After leaving for California, Conrad finally comes home and reunites with the girl he left behind four years ago. (this can be read as a part two to Make It Better or as a standalone).
17k (18+)
Warnings: smut, p in v, fingering, strong language, a little angst, and fluff.
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The goodbye party thrown in honor of losing Susannah's summer house died down not long after three in the morning, but Y/N and Conrad ended up going back to her place next door with a few of the others in tow around one in the morning. No one knew that they snuck away from the party to hook up, but no one had to know. Once the others fell asleep, she drunkenly dragged Conrad into her room and tried to suppress the giggles escaping her when he almost tripped over a pair of sweatpants left on the floor.
He flopped down onto her bed with a tired sigh while she went to her dresser, still a little fuzzy around the edges from the alcohol in her system, and picked out something a little more comfortable to wear. Even with her back turned, she could feel his eyes on her as she stripped down to nothing and slipped on a new pair of underwear to replace the thong she wore all night. Then, she threw on an oversized t-shirt.
He let out a little groan when she tried to jump onto the bed and landed partly on top of him, but he took it in stride. She soon felt a pair of hands take hold of her hips to prevent her from sliding off of him, and the sound of their heavy, panting breaths was all that could be heard in the spacious room as they started into each other's eyes through the darkness.
"Do you feel better now?" she asked softly.
It felt like a stupid question to ask with everything going on as of late, but she couldn't help herself. Not when it came to him and his ever-changing feelings. He rarely allowed the people around him, save for Laurel, to check in on him. Or, at least, he wouldn't answer honestly when they did. But even before they started hooking up, Conrad almost always opened up to her about his issues. Sometimes it took a fair amount of prodding on her part, yet she always knew he had a soft spot for her. Anyone with eyes could tell that.
He nodded, the movement so small and slight, she wouldn't notice he did it in this darkness if not for the feeling of his chin brushing her cheek.
"You always make me feel better..." he trailed off at the end as though he wanted to say more but was fighting himself not to. What he ended up saying was far tamer than the reality of what he was thinking. "Anyone can't help but be a little happier around you, you know?"
Her cheeks felt hot at the compliment, and she knew he would've been able to see how red they turned had she not turned off the lights to sleep. Even with her, getting him to say things like that was a rarity. One she cherished so, so deeply.
In answer, Y/N slowly closed the gap between their faces and brushed her lips against his. It was sweet, and hesitant, and real enough to make both of their chests tighten up at the feelings it stirred. But, then, he kissed her back. Where she was timid, he was sure. He was, for once, absolutely sure about what he was feeling. Still, the kiss didn't progress past that. The hand he ran along the side of her waist only came up to cradle her cheek as they melted into the soft, messy kiss.
With his teeth scraping her bottom lip as he pulled away, he whispered, "Do you feel it like I do?"
Somehow, without even asking for an explanation, she knew exactly what he meant by that. Then, with her fingers reaching up to brush his hair from his face, she offered him a tired smile his adjusting eyes could barely make out through the darkness.
"I do, Conrad," she whispered back, "...I always have."
Silence was all that followed, but it wasn't the uncomfortable kind. If anything, it felt peaceful and so right that they couldn't help but bask in it. The warmth of his body beneath hers lulled her into a half awake, half asleep daze she wished she could live in forever. Slowly, carefully, he guided her from where she was lying atop his body to rest on the mattress next to him, but before he could pull her in, she was already reaching for him. She cuddled right into his side, one leg draped between his as she plunged her face into the warmth of his neck. It was the first night he's spent in another person's arms since he and Belly broke up, but the memory of her did not haunt him as he expected it to. To his surprise, he drifted into sleep with a soft smile on his face and the scent of her fading perfume in his nostrils.
In the morning, Steven came to her room to tell her that Belly called their mom during the party the previous night, begging her to come to Cousins and fix everything. As a result of Laurel's prompt arrival and the negotiations they made with Mr. Fisher to keep the summer house, Y/N and Conrad didn't get the chance to speak about what happened in the days prior. Then, once they saved the house from being sold to another family, they had to help Conrad study for his finals. And before she knew it, they were all leaving.
The only goodbye she and Conrad exchanged was a tight hug. But, as he held her close, he whispered that he'd be coming right back after he took his final and got Belly home safely. A few days passed, and she looked outside of her bedroom window every morning with the hope of seeing his Range Rover parked in the driveway next door. When she woke up one Saturday and looked out the window, she did a double-take.
He was back.
She hurried out of her house and into the backyard so swiftly, she forgot to slip on her shoes before leaving. The gate separating her yard from theirs swung open with a push, and she slowed her pace down in hopes of hiding how excited she was to see him. It would embarrass her endlessly if he looked out the window at that exact moment and saw her running across his back porch to see him. But what she saw when she reached the door leading into the house from the pool deck made her hesitate.
Conrad was sitting on the floor with his face in his hands...crying.
Without a further thought, she started knocking on the back door just loud enough to get his attention but not to startle him.
He didn't react at first.
For a moment, she thought maybe he didn't hear her. That he was so far gone into whatever ill feeling he wallowed in that even the sound of her—his safe place in human form—wasn't enough to bring him back from the edge.
She knocked again. Softer.
"Conrad..." she called, her voice muffled by the glass between them, "it's just me."
Then, he finally lifted his head.
His eyes were glassy, tainted with the type of sadness she thought he'd managed to keep away for the past few days. She didn't even notice her breath was caught in her throat until he stood and crossed the room, reaching out with the shaking hand to unlock the door. The second it opened, she stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.
He didn't say anything at first. He simply looked at her like he was surprised she was there, that she was real. She didn't ask what happened. Knowing better than to force it out of him, she reached out to brush her hand against his arm, then waited.
That was all it took.
Conrad's bottom lip trembled as his eyes fluttered shut, and then he collapsed forward into her, arms pulling around her waist like he needed to physically anchor himself to something, or someone, before he shattered completely. It was almost exactly like the interaction they shared the night of the party. When she overheard Jeremiah say such harsh things to him in the midst of their argument about losing the house.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
He shook his head.
"No, it's fine," he said. "I'm fine–"
She then cupped his face in her hands and forced him to look into her eyes. When their gazes met the tension in his shoulders released with a heavy sigh. His cheeks were tinged pink, burning from how embarrassed he felt as he tried to find an acceptable way to tell the girl he has feelings for that he wasn't over his ex.
He decided it would be easier to rip the bandage off quickly.
"I caught Belly and Jere kissing after I took my final." His eyes dropped to the floor for a second, then looked back up at her. "I know that's not something you wanna hear me talk about after everything that happened with us, but it just hurts, I guess."
She let out a quiet sigh.
"I don't expect you to just stop caring about her instantly. You guys broke up like a month ago. If it were us, I don't think I would get over you that fast."
The silence that followed felt tense–unlike the typical comfortable silence they've shared throughout their lifelong friendship–and she tried to remain as brave as possible. Even though she was fighting off terrifying thoughts about him not wanting her anymore, about his feelings for her not being strong enough against his feelings for Belly, she decided that she would pretend to be okay in front of him if he ended things. It took another thirty or so seconds before he was able to speak.
"That's really...insightful."
A sly smile forced its way to her face. Hopefully seeing her joke around would lift his spirits a little bit.
"I know. I'm the best friend ever."
His slight expression of joy evaporated into thin air once she said those last five words, and he shook his head again. As they stood together in the empty living room, her hands still gently holding his face, Conrad shook his head. The gesture made her heart drop into the pit of her abdomen. That is, until he spoke again.
"We were never just friends."
A strange, fluttering feeling took hold in her stomach when she heard him say that. Their eyes remained locked on one another, and she opened her mouth to say something in response, but nothing came out. She always felt that way. To hear him say it, however, was a different matter altogether. It was a moment that was nearly too much for her to handle. Seeing him look at her like that and saying their relationship has never been platonic was more than she ever expected. It felt even more intense than when they had sex the night of the party. Their eye-contact was charged with a palpable sense of electricity, then she looked away.
He let go of her waist slowly, like he didn't really want to part with her yet, then looked around the living room. There was still spray paint on the wall from one of the idiots who came over to party with them, and the entire place was barren.
She pondered for a moment, then asked, "Why don't we work on getting this house back to normal? Aunt Julia put everything into storage, right?"
For the next two weeks, she and Conrad made it their mission to restore the summer house his mother loved so dearly back to its previous state. As she came home from the store with both arms full of groceries, he painted over the spray paint on the wall of the living room. The next day, they got the furniture back from the storage unit and helped the workers bring everything in, directing them on where to put things in their exact place. The day after that, she put all of the dishes back into the cabinets as he unpacked boxes of his mother's belongings.
Then, after going through the process of restoring it, she practically ended up living there with him until he left for the fall semester at Stanford. Everyone came back for the Fourth of July, but, other than that, Jeremiah mostly bounced between the house their dad was preparing to sell in Boston and visiting Belly. For the rest of the summer, they were together. Just not officially.
