Through the Lens (Click Duet #1) (Bay Area Duet Series) Persephone Autumn (black authors fiction TXT) 📖

up. Has me dying to hear that moan—and all other delicious sounds—with me hovering above her.

When we were younger, we’d had sex a number of times before my mother shipped us off to California. In the beginning, things were awkward and uncoordinated—as it is for anyone having sex for the first time. But the six months that followed our first time, we learned and explored many things with each other. One thing I never remember Cora doing was groaning in pleasure. It’s not that she didn’t enjoy sex or that she wasn’t orgasming—she was just a quiet lover.

And so many parts of me want to know if that little fact still holds true.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Cora

Today has been one of the best days I have experienced in a long time.

Gavin and I walked around downtown St. Petersburg for hours and had a great lunch, although he teased me endlessly about the amount of food I ordered and ate. What can I say? I love my Asian food and I love it more when I can enjoy it a second go-around.

After eating lunch, we strolled a few blocks before turning around and heading back to the parking garage. We blared music from my Spotify playlist through the speakers and drove with the windows down, the wind whipping our hair everywhere on the short stretch of interstate and highway driving. Close to an hour later, I drove over the backed up Memorial Causeway and on to popular Clearwater Beach.

As I pulled into the parking lot, Gavin spoke up for the first time since we had gotten in the car. “Come up with me.”

Once I found a place to park, I looked over at Gavin, unsure of what to say.

“Come up with me,” he repeats, soft-spoken.

Should I? Everything about us is molding back into place. Him asking me to come up to his room could be completely innocent. After all, he did say he would wait until I was ready before we took things further. And I believe him.

“Okay,” I stammer. “Yes, I’ll come up.”

We hold hands from the parking lot to the bank of elevators, my bag of leftovers in his other hand. No words or sentiments are exchanged, not that they need to be. His body language and expressions tell me everything I need to know.

How much he cares for me.

How excited he is for us to be together again.

How nervous he is, his palm clammy against mine.

But most of all, how much he loves me.

Neither of us has broached the infamous L word, but it is there, dangling in front of us both. A few times I have almost let it slip from my lips. But I caught myself and battened down the hatches.

It’s not that I don’t want to tell him I love him. The complete opposite, actually. But if I allow myself to say the word, to convey the enormous level of emotion that partners up with confessing such a sentiment, it may change everything. And right now, I have no idea if the change would be for the better or worse. The way he has been around me—calling me baby like he did years ago—leads me to believe it would be the former.

And if I muster up the courage to profess my love for him—again—will he do the same? I can’t put my heart on the line, not if I am unsure he will do the same. Not enough time has passed since his return. Not enough to know whether or not he will run off again.

The elevator pings when we reach his floor and we step out. Retrieving his wallet from his back pocket, he unlocks the door and ushers me in. With a loud thump, the door closes and he wanders over to the kitchenette, placing my food in the refrigerator. I stand in the entryway, staring at the room and how messy it looks. It is obvious he has told the maid service to ignore his room, which makes me want to laugh.

Thirty minutes later, we sit cuddled on a small loveseat, laughing at an episode of Lucifer on Netflix. We munch on chips and candy he had purchased on his first night here. The episode is almost over when a knock sounds at the door.

We both look at each other, confused. Before we started watching the show, we talked about grabbing dinner after, but not from room service. Maybe the maid was upset over not being able to clean his room for more than a week.

Gavin rises from the couch, kissing me on the crown of my head. “Probably someone knocking on the wrong door. I’ll be back in a sec.”

His bare feet pad across the floor as he disappears from my direct line of sight. The loud clunk of the deadbolt disengaging echoes in the room, followed by a slight creak of hinges. When he got up to leave the couch, he had paused the show and created a vacant silence in the room. Right now, that silence is deafening.

Mumbled voices come from where Gavin went to open the door. A door which has yet to be closed. Which means whoever is at the door is either lost or is someone Gavin knows. My stomach suddenly constricts, a heavy sickness settling in my core.

Is it Alyson? Is she giving him more shit regarding us?

Curious as to what is taking Gavin so long to return, I rise from the couch and walk toward the door, my stride quiet and slow. The closer I get, the clearer I hear the conversation. A woman’s voice chirps from the hall, her words sweet and her tone casual. And I determine by their exchange she is someone Gavin knows. And knows well. And it isn’t Alyson.

When I take a few more steps, I hear Gavin muttering under his breath, anger seeping into his voice. A couple more steps and I can see the door. Can see Gavin’s back and the slightest bit of wavy, blonde locks. His