Page 60 of Lessons in Lemonade

On the radio, a song sung by Will Ashton from the Blue Horizons band comes on. It’s a duet where he is singing with his wife, Ava, and the lyrics speak to me. They describe a love between two people who are each walking their own path in life, but at the end of the day they know how to find their way home, to each other.

Does Meg hear the words? Does she see that this can be us? Over the last nine months, she’s become my home, and it’s why I ended up here in Charleston with her. She grounds me, and she’s my safe place. When I’m with her, I don’t have that itch to be thinking, doing, going somewhere else. I like when she’s standing in front of me and my world stops moving. Doesn’t she like it when I’m standing with her? In hindsight, when she asked me to talk to her, I should have put that back on her as well.

Pushing the skirt of her dress away, my hand finds her skin, and I lightly squeeze before sweeping my thumb back and forth. She glances over at me once, but she doesn’t push me away, and I settle more into my seat with my hand never leaving my girl. Man, do I love to touch her, feel her, smell her, and her legs—they drive me crazy.

By the time we get home, my fingers have explored more of her leg, from behind her knee up to the inner thigh. Mostly it’s all just innocent, but given the state we’ve been in for the last two weeks, it’s easy to see it’s affecting her as her chest is moving up and down and she’s gripping the wheel tighter than normal. Her presence alone is certainly affecting me.

Silence falls over us after she parks the truck and turns it off. We’re both looking at each other, and I know I’m not crazy when I say the air around us feels charged. Without even thinking, I lean toward her, and she does the same to me. My hand moves from her leg to gently wrap around the side of her face, and I bring her lips to mine—right where they belong.

This kiss is not like the one earlier on the dock. That one was more of an apology, a reunion kiss after an extended period of distance that said I need this connection between us to right itself. This one, however, is slow, deep, and deliberate. I want to drown myself in the taste of her and never come up for air.

Over and over I kiss her. I kiss her lips, her jaw, the spot under her ear, and when I finally reach for her arm and gently pull in my direction, she simply follows, understanding me. Climbing around the center console, she straddles my lap, and my hands slide up her thighs, under her dress, and around to her ass, where my fingers easily slip under the soft edge of her underwear. Her skin is so smooth as I lightly grip and drag her closer to me.

No one can see us here. The road is mostly empty, rarely are there pedestrians, and the windows are super tinted. Even still, part of me is surprised she’s allowing this since she’s been so adamant about just being friends, but the other part of me isn’t surprised at all. I know she doesn’t want to admit it, but we are good together and good for each other. She feels so much more for me than she’s allowing herself, but I have to believe she’ll eventually come around. She’s worth the wait, and so am I. I’m worth it, too.

With her hands on my shoulders, she shifts so she’s seated exactly where we both want her, and involuntarily, I roll my hips against her. She groans at the friction, the sound getting lost between us as her mouth returns to mine.

Why does this feel so perfect? Why does she feel so perfect? It’s like she was made for me, and that’s the only way to describe it.

With my fingertips digging in, I rock her back and forth across the length of me, swallowing the gasps she’s giving me and dying a little each time she does. I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but I can’t think of anything else other than having this, having her like this, every single day.

Moving my hands out from under the dress, I slide them up her ribcage and wrap them around her breasts. The plumpness of her flesh pushes up over the neckline, and as she tips her head backward with her eyes closed, my lips and tongue find their way, painting a trail from one side to the other.

I breathe in, the lingering scent of her citrusy floral perfume filling me. It’s an added aphrodisiac that makes my head fuzzy and the desire for her even stronger.

“Just . . . once more.” She breathes heavily as my forehead rests against her shoulder.

I pull back to look her in the eyes and say the truest statement of the night. “You know as well as I do it won’t be just once.” My voice sounds rough, deep, and even I can recognize I’m sitting at the point of no return.

“Jack . . .” she says, sounding pained.

Why she fights this, fights us, I don’t understand . . . but at the sound of my name, my resolve cracks even further. I need more, more from her.

Gripping the back of her head, my fingers hide themselves in her hair as I pull her mouth back to mine. Taking her bottom lip, I roll it between my teeth as my willingness to not have my tongue wrapped around hers dissolves. Diving back in, I immerse myself in the taste, feel, and smell of her. These kisses are wet, bordering on rough, and if I could consume her, I would.

Feeling her hands slide down my chest and stop at the button on my jeans, I briefly hold my breath to see what move she is going to make next. After all, she’s the one who has to make the move. When she hesitates for only a second and then undoes it, everything in me from the chest down shudders with a fierce need.

“Meg.” I say her name in warning; she has to know she’s crossing a line I’m not prepared to go back from, and her eyes fly up to find mine. The longing in them nearly undoes me, and instead of replying with words, she does so by pulling down the zipper, shifting my pants out of the way, slipping her hand in, and wrapping it around me.

I am hers.

One hundred percent hers if she’ll have me.

As I lean my head back on the headrest, my eyes fall to half-mast and I take in the gorgeous mess that is this girl. My girl. Wild hair, flushed skin, swollen lips, dress halfway unzipped—perfect, just perfect.

“Would you rather go inside?”

She knows what I’m asking her, and I need to know if it’s now or later.

“No,” she says breathlessly just as her hand moves up and down me.

Groaning, I slip my fingers under the front of her dress and find the place we both need.

Yes, we could slow down. Yes, we could take our clothes off. But no, we don’t want to or have to. Sliding her underwear to the side, my fingers gratefully find that she is more than ready for me, so I pull her forward, positioning myself, and she sinks down.

Perfection. So much so I damn near black out from the feeling—that is until she starts moving.

I am thirty-two years old. I have lived my life to the fullest for as long as I can remember, and only now, here with her, do I finally feel complete.