His eventual departure to California loomed over their heads in the weeks leading up to it, and, as much as they cared for each other, they both were too fearful to make things feel real right before he headed off to the other side of the country. They did everything together—surfed for half of the day, made dinner together every night, bickered like an old married couple, and slept in the same bed. It wasn't uncommon for her to be woken up by the feeling of Conrad's lips leaving behind soft kisses to her neck as she slept, which, of course, would lead into something more once her eyes fluttered open.
He ended up making his journey to Stanford a road trip, and right before he drove off, she tucked a folded up piece of paper into the pocket of his blue button-down shirt as she distracted him with one last kiss. It wasn't until he reached western Pennsylvania and stopped at a motel that he found it. Laid flat on the uncomfortable queen sized bed he called home for the night, he pulled the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was a page torn out of an old book. Not just any book, he soon realized. It was the copy of Wuthering Heights he annotated and gave to her after he found out his mom was sick again. All the other words on the page were blacked out with sharpie, except for the quote he underlined just for her the summer before.
He is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
It's been three years since Conrad left for Stanford, but they have seen each other twice since then.
Having secured a decent-paying job in Cousins after she graduated, Y/N has been spending her days off on the beach where she and the Fisher/Conklins grew up. She never used to enjoy surfing when they were younger, but she always said yes when Conrad asked if she wanted to go with him. He was the one who taught her how to surf in the first place, and she never had the heart to tell him back then that she didn't like it.
Nowdays, she has developed a taste for it.
When she first came back to Cousins after moving out of her dorm room, she felt his absence so deeply that she ended up digging her board out of the garage and ran down to the water. It helped her feel close to him without actually having him near.
She has spent all of today either relaxing on the beach with her toes digging into the sand or out on the water, waiting to catch the perfect wave in order to give herself permission to take a break. Right now, she is sitting on her board and waiting for the next set with her feet dangling in the sea. The feeling of the sun on her skin makes her tilt her head back in appreciation and shut her eyes for a moment to soak it in.
The sound of a voice shouting at her from the beach—a voice she could swear feels familiar—rips her out of her peaceful haze.
"Padme! Is that you?"
There's only one person on earth who calls her that. It's the same boy who used to play pretend as Anakin with her when they were little kids. Memories flash behind her eyes of him holding a toy lightsaber one hand and holding her hand in the other. It feels like it was just yesterday.
Without even looking to confirm who it is, Y/N turns around and paddles like hell toward the shore.
Water glides beneath the board and launches her in the direction of the beach as a wave crashes behind her. Her strokes are hurried, frantic, like the beat of her heart hammering within her chest. Salt water splashes in her face and drips from her lashes, but it's worth it when she sees that she is almost there. Her stomach twists with a feeling she can't pinpoint. Hope? Disbelief? Or maybe it's the ache of everything that has come and gone between them.
She stands the second her board is about to hit the shallows and hauls it up against her body, holding it in one hand as she runs through the knee-deep water lapping at her calves. Then, she sees him.
Conrad.
Older, tanner, yet somehow more handsome than he ever was. His hair is sun-streaked now, which makes sense since he has lived in California for the past four years, and it's done in the same seemingly effortless style he has favored since they were teenagers. And there's that smile. A little smirky but bright. The very same one she used to fall for over and over again every summer.
He stands a few feet away from where the water washes up on the sand with a hand raised to shield his eyes. When he sees her face for the first time in over two years, he laughs. Soft and surprised. It's almost as if he doesn't think she is real.
"I thought you hated surfing," he says by way of greeting.
She forgets herself for a second, the board slipping from her fingertips and dropping onto the sand.
Her feet are already moving, running to him, and before he knows it, she's leaping into his arms. Water and sand are all smeared over his button-down shirt and the jeans he wears, but he isn't thinking about that. All he can think about is the girl in his arms and how much he missed her. Her legs close tightly around his waist and hook behind his back, keeping her body flush against his as their arms wrap around each other.
He spins them around a few times. Just for the sake of it. Just because he can. Because she's finally here, back in his presence, and he's at ease for the first time in weeks.
The sound of her giggling laughter warms his heart. It's a sound he could recognize anywhere. Her hair is damp, and her skin smells like a mixture of salt and Hawaiian Tropic—her sunscreen of choice since he's been old enough to remember. When she nudges her face into the crook of his neck, he feels all of the tension accumulated over the past two years melt away like snow in the sun.
When he finally sets her down on her feet, she sinks into the sand a little bit as they let go of one another.
"You're here."
"I am. You missed me?" he asks, flashing that charming smile at her again.
In lieu of answering that question honestly and saying what she really feels—which would have to be, I missed you the way you miss a limb when it's cut off. I get phantom pains everywhere I look in this town—she asks a question of her own.
"Who said I hate surfing?"
"Your face every time we paddled out when we were kids. Looks like you're way better at it now, though. I was watching for a while before I realized it was you."
A lie. An obvious one as far as he's concerned. It doesn't matter how far away she is, he could spot her in any crowd or amidst any amount of crashing waves. It helped that the waves weren't that huge.
"I didn't like it at first, but you made it fun. I liked riding tandem with you over being on my own for sure," she admits. "Anyway, it's better now that I'm good at it."
The tension that swells between them isn't the uncomfortable, heavy type. It's familiar. Nostalgic. It's the same tension that has always existed when they're in the same room together, or, in this case, on the same beach. Side by side, the two of them start to walk up the beach, toward the houses that stand tall a ways past the dunes. Their feet kick up sand with every step, and she can't help but scrunch her face up in disgust at how it sticks to her wet skin.
As they approach the path leading back to their houses, Conrad silently reaches for her board and takes it from her to allow her to walk without the extra weight. Her lips twitch with the urge to curl upwards in a smile, and she wonders how it is he always knows what to do or say when it comes to her. The most probably answer would be that they've been friends since they were five years old, but she lets herself wonder nonetheless.
It's she who ends up breaking the silence.
"When did you get here?"
"I landed yesterday morning and went straight to the dedication for my mom's memorial garden."
She falters for a moment at the mere mention of Susannah, and he notices. Of course, he notices. He can see it in the way her mouth falls open for a second, looking for the right words to say, then closes again.
"I didn't know that was even happening in the first place, let alone that it was yesterday."
This causes him to stop short where he stands, watching her walk ahead until she realizes he isn't walking beside her and turns around. Her brows are furrowed at him, but he can't find it in himself to do anything but stand there as he tries to work through the frustration that suddenly overwhelms him.
Finally, he manages to ask her.
"No one told you? My dad didn't"—then, he sighs mid sentence—"Of course, he didn't tell you. Laurel even asked where you were before we went to lunch, but I just thought you had to work or something. Not that I was judging. I mean, I almost didn't come cause of work too."
She walks over to him casually, slowly, then says, "I would have absolutely called out sick rather than miss something for Susannah. She was like a second mother to me, and Laurel the third after her."
Sensing the pain she feels about having missed what she considers such an important day, Conrad snaps out of his thoughts and looks down at her.
"It's alright," he says, reaching down with his free hand to grasp hers. "As much as I would've loved for you to be there, maybe it was for the best."
Her head tilts.
"What do you mean?"
He huffs out a wry chuckle, then averts his eyes to the sand beneath them like he desperately needs something other than her sweet, beautiful face to focus on. The guilt he feels for having such strong feelings for her never seems to go away. It's not as though he owes it to Belly to be alone for the rest of his life. She started dating his brother a month after they broke up, but he is so terrified of disrupting the shaky ground they all stand on. If he was the reason Y/N and Belly stopped being friends...
"The dedication itself was great. I showed up just in time to listen to Jere give his speech and walk around the garden to see everything the way my mom would've wanted it. It was peaceful."
"And lunch?"
"Well, lunch was a fucking shitshow."
Her gaze softens.
"What happened?"
He takes a couple seconds of hesitation before he speaks, almost like he fears that saying all of it aloud will make it more real. At least it's her he's speaking to. Before he became friends with Agnes, she was the only person who could get him to open up.
"Belly and Jere are engaged."
She just blinks at him.
"I'm sorry, what?"
Conrad nearly laughs at her reaction, though it's really more of a breath that got trapped in his throat. A sound made somewhere in between the feelings of disbelief and defeat. Not matter how far a person goes or how much time passes, the pain of seeing an ex-lover never completely disappears. It'll always be a sore spot to touch.
"Yeah," he says, looking back and forth between her and the path leading to their houses. "She announced it before we could even get the appetizers. My dad and Laurel were furious."
All she does is stand stock-still and stare at him, unable to wrap her head around the bomb that just dropped on her.
"Are you...Are you okay?"
He thinks about it for a second, then shrugs, and the expression on his face becomes serious in a way it only ever has in moments right before he has kissed her. Neither of them moves closer, though. They stand in front of one another and stare, aching but not reaching out to breech the gap the years apart have formed between them.
