Same Time Next Year

It’s . . . him. It’s just Sumner.

Okay. Okay, I admitted it. I’m definitely falling hard for this man. But I need some time to sit with this knowledge before he comes for any more of my vulnerabilities.

“I don’t need you to walk me to my door.”

“I will always make sure you get inside safely, Britta.”

Shaking my head, I unlock the door and stomp inside, through the vestibule and up the stairs, trying very hard not to think about the fact that Sumner could almost definitely see up my skirt as he follows in my wake.

In his current state, the view is probably causing him a lot of pain, and I don’t put a little extra sway in my hips, because that would be mean.

I’d probably snap your headboard in half.

A pulse between my thighs is beginning to pound with mounting insistence when I reach my apartment door. Do I want to have sex with Sumner?

Yes. Obviously, I do.

It’s the commitment he will expect afterward that scares me. Maybe with a little more time and thought, it won’t cause me to break out in a cold sweat, but right now, it does. And the idea of hurting his feelings is repugnant.

At the entrance to my apartment, I turn on a heel. “Do you want to come in and get your magazine?”

“Nope,” he says without hesitating. “Give me your phone.”

“Why—”

My mouth falls open as he steals my purse and yanks out my phone.

“Password,” he says, holding it up. I narrow my eyes at him for a moment but eventually tap in the four digits, admittedly interested in seeing where this is going. He holds his phone and mine side by side, his big thumbs swiping and tapping at the screens for approximately thirty seconds before he hands mine back to me. “You’re going to know where I am from now on.”

Just like that, it’s hard for me to breathe. “I didn’t ask you for that.”

“No, but you’re getting it anyway. And if you ever want to share your location with me, I wouldn’t mind knowing where you are, either,” he says

in the understatement of the year. He takes one step closer to me, two, propping his forearm above my head on the door. Lowering his mouth until it’s a whisper away from mine. “You like the reassurance, Britta, so why shouldn’t I give you something that’s so easy? I’ve got nothing to hide, and I never will.”

I’m not sure what comes over me, but I physically cannot do anything but kiss him.

I twist my fist in the collar of his shirt and pull him in close, our mouths muffling the mutual moan we let out, and the kiss goes from flame to roaring inferno in the space of five seconds. As soon as I open my mouth and his tongue sweeps in possessively, I’m flattened between his hard body and the door, Sumner’s lips firmly assaulting mine from above, his erection blunt and ready against my belly.

Desperately, I search for some self-preservation, and it’s nowhere to be found. There is only his touch, his presence, which is beginning to become more and more of a given in my life. “Come inside,” I whisper, tracing the button of his jeans. “Come to bed.”

He makes a broken sound against my lips. “Please don’t tease me.”

“I’m not teasing you.” I drag my palm down the thick curve of his erection, stroke, stroke, stroking him through his jeans. “Put this inside of me, Sumner.”

“Britta, get the door open,” he rasps, reaching for my keys, his hands shaking. “Oh God. I’ve wanted you so fucking long.”

It’s those words that wake me up, remind me we’re in different places.

He’s ready to be married for real, and I’m just beginning to test the waters of a possible commitment. I’m not ready to dive into a . . . real relationship without knowing the depth and temperature of the water, am I? Maybe I need to wade in slowly? “Before we go any further, I just . . . I just need to make sure you know that tonight . . . it’s not . . .”

He stops, scrutinizing me, his chest dipping low on an unsteady breath. “It’s just sex. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Can it just be about sex this time?”

A muscle ticks in his cheek. “No.”

That single word is like a fireplace poker to the throat. Anger at myself sweeps through my bones, frustration over my inability to trust curling my fingers into my palms. I could keep trying to convince him to come inside, would probably succeed, but I don’t want him to regret tonight



or be disappointed when I can’t cuddle and talk about the future afterward. I have to respect his feelings as much as he is respecting mine. “Okay,” I whisper, nodding once. “I’ll . . . I guess I’ll see you in a few days.”

“A few days,” he repeats, staring at my mouth.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Thanks for coming with me tonight.” I have to stop looking into his expressive eyes, because they’re making me very aware of my heart. How hard it pounds for this man who hides nothing from me. I look down at my keys, finding the one for my apartment, sliding it into the lock, turning and opening the door. “Good night, Sum—”

“Fuck it,” he growls, spinning me around, his mouth swooping down on mine.

It’s a kiss full of frustration and surrender and lust. So much of everything that my knees lose function, and he has to catch me on the way down, hauling me back up against his body.

“Britta?” he says against my mouth, breathing heavily.

“Yes?”

“I was raised not to use my strength against a woman. But I will if you ask me to.”

I’ve never experienced such a raw pull of muscle so low in my stomach. Not in my life. And the pure hunger it leaves behind gives me no choice but to say, “Yes, please.”

With very little effort or exertion, Sumner throws me over his shoulder and kicks open my apartment door, walking straight in like he owns the place.





SUMNER


There are moments during a game, usually when my team is losing at the end of the third period, that I’m able to lock into a higher sense of purpose.

I will tell myself, I’m going to fucking win, and then I will stop thinking altogether. It’s just action. Motion. Adrenaline. I don’t even know my own name in those moments, I’m so locked into completing the mission.

That’s where I’m at right now while I carry Britta toward her bedroom.

Only the adrenaline and need are about ten times more severe.

And I know I should have left. I should have gone, because Britta is not head over heels for me the way I am for her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I’m self-aware enough to know that I need her to be. I’m desperate for us to be on the same page. Fucking her is going to feel so good, but it’s going to be a long, hard fall afterward. All she wants is sex.

My dick is in critical condition, though, and my reckless heart is begging me to get close to her now, now, now and deal with the consequences later—and I have no choice, because she has given me the green light to mete out some rough sex, and I’m in her bedroom, which is so perfectly her, my throat starts to ache as soon as I’m over the threshold.

Deep royal blues. Gold-and-white stripes.

A bookcase lit with Christmas lights.