Page 13 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

Every evening, I curl up in Père’s warm embrace, the solid feel of his arms around me grounding me in a way nothing else can.

He leans back against the couch, his voice a seductive purr that melts everything inside me, as he reads me another letter from the stack.

It’s become our routine, our little ritual.

Each letter feels like a window into the past, a window into the lives of Harold and Elliot, but more than that, it feels like we’re sharing something sacred.

A connection that goes beyond time, beyond the ink on the page.

The letters are faded, the words delicate, but Père reads each one as though it’s a treasure. His fingers brush over the paper as if he’s touching the hearts of the men who wrote them. And with every word, I feel him drawing me closer, not just to their story but to our own.

I rest my head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat soothing me as he reads on.

Sometimes, his voice cracks when he reaches particularly emotional parts, and I feel it deep in my own chest. Sometimes, we pause, the silence wrapping around us like a blanket, and I let myself imagine those two lovers—Harold and Elliot—lost to time, but not forgotten.

And then I think about us, about our own story.

How we’re creating something, too, something daring and real and all our own.

And as he continues to read, I let the words of the past mingle with the feelings stirring in me now—feelings for him, for the love we’re building, and for the truth that we’re not just reading a story, we’re living one.

Harold recalls the first time he made love to Elliot, in the room just down the hall. His words paint a clear picture of the overwhelming desire he felt for Elliot, the uncertainty of his first illicit touch of his cousin.

It feels inappropriate for me to be turned on by the story, but I am. I’m rock hard, and now my mind is wandering. If only Père would touch me like that. I brush my fingers over his bare thigh, flirting with the hem of his boxer shorts.

He continues to read as if he can’t feel my touch.

I tease the coarse hair on his thigh with soft breaths, daring to softly lick his skin before blowing over it.

His muscle twitches, his only reaction to my feeble attempt at seduction.

As Père continues to read, my attempts grow bolder.

Lifting the thin cotton over his thigh, I blow warm air into his boxers. His lips tug into a reluctant smile, but he doesn’t stop reading.

Scooting my head from his thigh to his groin, I lift the hem of his tank top and poke my tongue into the soft warmth of Père’s belly button. He chuckles and tugs his shirt back down.

I think he wants this, he just hasn’t given himself permission to accept it yet. Like Harold and Elliot, describing the forbidden thrill of their first touch, first kiss, the way it sent him over the edge with desire for a man he shouldn’t want.

Père’s breath hitches, but he doesn't pull away. His body’s reaction betrays the calm exterior he's trying so hard to maintain. I feel the heat between us building, the tension thick in the air, and I know he wants this. He wants me, even if he's telling himself he shouldn’t.

His hands twitch at his sides, and for a moment, I think he might reach out, but instead, he rubs the back of his neck as if trying to will away the longing I see in his eyes. “You’re playing with fire,” he mutters, voice rough, barely louder than a whisper.

I sit up, just a breath away, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Maybe I like fire.”

Père shifts slightly, his breath coming a little faster now, like he’s trying to steady himself.

His gaze flickers to my lips, then back to my eyes, like he’s battling with something deep inside him.

“You know this isn't... This isn't simple,” he says, his voice strained, as though each word is a fight.

I smile softly, leaning in just enough that my lips brush against his ear, my breath hot against his skin. “I know. But sometimes the most complicated things are the ones worth having.”

He swallows hard, hard enough that I can hear it, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

He closes his eyes for a beat, as if trying to block out the overwhelming desire that’s building between us.

His hand hovers near mine, hesitant, unsure.

The tension is so thick, I swear I can feel it crackling in the air.

It’s like the force of his restraint is pressing down on me.

“Van…” His voice is barely a whisper, almost a plea. “We can’t just pretend this isn’t... dangerous.”

I pause, just long enough to savor the moment, before I slide my hand down to his, gently interlacing our fingers. “I’m not pretending anything. I’m here. Right here with you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

There’s a moment of soundlessness, and for a heartbeat, it feels like time itself has frozen. The world outside doesn’t exist. It’s just us. Just the raw, unspoken truth between us.

Père exhales, his chest rising with the breath he’s holding in, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re darker, intent on mine. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep holding back,” he admits softly.

