Page 32 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

This is it, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for all summer. Actually, I’ve been waiting years for. The moment I can finally feel my Père moving inside me. The moment I become a man.

His man.

Inside, the cabin feels impossibly quiet, and I swear he can hear my heart pounding with excitement and nerves.

I kick off my boots, letting my socks slide against the cool wood floor.

Père’s already moving, peeling out of his jacket, the muscles in his back flexing under the thin cotton of his shirt.

The smell of him curls around me and drags me closer without even trying.

My hand finds his waist, fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt like they have every right to be there. Père turns to me, and it’s all in his eyes. That pull. That need. That love I can’t ever seem to put into words.

I kiss him hard, no space left between us, my hands clutching the fabric of his shirt, desperate to feel more.

He makes this sound low in his throat that shoots straight through me, grounding me and setting me on fire all at once.

His hands are everywhere—skimming under my shirt, tracing my spine, pulling me closer like he’s afraid if he lets go, I’ll disappear.

I yank his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind me, not caring where it lands. His skin is hot, damp from the day, and when my palms slide over his chest, he shivers like I’m something he’s been starving for.

The back of my knees hit the couch and I fall into it, laughing against his mouth as he follows me down, covering me completely. His weight pins me to the cushions, solid and real, and I never want to move again.

We lose our clothes piece by piece, kisses deepening, hands roaming with a kind of reverence that makes my heart ache. “Van,” he whispers against my throat, against my shoulder, like a prayer or a promise.

Every brush of his mouth, every graze of his fingers leaves me unraveling. I press kisses to the hard planes of his chest, the slope of his belly, the dip of his hips, drinking him in like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

When he kisses me again, slow and deep, like he’s trying to stitch us together from the inside out, I melt against him.

There’s no fear here. No shame. Just us.

Two men who were meant to be together from the start.

Two men who have finally found their way.

“Shower with me?” Père asks, sounding husky and sexy .

I lift my head, catching the glint of heat in his eyes. His hand brushes my jaw, thumb dragging slowly across my bottom lip like he’s already imagining more. The suggestion in his voice short-circuits my brain and leaves me aching in ways I can’t even explain.

A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Yeah,” I breathe, voice rough around the edges.

Père pushes up first, offering me his hand. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. Our bodies brush as we move, bare skin on bare skin, and every nerve ending I have lights up like a live wire.

The bathroom is dim, just the faint golden spill from the hallway lamp. He twists the faucet, and the old pipes rattle before warm water spills from the shower head. Steam blooms around us, clinging to the mirror, the walls, our skin.

I step in first, the spray hitting my back in a rush that makes me gasp. Père follows, crowding me against the cool tile, his hands finding my hips, his mouth finding mine. Water streams down between us, slipping over our bodies, making every kiss, every touch, feel hotter, slicker, more desperate.

His hands roam like he’s relearning me, mapping every scar, every freckle, every shiver. My head tips back against the wall as he trails his mouth down my throat, his stubble scraping gently across my skin, making me shudder.

His fingers lace with mine, pinning my hands above my head. He presses his forehead to mine, breathing hard, water dripping from his lashes.

“This isn’t a dream, right?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and beautiful.

I shake my head, pulling him closer until there’s not a breath of air between us. “Feels real enough to me. ”

Père grasps the bar of soap and glides it down my back, making me shiver from his touch.

He presses kisses to my shoulders before trailing the bar after them.

Soapy bubbles slip down my chest and I slide my palms over my pecs, teasing my nipples into hard points.

Père groans like I’m torturing him by touching myself.

He continues to wash me, dipping the bar past my navel, down to the dark blond curls circling the base of my cock. Working in circular motions, he makes a sudsy froth, drops the bar, and uses his hand to spread the bubbles down my aching shaft.

“Ungh,” I moan, pushing into his grip.

His calloused hand works my dick over, back and forth, until I’m shamelessly humping his grip. Fire spreads through my blood, thinning it, making it rush quicker through my veins. It whooshes in my ears, drowning out Père’s heavy breaths.

The steam, his touch, his kisses—I’m lightheaded with pleasure, falling into him.

Water slicks our skin, making every glide of his palms feel endless, electric. I arch into him without thinking, greedy for more, for all of him.