"I am now," he says softly, earnestly.
His words hang in the air between them like a delicate thread pulled taut, wavering in tension and uncertainty. At first, she doesn't know what to think, let alone what to say. It's been years since they last saw one another, Her heart is now pounding. Not because she didn't expect him to be so upfront about his feelings, but because of how desperately she wants to believe what he says.
They stand together in silence for a moment. Their bodies are close but not touching, tethered by an invisible force neither of them understands.
Clearing her throat, she gestures in the direction of the path leading to their neighboring houses and asks, "Wanna hang out? My mom is home right now, but she'll be leaving in about a half hour to go babysit my little cousin for the night."
This brings a soft smile to his face.
"Tempting," he says, pretending to consider it for a second as if he wasn't already planning on being by her side all afternoon. "I do really miss your mom, so I might have to take you up on that."
Y/N is already groaning at the mere thought of her mother fawning over Conrad and pinching his cheeks like he's still the same little boy who used to come over to play.
"I swear she loves you more than she loves me, dude..." she trails off into silence for a second. "Actually, it might be a good idea for you to come over. She's been trying to set me up with this older guy she knows who just bought a boat and calls me kiddo. Eugh."
Conrad lets out a chuckle, but it's just a little too forced and tight around the edges for it to be believable for her. He shakes his head in an effort to mask the unpleasant expression that begs to show on his face at the thought of her with another man. An older man, to be specific.
What he asks next is laden with jealousy and underscored with a hint of concern.
"How old is he?"
"Like thirty-nine."
"That's actually so gross," he says, unable to conceal the disgust caused by the mental image of her mom trying to set her up with someone over a decade older than them.
She hums in agreement and turns to start walking up the sandy path again, leaving him to hurry to catch up with her surfboard under his arm.
"Which is exactly why you would be doing me a huge favor by hanging out with me tonight."
He has already caught up with her by the time she says that, and it makes him cock an eyebrow at her.
"Oh yeah?" he asks her playfully. "You want me to play house with you for the day to keep your mom off your back?"
Outwardly, he seems lighthearted about it, but inside is a completely different story. The pace of his heart beating ramps up at the idea of being her fake boyfriend for the day and touching her the way he once did. In his mind, memories come at rapid-fire speed—his hands on her hips, their mouths brushing, and her heaving chest rising up to meet his...It's a dangerous trail to trek, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to sprint down it.
She gives him a pointed look, one meant to tease him, but, deep down, her stomach flutters the same exact way his does.
"Relax, relax. It's just pretending. Just like we used to do when we played Star Wars, remember?"
Pretend? If only it were that simple when it comes to being with her. Even as a kid, he couldn't help but get a giddy feeling when they would pretend to be the tragic star-crossed lovers torn apart by politics and war. His first kiss was with her during one of their times playing pretend. They had both been so nervous that Laurel and/or Susannah were going to look out the window and see, but Jeremiah and Steven told them they had to kiss for their fake wedding. It was a gentle, quick peck on the lips, but it took his breath away all the same.
He nods.
"Sure. Just like old times," he says, shrugging. "But I swear, if your mom starts asking about grandkids, I'm out."
"She'll be planning our wedding by the time she leaves to go babysit."
"Well, I guess it's better that she marries you off to me rather than some old dude with a beer gut and a LinkedIn addiction."
The rest of the walk is mostly silent, save for her asking him a few questions about his time in California here or there, and they make it to her house sooner than either of them expected.
Before doing anything else, he sets the surfboard down on the grass and waits for her to finish rinsing the sand off her feet.
For the sake of convenience, her mother and father installed an outdoor shower in the backyard to keep the house clean when anyone staying here comes back from the beach. It isn't secluded at all, he realizes as he tries and fails to look anywhere except at her. With her back facing him, he sees her tugging her bikini top away from her breast to wash away any lingering sand inside, and it gets harder for him to breathe.
When she turns her head like she's about to look over her shoulder, Conrad's eyes avert, focusing on the dry patch of grass beneath him as though it's the most interesting thing in the world. He shouldn't be looking at her like that, not when he knows he isn't here to stay. His plan was to come for his mother's memorial and turn right back around to attend his interview for a position at the Garth Lab. To get sucked back into his feelings for her again would be a mistake that could only end in heartache. They knew the first time that they couldn't do long distance, so they just enjoyed the rest of their summer together before he left for Stanford.
It should be an easy impulse to ignore seeing that it's been years since they last had an intimate relationship, but it's not. Not when he catches another glimpse of her attempting to retie the strings of her bikini top. Suddenly, his mind is sent back to those hot summer nights four years ago. He can picture it all—their bodies tangled together, her soft lips warm where they kissed along the depression of his collarbones, and her breathless laughter when he would pick her up without warning to carry her wherever he wanted to go. Most of the time, it would be to his room.
He looks away again, intent on ignoring the sight of her beneath the stream of cold water until she is finished and ready to go inside. But, then, he hears her sigh.
"Can you help me tie this back up? I can't get it."
Conrad freezes.
It's barely even noticeable from where she stands yet he feels it in every inch of his body. When he turns around, she is standing with her arm pressed against her chest to keep the bikini top from falling off of her as she waits for him to help.
Clearing his throat, he says, "Yeah. Of course."
His movements are slow and measured, like he's afraid of waking something buried far beneath the surface if he approaches her too quickly. The space between them wanes, and he's very quickly overwhelmed by everything to do with her. Every hair on his body stands on edge. He's hyperaware of every detail from the scent of the honey shampoo she has always used to the droplets of water running down her body.
His fingertips brush her skin ever so slightly, but it's still enough to make him falter. She is as warm and soft to the touch as he remembered her to be, so much so that it takes all of his remaining willpower to focus on the task at hand. He ties the knot slowly, as if to savor the closeness they share. The same closeness that once threatened to unravel them. As he does it, his hands graze the gentle slope of her back. With how many times they had sex against the wall of this shower that summer after his mother passed, it would be so easy to spin her around and heft her into his arms—like muscle memory.
With the bikini tied behind her neck and back, he should pull away, but he can't. Not right now. His knuckles ghost over her skin as he lifts his hand up to follow the path of her spine up until he reaches her neck. Then, he twirls a fistful of hair around his index finger once, twice, three times, and he leans in to catch the hint of her shampoo still lingering on her hair alongside the salt water that washed most of it away.
"You still use the same shampoo," Conrad says softly. "The honey-scented one my mom gave you for your fifteenth birthday."
Not a question but an observation. Still, it makes her chest tighten up with a feeling she recognizes well, and the easy pace of her breathing is altered as a result of it.
Eventually, she asks him, "You remember that?"
His response comes in the form a quiet hum. If he did anything else, he'd give away how nervous he feels at the moment in the sound of his voice.
The energy in the space around them shifts when she turns around and looks up into his eyes. He still holds a bit of her wet hair in his hand, but it isn't long before he drops it and lets it fall over her shoulders again. Instead, he reaches for the side of her face. Just when he's about to make contact with her, his gaze fluttering up and down between her lips and eyes, the sound of the back door opening makes them swiftly pull apart.
They withdraw from each other just in time to see her mother coming around the corner, and he reaches behind her to shut off the water lest it looks like they were showering together.
"Conrad! Oh my gosh, it's been forever!"
While Y/N is busy toweling her hair and body off, her mom is pulling Conrad into a tight hug. It lasts about fifteen seconds, and he can feel her smiling against the front of his chest. It's one of those lingering, motherly hugs he has missed so dearly since his mom passed away, and if closes his eyes, he can almost pretend it's her. Beck to Laurel. Susannah to everyone else. To him, though, it she was just mom.
When Y/N's mom finally pulls away, she holds him at arms length and smiles up at him. One of her hands even dares to cheekily squeeze his bicep too.
"You look good! California must be treating you well, Dr. Fisher."
His cheeks turn bright pink at this, and he's already shaking his head with an eagerness to correct her. He's far too reserved to unashamedly bask in the compliments anyone gives him, let alone his best friend's mother who considers him the son she never had.
"I'm not a doctor yet, Rene, I'm just in med school, but thank you. It's nice out there," he says with a shrug.
The older woman turns to her daughter with a look of disbelief, which only makes his face burn even hotter with embarrassment.
"Do you hear this guy? Just med school? My goodness, Connie, I am so proud of you!"
He smiles sheepishly and looks down at the ground for a moment before risking another glance at Y/N. She's standing farther away than she usually does with wet hair clinging to her shoulders and her towel wrapped tightly around her frame. There's something glimmering there in her eyes when they meet his. Warmth? Or, maybe, pride? Whatever it may be, it makes his lips tilt upwards in a smile.
"Thank you," he says.
"Well..." Her mom pats his back once before turning to walk back into the house. "Come on in! I'm about to leave, but I can spare a couple more minutes to keep you company while Y/N showers and gets dressed."