God, I hope not much longer. I’m dying to taste his kiss.

I lean in, closer this time, the air between us charged. “You don’t have to,” I whisper.

My breath mingles with his, desire crackling between us. His eyes lock onto mine, the dark depth of them searching, questioning, but also— wanting . I feel it in every beat of my heart, the unspoken connection that’s been simmering between us for weeks, maybe longer.

When my lips finally brush against his, it’s soft—barely a touch at first. But the spark it ignites sends a rush of heat through me, a longing that makes my chest tighten. I can taste him, the warmth of his lips, the fleeting sensation of what could be .

I lean in more, my hand finding its way to the back of his neck, pulling him just that little bit closer, hoping, craving for more.

The feel of his lips is as familiar as the rest of him.

But then Père pulls back, just enough to break the kiss. His breath is ragged, his eyes dark and heavy.

“Van,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “We should... we should stop.” His hand lingers near my face, like he's fighting the urge to touch me again, to let this thing explode between us. But his resolve holds.

I feel the disappointment flood through me, but it’s quickly replaced by something else—something that makes me respect him more than ever. “Alright,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, feeling that same fire still burning between us, waiting.

Père exhales, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Let’s call it a night, yeah? Before we both get in too deep.”

I’m dying to get in too deep! I want to drown myself in him.

But instead, I nod, unable to find the words to express the way my heart is racing, the way I can’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way I’ll never forget the heat of it.

I can still feel his presence, the memory of his lips lingering on mine, and I know this is far from over.

It’s the only reason I can let him go now.

My chest heaves as Père pulls back, his eyes filled with sadness, and maybe relief? Maybe a little bit of both.

“Van…” His voice is low, almost apologetic, but also heavy with something deeper. “I don’t want to do anything we’re not ready for.”

I can’t help but laugh softly, though the sound is tight in my throat. “I’m not going to force you into anything, Père,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted, though there’s an ache in my chest I can’t quite ignore.

His eyes flick up to mine, and there’s an intensity there, like he’s trying to figure me out.

His hand trembles slightly as he runs it down the side of his face.

“You don’t make it easy, you know that?” His words are like a confession, a mixture of frustration and something else. Longing? Desire? It’s hard to say.

“I’m not trying to.” I take a cautious step forward, and his body tenses at the movement, like he’s unsure whether he should pull away or lean in. “But if it helps… I want this too, Père. More than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.”

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment, I feel like I can see every emotion flickering in his gaze—fear, desire, uncertainty.

“I know,” he says quietly, and then he lets out a breath, as if releasing some of the frustration that’s been building between us all night.

“But we can’t rush this. We’ve got to figure this out. What this is… what we are.”

I nod, though there’s a part of me that wants to argue. But I know he’s right. Neither of us has been in a relationship like this before—not in the way it feels between us. It’s new, it’s scary, and it’s… complicated. But I don’t want to walk away. I don’t want to push him away either.

“We will,” I reply softly, my fingers itching to touch him again, to feel the warmth of his skin under my fingertips. But I hold back, not wanting to push him too far, too fast.

Père glances at the door, his expression changing to something almost unreadable. “I think... maybe we should get some air. Maybe take a walk. Clear our heads a little before we do anything else.”

It’s the right idea, and as much as I don’t want to step away from him, I know he needs space. Hell, I need space .

“Yeah. A walk sounds good,” I agree.

We move toward the door, the space between us still thick with everything unsaid, but it’s a step forward. A break in the tension, a way to breathe. To let the moment cool before we dive back into whatever this is, whatever it will be.

The fresh air outside feels like a relief, the night cool against my skin. We walk side by side, neither of us speaking at first. I glance at Père occasionally, trying to gauge what’s going through his mind, but he’s hard to read right now.

Finally, he speaks, his voice soft. “Van… I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never had to navigate something like this.”

I nod, turning my head toward him. “Neither have I. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

We keep walking, the light of the moon illuminating our path. There’s a calm in the placidity now, one that feels more comfortable than it did before. We’re not rushing. Not anymore. But there’s a sense of something blooming between us, something quiet and strong.

We’ll take it slow. We’ll figure it out, step by step.

But whatever happens, I know one thing for sure.

This isn’t the end. Not by a long shot.