the career that no longer fit, the silence I’d been drowning in long before I came back here.
My chest tightened, but I shoved it aside.
Not now.
Not when I had this.
Emmett stirred behind me, shifting, his arm sliding across my waist until his hand rested low on my stomach.
His lips brushed my shoulder, soft and unhurried, and I shivered even though the room was already warm.
He hummed, the sound vibrating against my skin, then his palm skimmed lower, teasing along my hip.
I rolled onto my back, needing to see him.
His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep.
But when his gaze landed on mine, it was clear and steady, like he’d been waiting for me to turn.
His mouth curved into the kind of smile that made my chest ache, and he leaned in, catching my lips in a kiss that was more a question than a demand.
I answered with a hand at his jaw, pulling him closer, deepening it.
No rush.
No panic.
Just the slow, certain slide of his tongue against mine, the heat curling low in my stomach.
His weight pressed into me, solid and real, and my body responded before my mind could catch up—hips lifting, seeking.
He kissed me like we had all the time in the world, like there wasn’t a clock ticking down on us.
And for a little while, I let myself believe it.[28]
The morning light poured through the curtains in thin golden stripes, warm across my bare shoulders.
Emmett was curved against my back, his chest rising steady and sure, his legs tangled with mine like we’d always slept that way.
My muscles ached, my body used in ways it never had before—yet I didn’t feel broken down.
I felt held together, like something inside me had finally snapped free of its cage.
Grounded.
Claimed. Safe.
For a long moment, I just breathed him in.
The faint scent of soap and sweat, the way his breath ghosted over the back of my neck.
I’d woken up plenty of mornings with someone beside me, but none of them ever felt like this.
None of them ever felt like home.
Still, the thought pressed at the edge of it, unwelcome but insistent: two weeks.
In two weeks, camp ended, and I was supposed to head back to LA.
Back to the empty apartment, the career that no longer fit, the silence I’d been drowning in long before I came back here.
My chest tightened, but I shoved it aside.
Not now.
Not when I had this.
Emmett stirred behind me, shifting, his arm sliding across my waist until his hand rested low on my stomach.
His lips brushed my shoulder, soft and unhurried, and I shivered even though the room was already warm.
He hummed, the sound vibrating against my skin, then his palm skimmed lower, teasing along my hip.
I rolled onto my back, needing to see him.
His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep.
But when his gaze landed on mine, it was clear and steady, like he’d been waiting for me to turn.
His mouth curved into the kind of smile that made my chest ache, and he leaned in, catching my lips in a kiss that was more a question than a demand.
I answered with a hand at his jaw, pulling him closer, deepening it.
No rush.
No panic.
Just the slow, certain slide of his tongue against mine, the heat curling low in my stomach.
His weight pressed into me, solid and real, and my body responded before my mind could catch up—hips lifting, seeking.
He chuckled low, the sound rumbling against my lips.
“Morning.”
“Morning,”
I whispered back, though it came out rough, already thick with want.
The kiss stretched, lazy and wet, until his hand slid down my side, fingers brushing my thigh before pushing between my legs. My breath hitched. I was already hard, aching for him, and when his palm wrapped around me, I groaned into his mouth.
“Slow,”
he murmured, his forehead pressing against mine.
“Just let me take care of you.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My own hand moved on instinct, slipping over his hip, finding him just as hard, thick and heavy against my palm. He sighed at the touch, his lips parting, lashes lowering like it felt too good to keep his eyes open.
We stroked each other like that, unhurried, trading kisses between breaths. Every shift of his hand made my stomach clench, every roll of his hips made me want more, but neither of us rushed. This wasn’t about chasing the edge—it was about sinking into it, about proving we could be this close without fear.
He shifted down, trailing kisses along my throat, my chest, until he wrapped his mouth around me, slow and warm. I gasped, hand tangling in his hair, hips lifting before I could stop them. He hummed low, like he wanted me to know how much he liked it, and heat shot through me sharp enough to make my toes curl.
“Emmy…”
My voice cracked on his name, the sound pulling his gaze up to mine. His mouth was wet around me, his lips slick, and the sight almost undid me.
I tugged at his hair gently, urging him back up, and when his mouth met mine again, I could taste myself on his tongue. My body tightened at the thought, need spiking, but it was softer too—an intimacy I’d never known.
He slid between my legs, braced on his elbows, kissing me like he had all the time in the world. When he pushed inside me again—slow, careful—I held onto him, heart hammering but steady. It didn’t feel like last night, frantic and overwhelming. This was different. This was connection.
We moved together lazily, the morning quiet around us, cicadas buzzing faint outside the open window. Every thrust was slow, deep, like he was writing something into me I’d never forget. I clung to him, nails in his back, breath stuttering against his mouth, and for once I didn’t feel like I had to hide how much I wanted.
When I came, it was quieter this time, more a breaking-open than a crash. He followed, a low groan against my throat, and we stayed pressed together, slick with sweat, hearts beating wild but content.
He didn’t roll away. He didn’t make space. He just curled into me, lips brushing my temple, like this was exactly where he wanted to be.
And maybe for the first time in my life, I believed I could stay here.[29]
*****
By the time the sun was fully up, we’d brushed our teeth side by side, bumping shoulders at the sink, and shared a shower that was more about kisses under the spray than actually getting clean. We grabbed something quick in the kitchen—toast, coffee—and then split off. Emmett disappeared into his innkeeper rhythm, and I headed out toward camp with a whistle slung around my neck.
The day blurred in sun and sweat, kids running drills, voices echoing across the field. When I trudged back mid-afternoon, tired and streaked with dust, the scent of something sweet drifted out the kitchen door. Emmett already had flour on his forearms, sleeves shoved up, the counter crowded with vegetables and bowls.