-
It's a relief to scrub off the layer of sea salt and sticky sunscreen coating her body. The warmth of the water raining down on her from the shower head in her bathroom is a stark difference to the freezing outdoor shower where she and Conrad almost did something very stupid. Every place she touches as she lathers soap on her skin, she is bombarded with memories of how he used to touch her there.
She tries her best not to think about it, but when she leans back and lets the hot water rush down her back, she feels the ghost of his hand grazing there from not even fifteen minutes ago. Truth be told, she isn't too sure what would've happened if her mom hadn't interrupted them. Part of her doesn't even want to know. The other part of her, somewhere buried deep within, already knows. He was going to kiss her, and the worst part is that she would have let him.
Downstairs, standing against the kitchen counter while her mom puts away the dishes, Conrad sips from a cup of water with only one thing on his mind.
"How long have you been in town?" Rene asks.
"Just one day. I took a red-eye in to make it to my mom's memorial garden ceremony. The women's shelter she used to donate to made it for her."
She smiles sadly at the thought of Susannah Fisher, mother to her daughter's best friend and, by extension, one of her closest friends as well.
"I'm sure it was lovely. And it's really sweet of you to stop by. She missed you...I could tell."
He doesn't respond right away. Instead, he focuses on folding the dish towel he just finished drying the plates with like it'll do anything to distract him. Then, after a few seconds of prolonged silence, he lifts his head up and looks at her.
"I missed her too," he finally says.
Before her mother can say anything in response, the sound of Y/N walking down the creaking steps takes their attention away from their conversation.
Rene looks away from him just in time to see her daughter bounding down the last step of stairs and walking into the kitchen. She's still towel-drying her hair as she approaches, eyeing them skeptically. The bikini she was wearing has been replaced with a pair of cotton shorts that hug her hips in all the right places and a faded college tee that's a few sizes too big on her. Seeing that it says MIT across the front and the incorrect sizing, he knows it belongs to another guy. Deep down, though, he wishes it was his shirt she was wearing. There's nothing he'd like more than to dig in his duffle bag for his worn-out Stanford shirt and tell her to wear his instead.
He doesn't say anything at first.
"Hey, you," her mom says, grinning as she wipes her hands on her jeans. "I was just about to head out. Conrad and I were just catching up, talking about you and stuff."
Y/N gives her a suspicious look, brows raising.
"That sounds really ominous."
Rene rolls her eyes and takes her purse from the counter to swing it onto her shoulder, saying, "Only nice things. I would never talk shit about my baby."
"You literally talk shit to my face all the time."
"Yeah, yeah," her mother says in a mocking tone as she walks off in the direction of the front door. With one hand opening the door, she turns around to look at them as she speaks. "I just went grocery shopping, so have whatever you guys want, okay? Love you!"
The front door shuts behind her mother with a soft click, and the silence that follows is heavier than either of them anticipated. Seeing that they nearly kissed in the backyard before they were interrupted, the awkwardness isn't too surprising. If only they had waited one more minute before completely losing control of themselves. Her mother would've come out, and it wouldn't be so...weird...now. Y/N finally ends up tossing her towel over the back of a chair, then makes a beeline for the fridge.
"Are you hungry?" she asks without turning around to look at him.
"I could eat."
"Well, we have pretty much every ingredient imaginable because, you know, my mom is basically a chef, so we can make whatever we want. I'm kind of in a pasta mood. What about you?"
He leans back against the counter with his arms crossing over his chest and watches her, daring to think, just for a second, that this is what it could be like for the rest of their lives if he hadn't been so afraid. Vivid images pass through his mind of them folding laundry together, walking up the aisles at the grocery store, and picking out what kind of flowers they would want at their wedding. If her taste remains the same as it once was when his mother insisted upon getting her favorite flowers every year for her birthday, she would want pink and white carnations.
It isn't until she turns to look at him, concerned, that he realizes he went silent and forgot to answer her question.
"Oh, um, sorry," he stammers, then gestures vaguely in the direction of the fridge. "I'm good with pasta. What kind were you thinking?"
"Something simple. Like vodka sauce or a carbonara. It's up to you."
Without really having to think about it, he answers, "Vodka sauce."
The routine they fall into once the decision of what to cook is made is oddly peaceful. Music plays softly in the background from his phone while they get to work at chopping up the ingredients they need to sauté for the sauce, and with every move she makes, she almost brushes shoulders with him. It makes the kitchen feel a lot smaller than it actually is. Their hands even touch briefly when they reach for the same clove of peeled garlic, and they both linger just a second too long for it to be casual. Even after all this time, there's a certain energy that sparks to life between them when they touch. It's like electricity.
They don't operate in total silence. Here or there, she asks him questions about his life in California, then he asks a few questions of his own. Most of them are about her new job and how she likes living in Cousins full time as a result of it. Nothing too deep. Nothing dangerous.
Once the sauce is sitting over the burner and the pasta is boiling with a timer set, Y/N sighs and wipes her hands off on the dish towel. When she turns around, Conrad is already looking at her. He doesn't back down when she meets his intense gaze. If anything, his eyes narrow a little as though he is committing the image of her to his memory.
She leans back against the counter with her arms crossing over her chest, asking, "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
In response, he just shakes his head and fiddles with the watch on his right wrist to keep his hands busy while he tries to find words. At first, he isn't sure how truthful he wants to be, but it's in the very air surrounding them already. It's been circling around them like a predator in the midst of stalking ever since they almost kissed in the back yard.
He gestures to the dining table not far from where they stand with the hand that holds the glass of wine she poured him. She follows to where he's pointing—overwhelmed with the vivid images and feelings that come rushing back from the night they threw that party—then looks back at him again.
Finally, he answers her with a shrug.
"Just memories."
Thankfully for him, she doesn't pretend not to know what he's talking about. It would be pointless. They both know she remembers it well. Too well, perhaps. That table is impossible to look at or eat on without remembering what they did. The wood still has a little scratch mark from where her fingernails dug into it as he knelt between her legs and put that perfect mouth to use. And, God, he knew how to use it. For the rest of the summer after that week, she became quite familiar with it.
The timer on her phone almost makes her jump.
"Right," she says through a nervous chuckle, putting on the oven mitts to bring the pot of boiling pasta to the sink. "Memories."
Steam forms a cloud over the sink as she pours the water out into the strainer and tries her best to tame her heart into beating a touch slower. All it takes is her turning the burners off, including the one under the pan of sauce they made, before she is turning back to him again. At this point, she cannot help herself. No matter how brave she tries to be, the yearnings of her heart will always come out stronger.
When she asks him the next question, she is looking him right in the eye.
"Do you still think about it? Us, I mean."
His response is instantaneous. Far too swift for what he says to be anything but honest.
"Every time I look at you."
This makes her hold her breath in anticipation for what feels like the millionth time since he came down to the beach to watch her surf. She doesn't move, or speak, or even blink, yet he still begins to inch closer to her.
"I tried to ignore it," he explains. "I really did, but I'd be lying if I told you I didn't remember every single second we spent together. The way you looked at me like I was the only other person in the world. Like it meant something more to you."
"It did," she says, looking like she may cry as she holds eye contact with him. "It meant everything..."
And that is the truth. Little did he know, she practically worshipped him that summer. At night, when she fell asleep beside him, she didn't answer to any sort of God, she answered to him. Every kiss was an act of devotion, every word was a prayer, and she felt more at peace then than she ever had since because of it all. Because of him.
Carefully, as though he's afraid she'll get spooked off and run if he moves too fast, Conrad walks up to her with one hand reaching for the side of her face. His palm is warm against her cheek, and he lets his thumb wander just enough to brush over her lips it's temptation in its most potent form, he thinks. To be so close to her and not just take her into his arms the way he once did...it threatened to drive him insane from the second he laid eyes on her today. Now, he's done. Now, the forbidden fruit is so close, he can almost taste it, and that little taste is more than enough for him to cave.
Neither of them realizes until a few seconds later that they're already kissing. Her hands are bracing themselves on his arms before her brain catches up with the movements she's making. It's pure instinct. Her body moves in sync with his, and she kisses him the same way she used to. If they pretend, it's almost as though no time has passed since those days they spent every waking moment together.
When her teeth catch his bottom lip the way she remembers him liking, he makes a soft groaning sound into her mouth and starts to deepen the kiss. The arms around her waist tighten in a non-verbal warning. Don't leave me, the action says, please, don't leave. Meanwhile, she couldn't stop even if she wanted to. Not with him. That kind of self-control has never been her strong-suit in their relationship. One of her hands slowly descends from its place upon his bicep down the length of his chest. The touch lingers long enough to make him a little breathless as she dips a finger under the waistband of his jeans and uses it to bring him closer. Now, their bodies are flush. She is pinned between him and the counter in a way that causes memories of their second time hooking up to come rushing back to her. If she were to open her eyes while they kiss, she would see the kitchen table he fucked her on in her periphery.