He laughs softly against my mouth, this low, breathless sound that vibrates through me. Not teasing, but worshipful. Like he can't believe I'm here, real and wanting him just as desperately.

He curls his fingers into my hip, anchoring me, steadying me when the heat and need threaten to sweep me away. His other hand slides up my spine, pulling me flush against him. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

Hard cock to hard cock .

“You have no idea,” he murmurs between kisses, “how much I missed you.”

I whimper something that might be his name, or might just be a broken sound, and clutch his shoulders to keep from sinking to the floor.

Steam swirls around us, water pelting down, but all I can feel is him—his strength, his tenderness, the way his mouth moves over mine.

I kiss him harder, pouring all the words I don't know how to say into it. Stay. Love me. Don't ever let go.

He answers without speaking, pressing me back against the cool tile, his mouth claiming mine in slow, devastating kisses. His hips press forward, and a gasp escapes me, swallowed by his mouth. A low growl rumbles in his chest, and it undoes me completely.

Desperately, I grab for his dick, needing to feel the weight of it in my hand, the realness. Thick and solid, smooth and hot. I want it in my mouth, in my ass. Everywhere, invading, stretching, claiming me forever.

Shaping my body to fit his like it was made just for him.

“Can I?” I ask shyly, dropping my gaze to his dick.

“I won’t stop you.”

His eyes widen as he watches me drop to my knees.

The cold tile bites into my skin, but I barely feel it.

Taking him in hand, I stare at his cock, thick and veined, a dense bush of dark curls, peppered with gray.

He’s such a man. So mature and virile. Every inch of him is my wildest fantasy come true.

His hand cups the back of my neck, firm and grounding, guiding my head. Teaching me how to use my mouth to please him.

“No teeth, baby. Cover them with your lips.” His fingers card through my wet hair gently. His touch is patient, reverent, like he’s savoring me, memorizing me. “Hollow your cheeks and suck harder.”

The sound of his raspy voice, thick with steam and desire, makes the tip of my cock drip. I didn’t realize I would enjoy his instruction so much. In my fantasies, I just instinctively knew what to do, like a pro. But this is way better.

I can’t swallow all of him, but I’m determined to work up to it with time and practice. Père doesn’t seem to mind. His moans, his fingers tightening in my hair, the way he has to brace one hand against the wall for support—I can tell he’s enjoying this as much as I am. Maybe more so.

Eventually, he urges me to my feet. My eyes travel up his body as I straighten. A shiver dances through me, and it’s not from the water. It’s from the way he stands there, dripping and golden in the low light, like something out of a dream I never dared to believe could be real.

This man is all mine. He belongs to me.

He leans in, kisses the corner of my mouth, so soft it feels like a secret, and I nearly melt against him.

“You drive me crazy,” he rasps, voice rough with restraint. “You always have.”

I tilt my head back, offering him more, needing more, and he takes it. My back presses harder against the wall as he consumes me, and I let him, drinking in every ounce of heat, every ragged breath, every small, desperate sound that escapes both of us.

He’s a force of nature, my undoing, and my safe place all at once.

And I want to lose myself in him, forever.

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests, fingers bruising my ass cheeks as he digs in .

Hell yes. Lets.

I reach around him to turn off the water, and Père steps out, dragging me along in his wake.

He doesn’t even bother with a towel, just pushes me back onto the bed and settles between my legs.

His hungry gaze roams up my damp body, devouring every inch of bare skin.

He looks at me like I’m a treasure, like he can’t believe I’m real.

It’s the same way I look at him.

Père parts my thighs and dips his head, licking droplets of water from my skin. My legs shake from reflex as his tongue explores, reaching the juncture of my thighs.

Fuck me silly, he’s gonna suck me. Père’s going to wrap his lips around my swollen cockhead, and I pray to God I don’t immediately blow in his mouth.

The first lick of his velvet tongue against my balls makes me cry out.

The second lick has me pushing at his head as I simultaneously spread my legs wider, begging for more. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

Père chuckles and his eyes lock with mine as he takes another lick. He sucks one nut into his mouth and gently suckles before releasing it and doing the same to the other.