“Wash your hands,”
he ordered, though the corner of his mouth curved like he was glad to see me.
I did, rolling up beside him at the cutting board. We fell into step without even thinking—me trimming beans, him slicing peaches, our elbows bumping now and then. At one point, he swatted flour off my arm with a laugh, leaving a white streak across my skin.
“You missed a spot,”
I told him, and before he could answer, I stepped in to tie the apron strings at his waist. My knuckles grazed his hip, and heat skittered through me. His eyes flicked up at mine, green sparking like they always did when I got too close.
The kitchen filled with the easy sound of knives on cutting boards, pots simmering low, his hand brushing mine every time we reached for the same bowl. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was better—domestic, steady, like we’d been doing this for years.[30]
By the time the table was set and the food laid out, the dining room buzzed with voices. The Petersons sat side by side, sun hats perched on the chair backs. The honeymooners leaned close together, hands linked even while they reached for iced tea. The mystery writer—quiet, sharp-eyed—ate with slow, appreciative bites, as if cataloguing every flavor for later.
Emmett moved among them easy, the perfect host, topping off glasses, laughing at Mr. Peterson’s story about getting lost in town. I carried in the peach cobbler, set it on the table, and felt something in my chest loosen at the way the room glowed. This was his world, but he let me move in it like I belonged.
Mrs. Peterson’s voice cut through the chatter, blunt as ever. “So,”
she said, fork hovering.
“are you two partners?”
The clink of silverware on plates. Emmett froze mid-step, pitcher in hand, and flicked a glance my way. In that heartbeat, a hundred old silences pressed between us. All the things we hadn’t said. All the years we hadn’t dared.
“Yes,”
I heard myself say. Strong, sure, even as my pulse kicked. My own voice startled me.
For a second, I thought I’d overstepped. But then Emmett’s smile broke wide open, brighter than I’d ever seen it, unguarded and fierce. It hit me square in the chest, left me breathless. And I knew—I’d done something right. Something brave.
The moment passed, chatter rising again, cobbler being served, questions shifting back to town gossip. But Emmett’s hand brushed mine under the table, quick, grounding, and I felt the weight of his gratitude without him saying a word.[31]
Later, when the guests had retreated to their rooms, we stood side by side at the sink. Warm water, suds up to our wrists, plates clinking soft. Emmett hummed under his breath, tuneless, content. My shoulder leaned into his now and then, my fingers brushed his as I passed him a dish. Small touches, stupid little things—but they felt like everything.
And under it all, the ache pressed in: two weeks. That was all we had left before camp ended, before I was supposed to leave.[32]
By the time the last pan clattered onto the drying rack and the kitchen lights dimmed, Emmett gave a satisfied little sigh.
“Another day survived.”
I smirked, wiping my damp hands on a towel.
“Not quite.”
His brow quirked, suspicious. I held up the can of whipped cream I’d tucked behind my back.
He barked a laugh. “Kelly—”
“Strip,”
I cut in, grinning as heat pooled low in my belly.
“Lie down.”
For a second he looked like he might argue. Then that wicked smile spread slow across his mouth. He peeled off his shirt, toed out of his jeans, and stretched back across the bed, bare and gorgeous, hands behind his head like he was curious what kind of trouble I was about to start.
My heart thudded. I climbed onto the mattress, popped the cap, and pressed a swirl of cream to the center of his chest.
“Sweet enough for you?”
He arched a brow.
“Depends on the taste tester.”
I bent low, licked the cream from his skin, lingered with a slow suck over his nipple. His groan rumbled deep, his hand finding my hair, not to guide—just to touch. I trailed more across his belly, down the cut of his hip, a stripe along his thigh. I chased every mark with my mouth, kissing, nibbling, teasing.
“Christ, Kelly,”
he rasped, his chest rising hard and fast.
“You’re trying to kill me.”
“Not yet.”
My voice broke rough as I shifted lower, settling between his thighs. His cock stood heavy and flushed, and nerves sparked sharp in me—but want burned hotter. I bent, tongue dragging along his length, the taste of him cutting through sugar, sharp and intoxicating.
He groaned, fisting the sheets.
“Easy—don’t—”
But I didn’t stop. Awkward at first, teeth grazing, my jaw straining—but I adjusted, found rhythm. His taste filled my mouth, better than cream, better than anything. Every sound he made drove me harder. He warned, desperate, “Gonna—”
but I stayed down, swallowing his shout, drinking him like I’d been starving twenty years.
When I pulled back, panting, his gaze was molten. Then his eyes flicked to the hard ridge in my sweats, damp already.
“Kelly,”
he said, low and fierce.
“Come on me. Now.”
I shoved the sweats down, no shame left in me, just raw need. My hand pumped quick, hips jerking as the heat built sharp and fast. When it broke, I spilled across his chest, his stomach, even the dark strands of his hair. Messy. Undone. All of me on him.
For a beat, I froze—shame flickering. But he only reached up, smearing some across his fingers, tugging me down for a kiss that tasted of salt and cream and us.
“Goddamn,”
he whispered against my mouth.
“You’re mine.”
I collapsed into him, laughter shaky, my body trembling. We cleaned ourselves clumsily, still kissing between wipes of a towel, and then curled under the sheets, skin to skin, legs tangled. His hand stayed on my chest, steady as a heartbeat.
And I knew—this wasn’t just sex. It was love. Had always been love. I didn’t want LA. Didn’t want the empty apartment, the cold nights. I wanted this. Him. Us.
For the first time in decades, the future didn’t scare me half as much as the thought of losing Emmett again.
Daily To-Do List
Pick up produce from farmers’ market
Fix porch swing chain before guests notice
Prep lemonade stand for festival crowd
Tell Kellan I love him