His hands, which were just perched on her waist, slip down until he can squeeze her ass, meeting every kiss she gives him with an enthusiasm that borders on aggression. It's the kind of thing no one would expect from him from the outside looking in. He looks sweet and charming in an all-american way people love to love, but it can get overwhelming with him. At least, with her it does. There is something about her that allows him to let go and throw himself into the moment without his thoughts getting in the way as they typically do. As far as sexual partners go, she is the one he feels most comfortable with out of the couple of girls he's slept with in the past.
Much to his disappointment, she is already pulling away and dodging his kiss to look over her shoulder at the sauce sitting on the stove. The kiss he had aimed for her mouth hits her cheek, but he rolls with it. Instead of stopping, he dips down to press his lips to the underside of her jaw.
"The food," she states breathlessly. "It's–"
"We can heat it up later," Conrad offers between kisses.
Her eyes flutter shut for an instant as he mouths at that soft stretch of skin under her jaw. It's intoxicating. His presence, the way his hands wander in exploration of a body he knows better than his own, and the tenderness with which he kisses her neck while somehow being fervent at the very same time. Even amidst all of this mind-bending, heady pleasure, she manages to push him back by his shoulders a little and look up at him.
"You wanted pasta," she says in a last-ditch effort to prevent herself from crossing the line with him. Because if she does it again, there will be no going back. "Let's eat. You said you were hungry."
Conrad shakes his head, his gaze charged with an intensity she recognizes very well, and whispers, "Not for that."
Her palms are still pressed against his chest, fingers curling around the curves of his shoulders, and she is certain he can sense how fast her heart is beating in her chest. When she looks up at him again, his eyes are already fixed on her mouth. It's a dangerous game they're playing, one where nobody can win, and she is starting to think that whatever it is that is going on between them is unavoidable. Like they were destined to end up like this and find their way back to each other again and again.
The moment she starts to move toward him again, he is reaching for her, unleashing the feelings he's been trying to bury since he saw her again and refusing to look back. They end up colliding with such force, she has to hold back a wince from how her back is pressed into the counter behind her. Still, it doesn't distract her from what she wants most. From him.
Her hands are in his hair, his on her hips, and she starts to push him back in the direction of the living room. He stumbles with every step, not wanting to part from her even for a second. Dipping down just enough to hoist her up by her soft thighs, he lifts her into his arms. Her legs close around his waist instinctively, as well as her arms around his shoulders, but their lips never part during any of this hasty maneuvering. Not until she realizes that he isn't taking her to the couch.
"Where are we going?"
His mouth chases after hers when she pulls away to speak, scandalized by the idea of the kiss being cut short, for a fraction of a second before he realizes that she asked him a question.
"Your room," he murmurs.
As he starts to climb the stairs with her body wrapped around his, she holds on and tries not to think about how much it'd hurt to fall all the way back down if he let go.
With her arms closed around his neck, fingertips digging into his broad shoulders, she looks right at him and says in a shaky voice, "Don't drop me, okay?"
His response is instantaneous.
"Never."
By the time he is gently placing her down atop her mattress, careful not to drop her like he promised, she is already stretching her arms out to pull him onto her. But before she can, he pulls back and stands up at the foot of the bed. His hands reach for the neckline of his shirt and slip it up over his head, tossing it aside on the floor. Next, he's unbuckling his belt and pulling it from the loops of his pants. It is only then that he kneels on the edge of the mattress and reaches for her temptingly tiny pair of shorts that leave far too little to the imagination. Throughout all of this, she is staring at him with stars in her eyes and lifts her hips up to make it easier for him to yank her shorts off. Once he gets it untangled from around her ankles, he discards them in the same spot his shirt is left in.
Conrad bends over to press his lips to her trembling stomach, opening his mouth to kiss his way up her torso as his hands slowly push her too-big MIT shirt up over her breasts. To his delight, she didn't bother putting a bra on after she showered.
"Whose shirt is this?" he asks in a low tone, looking up at her from where he ghosts his lips over the underside of one of her breasts. "I meant to ask earlier."
She tries and fails to hide her smirking expression.
"Why? Are you jealous?"
His tongue flicks out to lick the hard peak of her left nipple as she asks him this. It gives him more pleasure than she'll ever know to watch her confidence waver at the feeling of his tongue lapping at the erogenous spot.
"Maybe I am."
"Maybe?" Y/N asks, brow raising.
He keeps quiet, too focused on giving her other nipple equal attention and grazing her skin with his teeth, then finally looks up at her again.
"If I admit I'm jealous, will you tell me?"
She flashes him a cheeky grin, then nods.
"Alright, fine, I'm jealous...whose is it?"
Her fingers slide into his hair and gently tug to pull his head back, forcing him to keep looking at her as she keeps grinning at him the way she used to when they were kids and he would help her sneak a glass of strawberry Nesquik from the kitchen after dinner.
"Mine," she says.
He stares at her for a few seconds.
"You made me say all that," he says, half-scowling while sitting back on his heels. "Just to tell me it's yours?"
"Well, technically my roommate's old shirt from before she transferred to my college," she says, stretching her arms above her head with a lazy smirk, like she knows exactly what it's doing to him. "But she gave it to me before we graduated. It's mine now."
Conrad exhales through his nose, shaking his head like he's trying not to smile. His hands slide up the smooth plane of her soft thighs until his thumbs are brushing the sensitive skin near the edges of her panties. So close to where she wants him.
"You're an asshole. You know that, right?"
"And yet..." She tilts her head as she speaks, "...you're still here."
"Yeah," he breathes out and crawls the rest of the way up her body, his kiss-swollen lips hovering over her face now. "I think I'll always be here."
When they next kiss, it's a touch more passionate than it had been before. Like they're both afraid of what might happen if they stop. So, they mutually decide without speaking it aloud that they won't stop until they're fully satisfied, even if it takes them spending the rest of the night in this bed. Or the couch, the pool, the outdoor shower, and the beach late at night if they feel inclined to take such a risk. In her mind, the possibilities run rampant.
Together, their hands frantically ruck her shirt the rest of the way over her head and discard it somewhere. Where it lands, neither of them knows or cares. All they can see right now is each other.
With him comfortably positioned between her parted thighs, she can feel how hard he's getting through his Levi's. It only makes the wetness pooling in her panties ten times worse. To know that he still wants her, still thinks of her in this way after all this time...It's nearly too much to handle. Her hips are already jutting up from the mattress to grind herself against the erection straining against the front of his jeans. The sudden contact elicits a groan from him. It's a sound she feels everywhere as an aching need to have him inside of her.
He pulls away from her for a second to gasp for air. The way she is moving up against him is driving him crazy, and he can hardly keep his composure anymore. One of his hands cups her face while the other slides down the side of her waist. Their eyes meet across the couple inches of space between them, bodies still unconsciously moving in perfect time together, but neither of them says anything. They don't have to. Their eyes give every emotion away, and since they've always been able to read each other well, everything left unspoken is still fully understood.
The first one to break the silence is her.
"Get these off," Y/N mutters with her mouth brushing his and her hands fumbling with the button of his jeans. The heat of his breath against her face just makes her more antsy as she imagines feeling it on a much more sensitive place. "I want you so bad..."
Unable to form words, he nods in agreement, leaning away to undo the button of his jeans and pull the zipper down. With her help, he pushes them down his hips. His heart is still pounding away in his chest and adrenaline makes his stomach churn as she finishes getting his pants off of him. Kicking them off the edge of the bed, he swallows hard and looks down at her almost-nude body in a state of awe. Despite the slight changes that have occurred since the last time they had sex, he could navigate every last inch of her with his eyes squeezed shut.
His hand teases the waistband of her panties, daring to dip a finger underneath.
"You have no idea how many times I thought about this while I was away," Conrad confesses. "It's not the same with anyone else. Not like it feels with you."
Her eyes widen, head tilting when she asks, "Is that so?" A slight smile forms on her face in an attempt to mask the vulnerability. "You liked to think about me when you were...you know..."
The apples of his cheeks flush a pink-ish red hue when she says this, but he still manages to answer her with a nod. If she knew the extent to which he thought of her, whether it be by himself or with another woman, he'd be too embarrassed to properly function. Every time he closed his eyes, head tipping back onto his pillow while he touched himself, he sank deep into the recesses of his memory to recall the times when he had her pinned underneath him. Just like she is right now.
"What did you think of when you pictured me like that?"
There's a slight pause.
"I'll show you."
Conrad brings both hands to her hips to shimmy her panties down her legs as he glances up at her. Then, once the piece of plain black fabric is out of the way, he leans down and presses his lips to hers at the very same moment his fingers start moving up her thigh. He can hear her hold her breath the closer he gets to where she is aching for his touch, and after a couple more seconds to torturing her, he finally gives in.
When his fingers dip into her sodden folds, he almost groans at how slick she is with arousal from merely grinding against him for a few minutes. She lets out a breathy moan into his mouth at the feeling of his fingertips, callused from years of playing guitar, rubbing her clit in languid circular motions. Her hands shoot up to grasp his shoulders, fingernails leaving crescent shaped indents into his tanned skin. He loves how desperate she's getting for him, how she has to cling onto him to keep from losing herself entirely.
