I tug his hair. I’m clinging to him, to this moment, to the edge of a mountain I’m sure I’ve never seen before. His finger pumps faster and he presses his mouth to mine, swallowing my moans as I give in to the pleasure and let my orgasm pull me apart. I cling to him, shaking and boneless.

Even when I’m nothing but trembling aftershocks, he’s still kissing me, his hand moving in soothing, gentle strokes between my legs as I come down.

“I think I lied,” I say when he finally frees my mouth.

“About what?”

“I thought I’d given myself orgasms, but they were never like that.”

He groans, a long, low, tortured sound. “It’s different with a partner. Better. More intense.”

“I guess I should return the favor.” I roll to my side and reach for him, pressing the flat of my palm to his hard length. He stops me with a hand on my wrist. “What’s wrong?”

He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great.”

“You don’t want me to touch you?”

He blows out a breath. “I want so much. But not tonight, Shayleigh. Not when I have to leave tomorrow.” He pulls me into his arms and presses a kiss to the side of my neck. “I don’t deserve you.”

Easton woke me up this morning with a whispered apology. He promised his mom he’d have lunch with her before he leaves, and he flies back to California tonight. I desperately wanted him to stay—to kiss me more and touch me again, to convince me last night wasn’t just a dream—but I didn’t want to seem desperate or clingy. I smiled and told him to tell his mom I said hi, and he kissed me on the forehead and made me promise I’d text when I woke up.

Me: Texting, as promised.

Easton: Good morning, sleepyhead. How are you this morning?

Me: I’m good.

Easton: Are you? I hated leaving after what happened last night.

I hated for you to leave too. I wanted more. But I can’t tell him that. Even if my fingers itch to type the words. I’m a coward, so I stick with something safe.

Me: I’m really fine. How’s your mom?

Easton: Good. We’re making plans for her to move out to Cali this spring.

Me: Oh, wow. It will be nice to have her closer.

Easton: I wish I could move you all out. It’s nice to want things, right?

I bite back a smile, remembering our conversation last April, when he said he wished I could move out there.

Me: Maybe I’ll look into UCLA’s French literature program.