He wants to keep teasing her, but it gets increasingly harder the more worked up she gets. The way she looks up at him—brows furrowed, eyes glassy, and lips parted in anticipation of what could come next—makes him feel a little weak and lightheaded. If he were standing, he'd have to hold onto something to keep steady, so he's thankful to be lying on top of her right now.
"Please," she mutters under her breath, eyes flickering back and forth between his eyes and lips.
With her looking at him like that, he has no choice but to give her exactly what she wants.
Gently, not wanting to hurt her, his middle and ring fingers slide down from the sensitive spot they were teasing and ease their way inside of her. She lets out a breathy, shuddering moan as his fingers push into her, her eyes fluttering shut in appreciation of him finally giving her what she craved since their almost-kiss in the backyard. His fingers have always felt better than her own, and he's able to find that spot inside of her to press against that always used to make her see stars. The pace is slow to start, frustratingly so, but she can't find it in herself to complain when her eyes open to find him looking at her.
He has always enjoyed watching her while he does this. There's something so gratifying about memorizing every twitch in her facial expressions and every sound she makes while she's laid bare before him. It's a distinctly Conrad trait, she thinks. How he pays such close attention, almost studying her responses the way he studies the material in his textbooks, and tries to get even more out of her. Seeing how his fingers alone can reduce her to a writhing, moaning mess beneath him is quite an addictive thing.
It makes him want more, so he gives her more.
The pace of his fingers speeds up a little as his thumb caresses her clit. This only pushes her further into the haze that makes it hard to think, let alone speak to him. It has only been a minute or two, but she already feels the familiar sensation building in the pit of her abdomen like a spring slowly readying to bounce. With all the time they've spent apart, her body is far more sensitive to his touch than it had been years ago. It feels like more than she can handle, but she doesn't want it to end.
Trying to hold his gaze, Y/N moves her hips to meet him every time he pumps his fingers into her and says softly, "You make me feel so good." The words are punctuated with a whimper so pathetic, it makes her face heat up with embarrassment. "Conrad—"
And, God, he revels in it all—how she calls out his name, how she looks at him like he's the only other person on the planet, and how she squeezes his fingers. If he were a selfish man, feeling that tightness around his fingers would make him rush the ordeal and fuck her like he's dreamed of doing since the day he left. But he isn't a selfish man, or an impatient one. He likes to do things the right way, and this is no exception.
"You're so beautiful."
The words slipped out without his permission.
One second, he was thinking it, the next he was saying it out loud. She doesn't get the chance to respond, though. Not before he moves down to press his lips to her neck, brushing into her with his nose and taking in the sweet scent that has haunted him in his sleep. His mouth drops open a little to suck a mark onto her skin, softly grazing his teeth against it for the sake of feeling her pussy clamping down around his fingers again. He tries not to get ahead of himself, but it's too late. He's already imagining what it'll feel like to be inside of her again, and if his memory serves him well, it'll feel better than anything else he has ever experienced.
The tension within her crescendos as he sucks at her neck, adding yet another form of pleasure that leaves her breathless and boneless from where she's pinned between him and the mattress.
"Conrad," she cries out, pulling his face from her neck to make him look at her and see the desperation visible in her eyes. "It's—I—"
He can't help but kiss her, his lips tenderly moving with hers as he keeps going at the exact pace that has gotten her so close to her peak already. When he pulls away, her eyes have become glassy from the overwhelming stimulation.
"It's okay," he murmurs, hitting that perfect spot with every practiced curve of his wrist. "Just look at me, okay? Look at me..."
She nods, her breathing rapid enough to cross the line into hyperventilation, and all she can do is look up at his face. The face she fell in love with the moment she laid eyes on him. He's always been devastatingly handsome, but she likes how he looks right now more than ever before. He looks so determined, so focused on making her feel good, and it makes her even more eager to let go. She's so close now, she can almost feel it if she tries to reach for it. Having the privilege of looking at him while she waits for the wave to crest and wash over her helps push her closer.
Conrad's forehead presses against hers, their faces close enough that they can feel the heat of each other's exhales. His own breathing has become labored from the sight of her alone, and he is muttering sweet words into the space between them in encouragement. What he says, he isn't really sure, but he knows it's affecting her when she digs her nails into his back and lets her head fall back onto the pillow. He knows what's about to happen. He can see it coming in the way her panting breaths come out faster and how her body involuntarily twitches every time he buries his fingers into her.
The first wave of her orgasm hits her so hard, she cannot see, feel, or hear anything unrelated to the man working so dutifully to get her off. Each successive wave of bliss is more powerful than the last, and her entire body tenses up, trembling through it all. Her voice breaks as she whimpers his name. It's the only thing she can manage to think or say amidst the sensations that wash over her. Her toes curl, her legs shake, and her tight walls spasm around him.
Throughout all of this, he tries to calm his ragged breathing as he watches her fall apart on his fingers. No matter what happens, even if lightning somehow cleaved the ceiling in two and found a way to strike him down, he'd spend his last moments watching her like this.
When her eyes finally open again, heavy-lidded with exhaustion in the wake of such an adrenaline rush, all he can do is stare down at her in wonder.
"That was..." he trails off, unsure of what to say or how to say it. Ultimately, he settles on—"I've never seen anything that beautiful before."
Her uneven breaths have yet to slow down as she looks up at him with a dazed look on her face—the kind of face usually made when one has been awoken from a dream they weren't ready to part with. Seeing his fingers withdraw from her, still glistening with the wetness of her arousal, blooms an unexpected warmth between her twitching thighs. Somehow, so soon, she feels the dull ache of how badly she wants him again. With the two other guys she has been with in her life, she was eager to be done with it. Eager to see them satisfied and get the act over with. Not with him, though. Never with him.
"Conrad?"
His lips slant into a slight half-smile.
"Yeah?"
The hands clutching his shoulders for dear life slip down the front of his chest and slowly descend until they brush over his abdomen. She takes it slow, feeling every accessible inch of his body to commit it to her memory, and bites her bottom lip between her teeth the closer she gets to the edge of his underwear. It's been so long since she's had him in this way, but she hasn't forgotten how it felt to have him inside of her. How could she ever forget? Every time she slips her hand beneath her bedsheet at night and rubs the sensitive bud at the apex of her thighs, she remembers the last time they had sex before he had to leave for California.
He holds his breath at the sight and feeling of her hand wandering closer to where his cock, fully, painfully hard by now, has formed a tent in his underwear. If he doesn't have her soon, he's afraid he may burst from anticipation, and the way she touches him right now isn't doing anything to stop it. His eyes are locked onto hers as her hand slips beneath the band of his underwear to brush her fingers up the length of him.
She starts to fully stroke him as she murmurs, "I need you so badly." Those wide, pleading eyes never once break contact while she speaks softly into the inch or two of space between them. "You know much I wish I didn't have to close my eyes and pretend it's you whenever I'm with another person? You ruined me..."
"I don't want you with anyone else," he whispers.
Now, she's the one whose mouth tilts into a little smile.
"Then you can have me," she retorts and brushes her thumb over the leaking tip of him as she whispers it. "Keep ruining me."
What she said paired with the soft smile on her face unleashes something in him he nearly forgot existed. A passion he hasn't felt the thrill of since that one summer they spent tangled up together in his bed every day. Suddenly, he's grasping her thighs hard enough to leave bruises behind in his wake and tugs her body down to align their hips. His grip shifts to let him push against the backs of her thighs until they're flush against her chest. With her body effectively folded in half, pinned to the mattress, and her legs over his shoulders, he is far too desperate to hold back any longer. And if the wetness he feels when he rubs himself against her sensitive, sticky folds tells him anything, it's that she feels the same way.
Conrad sinks into her in one steady thrust, and the sound she makes threatens to push him dangerously close to coming undone a mere second after starting. It's not like he can help it. It's been years since he last had her like this, and though he has hooked up with a few women on campus since, it's been a while. The feeling of being inside of her is almost too much and not enough at the same time.
"Fuck..." he says through a pitiful whimper, his eyes screwed shut for a second before they open again. "You feel even better than I remembered."
If the sight of him hovering over her with strands of brown hair hanging in his eyes weren't sufficient, his words would be enough to melt her heart. From the things he says to the feeling of his cock splitting her open with a stretch that's as satisfying as it is uncomfortable, she is utterly overwhelmed. And with him being the thoughtful lover she has always known him to be, he doesn't start moving yet. Even though it must kill him to remain still inside of her, he grits his teeth and endures it for her sake.
Her bare chest is heaving as she looks up at him, batting her eyes and biting her lip in a way that sends all of his blood rushing south. Every single nerve ending feels raw, exposed, and thrums with energy like a live wire about to short circuit. One of the hands he used to push her legs up against her chest slips away to brush the side of her face as he leans down to kiss her, and it's only when their lips meet again that he finally starts to move. His hips withdraw until he's almost halfway out of her, then press back in slowly. Having remembered what arouses her the most, he buries himself deep in the tight, wet heat of her pussy. It's so deep that she thinks, even though she understands it isn't anatomically possible, she can feel him in her stomach.
She lets one of her legs drop down to hook around his lower back and try to pull him closer somehow. Even if it drives him just a millimeter deeper, her mouth falls open to offer up a quiet moan. That little noise almost destroys the composure he's been struggling to keep a handle on, but he manages. Those slow, deep thrusts persist in spite of the voice in the back of his head urging him to take her selfishly, without hesitation or forethought.
"Please, Connie..."
When she says those words, her voice is barely a push of air, and her pupils are blown wide with lust when he meets her gaze again. But even in the heat of the moment, while his body is aching with the need for more, a look of concern lights up his face at the sight of her glassy eyes. The hand cupping her cheek moves to brush her hair from her face in a comforting, repetitive motion as his brows furrow with worry for her.
"Hey," he says, half-whispering it in the way he had when she scraped her knee from wiping out on a wave while surfing years ago. "Hey, what's wrong? Tell me what's wrong."
Immediately, she starts to shake her head.
"Then why do you look like you're about to cry?"
Under the impression that she's upset, he pulls the leg she has still perched over his shoulder down and starts slowly to move away from her, but he's halted by her hands shooting out to pull him back in. Those nails that have already marked him, chipped with maroon polish, now scratch his waist as she prevents him from pulling out.
She says, looking up at him with nothing but fondness, "I just can't believe this is real. I missed you so much, and I don't want this to end. I'm scared that when this is over, everything is going to go back to the way it was. That you won't want me anymore."
His head is spinning at this point, and he's too far gone in the trance her presence has put him under to be anything but honest with her. Before he had sex with her for the second time, he didn't fully understand why it was written about in books and films like it's some magical, life-altering experience. When he stole some of Y/N's romance books to read behind her back and see what all the fuss was about, it didn't click with him that those kinds of relationships weren't just a fantasy thought up by women whose real lives left them unsatisfied.
His first time having sex surely wasn't the most romantic affair, nor was the second or third. It was a mutual exchange of pleasure. A physical act, not so much a romantic one. But, it was different with her. The first time with her at the country club was amazing, but the second time, when he lifted her onto the kitchen table in her living room and took her right there without ever breaking eye contact...that was when he understood. It was less of an exchange and more of an offering. Of him losing himself in her. And every time since, she has taken an even bigger piece of his heart with her.
"I never stopped wanting you."
Her eyes narrow at him.
"You didn't?"
His voice breaks a little as he says, "Of course, I didn't."
"Then why did you disappear? You left that summer and never called again. All I got were texts for my birthday and for Christmas while you were away at college with girls who were probably way smarter, and funnier, and prettier than–"
"Don't even say that." The anger in his voice is hard to miss, but it's softened by a sense of sadness as he continues. "You think I just forgot about you? That I came back just to fuck you and leave again?"
"No, Conrad, I didn't mean it like that. I know that's not who you are."
"The reason I didn't call," he says, "is because I didn't want to make it harder than it had to be. I didn't want you to spend your entire college experience in your dorm waiting for me. That wouldn't have been fair to you."
"Well, I didn't want fair, I just wanted you!"
His chest is rising and falling with rapid, ragged breaths, and his nose almost bumps hers with how close their faces are. He still holds her face with one hand, cradling her like she's something precious and fragile.
"I thought I was doing something good," he says like he's confessing his sins to a priest. "I thought I was protecting you. I thought..."
"You just assumed you knew what was best without even thinking to talk to me about it? I don't think it was to protect me. I think it was to protect you."
That resentment in her voice cuts him right to the bone, but he endures it. It's not as though it's unwarranted. His face twists into a grimace as he thinks back on that decision and realizes that his heroic behavior did more harm than good.
"I thought it'd be better that way," he admits, then presses his forehead to hers with his eyes shut. "You have no idea how much I thought of you." A heavy sigh slips out of him. "Whenever I was stressed, I would take the book page you gave me out of my wallet and look at it. For the first couple months, it still smelled like you. I never stopped thinking of you, Y/N."
The image of him doing that has her fighting the urge to smile. To think that he was cherishing that page she ripped out of Wuthering Heights the same way she cherished the t-shirts he left behind on her bedroom floor warms her heart. Much like him and the book page, she could still smell him on those shirts for the first year or so after he left. She would never wear them. They were neatly folded and tucked away in the bottom drawer of her dresser until, one day, her mom went looking for clothes to wash. Although she never spoke the truth to her mother, she sobbed when she came home to find his shirts folded on her bedroom floor makes, smelling like Tide instead of the distinct scent of Conrad she could recognize anywhere.
"That's sweet," she says. Looking down at where their bodies are pressed together, she can't help but chuckle a little as she wipes her tears. "I kinda forgot you're still inside of me."
This draws a soft laugh out of him too.
It rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against her body where they're still intertwined. With those words, the tension hanging heavy in the room around them begins to dissipate. He pulls back from where he rested his forehead against hers to follow her gaze down, trying not to allow the neediness gnawing at him from within to show on his face. It's no use, though. She has always been able to see through him.
"It's pretty hard to forget for me," Conrad says matter-of-factly. "Impossible, actually."
Just as she's about to come up with some witty quip to shoot back at him, he starts to move.
Her mouth falls open at the feeling of him pulling out slowly, carefully so as not to hurt her, until all that remains is the tip of him. Her soft gasp when he slides back in is instantly swallowed by his lips pressing into hers in a kiss so longing, she feels like he's trying to make up for every one they've missed over the last four years. His thrusts are slow and controlled even though his body urges him to lose himself in it, but he won't. She knows this because this is how he has always been with her. Gentle, passionate, and always putting her needs first.
Her legs, hooked around the back of his thighs, tighten to push him back inside, and he obliges her so obediently. All it takes it a little pressure from her, and he caves. His body rocks against hers slowly enough that she can feel every inch of him driving into her, drawing a breathy gasp from her parted lips as she looks up into his eyes. The first few thrusts are shallow and slow, but it takes their breath away all the same. His favorite thing to do when he fucks her is to watch the expressions on her face. Her brows pinch together at the feelings he brings her, her eyes wide, and her mouth is still gaping as she pants for air.
The silence surrounding them would be uncomfortable if it anyone else beneath him, but not her. Never with her. Every slight sigh and shared glance says more than words ever could, and he knows that the truth is written all over his face. Still, he decides to voice it aloud.
"You're fucking perfect," he murmurs, head tilting to watch her as his thumb brushes away the tear track drying against her cheek. "You feel so good..."
Y/N tries to answer, but the force of the next thrust robs her of her breath and forces a whimper out instead. Her hands are clutching his body for a sense of stability that keeps evading her. One hand is tangled in the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck while the other claws at his back, nails digging in as hard as they had when it was only a few of his fingers inside of her. And, of course, he just leans into it. He braces his body weight on one arm while the other grabs her hip to help her match his movements. Together, they find a satisfying rhythm and cling to it, reveling in every gasp and moan shared between them as they find their way back to one another.
In a way, it's like riding a bike. Not the most romantic comparison, she realizes midway through having the thought, but accurate all the same. Being with Conrad is something that comes naturally to her. It's almost as innate as breathing or sleeping. Tonight, all it took was one more taste of his lips to make her come crawling back on her hands and knees to plead for more. Only he has this kind of power over her. The two guys she slept with since he left didn't hold a candle to the distant memory of him that lived in her mind. His name was on the tip of her tongue each time she came undone. Whether it was by her own hand or another, it was a challenge to keep from calling out for him.
"Conrad," she manages to say as she rakes her nails down his back and cants her hips with his. When their eyes meet, she begs him, "Harder, please. You"—a moan interrupts her mid-sentence—"Ah! You know how I like it..."
Her words are almost his undoing.
They shatter any illusion of remaining restraint as he pulls out of her, earning a disapproving look from her at first before she realizes what's happening, then flips her onto her stomach.
Left reeling from the sudden change of position, she has no choice but to let him yank her hips back and up. He does know how she likes it. As much as he loves seeing her face whenever he's inside of her, he knows this position feels better for her, and he is nothing if not dedicated to making her feel good. That's just who he is. Not only does he like to please her, it turns him on to see what he does to her. He's one of those guys that could spend hours with his face buried between her trembling thighs, knowing exactly where to lick, suck, and kiss to get a reaction out of her. The thought of him using those skills of his on another girl while he was at Stanford made her feel sick to her stomach.
Every time he snaps his hips forward to sink into her, she can't help but let out a high-pitched moan that adds fuel to the fire burning inside of him. But when he sees her head almost bump the wall in front of her from the force of his thrusts, he slows down for a moment.
"Put your hands against the wall," he says without explanation.
A command, yet it is spoken kindly enough that it doesn't evoke any defiance in her. He reaches up, one hand holding her hip in a crushing grip, to slip his fingers into her hair, pulling with just enough strength to lift her head up. When she does what he instructed her to do, he rewards her with a swifter pace that steals the air from her lungs. The feeling of her clenching down around him makes Conrad collapse onto her. His sweat-slick chest is flush with her back, his hand still wrapped up in her hair, and she can feel his lips brushing the lobe of her ear when he next speaks.
"You'll still do anything I tell you to, won't you?"
The answer he receives is little more than a broken moan, stifled by how she bites her lip to contain the sound, but he hears it anyway. Even if he couldn't, her body speaks for her. He can feel it in how she takes him, her greedy hole sucking him back in every time he pulls his hips away. The vice-like feeling of her around him is already too much. It takes him closing his eyes and willing his body to calm down to keep himself from careening over the edge into that endless void of bliss. Instead of focusing on how good it feels to fuck her again, he dips his head down to kiss her neck. The hand pulling her hair offers him the opportunity to suck at the delicate skin on the side of her neck. It's the spot right below her jaw that drove her crazy whenever he'd kiss it years ago.
"Yes," she finally answers him. Her voice is hoarse yet certain. "Whatever you want."
He knows her well enough to know that this mindset doesn't extend past their time together in bed. In day-to-day life, she isn't a meek, submissive type of woman. When they're together like this, though, she would pluck the stars from the sky like shells from a beach and bottle them if he asked her too. Knowing that was one thing, but hearing it directly from her lips...
The hand that was tugging on her hair slips down the length of her back, between her shoulder blades, and pushes down to force her body to arch into him. Her chest presses harder into the mattress as her hips tilt back to take him even deeper than before, so much so that she can't hold back the strangled cry that escapes her mouth. The sight and sound of her makes him clench his jaw as he pounds her into the mattress, letting out quiet little moans in between the panting breaths that make his chest rise and fall so quickly.
Every pent up emotion he has felt in the time he's been away is unleashed in the heat of this moment, and neither of them would have it any other way. Spending four years apart from the person one considers to be a soulmate is no easy task. Particularly not for him.
Feeling how much she's tensing up around him, Conrad lets his hand slip down between her legs to find her clit. The rough pads of his middle and forefinger put the perfect amount of pressure on it as he starts to rub in frenzied circles. If he doesn't do this, he'll finish before she does, and he has always prided himself on his ability to make her come at least once before he does. Sometimes, back when they were hooking up on a regular basis, it was twice.
With her cheek squished into the mattress, she looks back at him with wide, watery eyes and her mouth fallen open in a gaping expression. Unlike earlier, the threat of tears isn't from an emotion, it's from how overcome she is by the feeling of her impending release growing stronger and stronger. It's yet another telltale sign of how close she is that he learned to pick up on long ago, and, sometimes, if he's really fucking her good, a few tears may slip down her cheek. Historically, it happened most often when he would fuck her exactly like this. He is, by no means, lacking in size, but positioning her with her face down and hips up allows him to hit the spot inside of her that erases every thought in her head. It wipes the slate clean until all she can think of is him and what he does to her, struggling to take every hard thrust that has her balling the duvet up into tight fists.
Unable to form any other word, she whimpers from the sheer magnitude of the feelings that are about to rush through her weary body, "Conrad!"
Now she's burying her face into the duvet she is clutching like a lifeline as he continues his ministrations on her clit. Every stroke he makes, both with his hips and fingers, push her closer to the precipice of release, and she can tell in how desperate his efforts have become that he wants to get her there so badly. Her thighs tremble with the effort it takes to keep herself from collapsing onto the bed, barely able to keep hers hips up in the position he put her in, but she knows how close she is. She knows that she only needs to hold on for another couple of seconds before—
At the very same moment her body begins to convulse with the onslaught of her orgasm, she cries out for him. Even if her eyes were open, she is certain her vision would turn spotty right now. As for her other senses, they are all occupied by him. Every sound, touch, smell, and taste is focused on Conrad as though he is the still point around which the earth spins. As she moans beneath him, her body jolting from the force of his movements, she can still taste him on her lips and smell the faint, lingering scent of his cologne. With all of these different sensations converging all at once, she has no choice but to surrender herself to the moment entirely.
Throughout all of this, he doesn't let up. He helps her ride it out until the very last wave of her unrelenting release until her body sinks into the bed in exhaustion. If his hands weren't holding her hips, she'd probably end up laying flat with her hands still pressing against the headboard. Just like he told her to do. The way her pussy is tensing up around him from the aftershocks of her release almost makes him come, but he holds himself back from doing so for now.
He says softly, "I wanna see your face."
It only takes a few seconds for him to get her onto her back again. It happens so quickly that by the time she opens her eyes and looks up at him, he's already buried inside of her with both of her legs over his shoulders. Her body is pinned beneath the weight of him as he ruts into her at a pace so frantic, she knows how close he is to coming without having to ask. They're face to face now, noses brushing and foreheads pressed together, as she fights to keep her eyes open with the little strength she has left.
There's no holding back now, he realizes. Not with her looking at him like that and her walls squeezing around his cock like they're trying to milk every last drop from him. His hands slide up from her hips to press her thighs down against her chest again, using the hold he has on them for leverage to throw himself into every stroke as hard as he can. The sound of her whimpering would make him slow down if it were anyone else, but he knows her well enough to know that she doesn't want him to stop. If he did, she'd reach for his hips to guide him back inside of her again.
Remembering what she just told him a moment before she came undone, Conrad says, his voice caught between a whisper and a whimper, "Tell me you love me. Please." His face is twisted into an expression some might mistake for pain, but she recognizes it as one of pleasure. The same one he always makes when he is about to come. "I won't hold you to it after, I just need you to say it..."
The words come rushing out of her without a second to spare.
"I love you," she whispers to him, letting out little gasps every time his hips slam into hers. Her hand comes up to cup his cheek. "I love you, I—"
On the last repetition, her voice breaks, and he is dragged over the edge into free-fall.
The sound of her voice fracturing on the last "I love you" shatters whatever remaining restraint he had left. Those are the words he's dreamt of hearing from her since they were nothing more than a pair of playful kids, and it's all he needs to unravel completely. His hips slam forward one last time to bury himself as deep as possible, his body shuddering as pleasure tears through him so swiftly and powerfully that he has to hold onto her to stay grounded. With her thighs pressed to her chest and his fingers digging into the supple flesh to keep them there, he lets his forehead fall against hers while he spills into her with a groan. It's a guttural noise that's pulled straight from the center of his chest, and it's so hot to her, she can't help but squeeze down around him in response.
It might be the hardest he's ever come in his life. With its passing comes an inescapable bout of exhaustion that keeps him from moving away from her. Instead, he remains inside of her and wraps his arms around her waist with his head laid between her breasts, not wanting to let go just yet. In the rare instances where he would hook up with girls at Stanford, he liked to lay with them like this, close his eyes, and try to imagine it was her in his arms. But he doesn't need to imagine anymore, nor does he want to close his eyes. Now, he watches her in silence.
Her chest rises and falls beneath his cheek like the churning swell of the sea, and he tries to catch his breath by matching the pace of her own labored breathing. At first, her eyes are closed. Her lashes rest against her cheeks, still damp from the tears that welled up in her eyes when she came, and she looks so peaceful, he can almost convince himself that she fell asleep already. But then, after a few seconds, her eyes flutter open to find him looking up at her.
"You're staring," she says softly.
One of her hands comes up to brush the hair that always hangs in his eyes away to let her see the handsome face that has haunted her dreams for as long as she can remember. Somehow, the older he gets, the better he looks. He doesn't answer right away. He just keeps looking at her with his cheek nuzzled against her breast and his arms wound around her waist like she might disappear if he lets go.
"I missed you," he murmurs. "I've been waiting too long to look away already."
This makes her chuckle to herself for a second, then, as quickly as it came, the amusement disappears. Looking at him now, she is overcome by the need to confess how she truly feels. It was one thing to tell him she loved him when he asked for it, when he said he wouldn't hold her to it after they were finished, but it's another to tell him at a moment like this. Her breathing stops as she tries to work up the courage to say it, debating what wording might be best, but, in the end, she blurts it out.
"I love you," she says. "I meant it when I said it before. I think I've always loved you, Conrad."
And instead of pulling away like he once would have, these words draw him in closer. He reaches up and cups her face in his hand, wiping away the lone tear that slips down her cheek with a subdued smile on his face. The strange mixture of emotions swirling around within him is almost too much to handle—love, relief, sorrow, and so much more that he can't quite place—but having her with him makes it bearable. If she loves him, he can do anything.
Softly, he tells her, "I love you too.”
-
Tag List: @maybankslover, @geekinthefuschiahair, @lonelywitchv2, @i-think-you-are-gr8, @alasya16, and @riordanness.
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