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  “Move it along,” I say, finishing his sentence. Well, he’s done a good job so far, but this next part probably isn’t going to be as pleasurable for me.

  “If I hurt you, please let me know and I’ll stop.” I hate to break it to him, but it’s going to hurt and it’s going to be awful. But that’s how it goes, and I’d rather go through something awful with him than anyone else.

  “I’m ready,” I say, and he reaches for his jeans and pulls out a condom.

  “Javi keeps putting them in my pockets.” Freaking Javier.

  I slide his boxers off and I finally get to see the entire package that is Jett Nguyen. Okay, so it looks a lot bigger than I thought it would be. Maybe it’s just my perspective, but I have no idea how that thing is going to fit inside me and I can feel myself panicking.

  “Shannon,” he says sharply. “We don’t have to do this.” Unless something tragic happens, his penis is not going to change, and I’m going to have to get one inside me sometime. I want his.

  “I love you,” I say, running my hands down his chest and reaching for his dick.

  “Don’t touch me. I won’t last if you touch me.” I take my hands off him and he puts the condom on. It takes a little while. Those suckers are tricky. I can hear him cursing under his breath as he rolls it on.

  And then he’s above me and moving so he can get into the right position.

  “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be. I love you. So much.”

  “I love you, too.” And then he’s pushing and I can feel him going inside me. It’s just a little uncomfortable at first. And then it gets worse. And worse until it’s fucking painful.

  “If you want me to stop, I can stop.” His voice is tight, and I can tell he’s having a hard time.

  “I’m fine.” I am so NOT fine. He keeps pushing and I feel like something inside of me breaks, and then he’s in all the way. For a second, it’s just a little painful, and then it’s like I’m being torn apart. I can’t help but whimper. Jett freezes.

  “Just give me a second,” I say, trying not to cry. I can’t cry. This will get better.

  Jett’s arms are shaking as he tries not to move. The instant blinding pain dissipates the longer I wait, and I can feel my body trying to accommodate him. This is a biological need, after all. My body was made to have a penis inside it.

  “Okay, I’m good,” I say, and he draws his hips back.

  “Oh my God. You feel amazing and I’m sorry for hurting you, but it feels so good, princess.” Well that’s flattering. I smile and our lips meet again as he pulls almost all the way out and then plunges back in. It hurts like hell, again, but not as bad as the first. I can’t help but wince, though.

  He thrusts a third time and I can feel something happening, and then he stiffens and calls my name and then he’s lowering himself on top of me.

  Wait, what? That was it?

  He’s panting, his head on my shoulder. I don’t want to say anything, but I didn’t know it would be that . . . quick.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold out any longer,” he says, and he won’t look at me.

  I put my finger under his chin and tilt it up so he can see my face.

  “It’s okay. We just have to try again. Nothing is perfect the first time. But I love you, and I don’t regret it.”

  He kisses me and pulls out. I really don’t want to look down because I’m almost positive I’m bleeding. Good thing my backseat is leather and easy to clean.

  “I love you. You’re my first and only.”

  “And last,” I add.

  He pushes my hair back and stares at me as if I’m his entire world.

  “And only.”

  The second time we have sex is mind-blowing. The third? Even better. It’s so good, we decide we never want to leave the bedroom and will just spend the rest of our lives making love to each other. I teach Jett a few things about the female body and he picks it up like a pro. Let me say, those origami folding skills can translate into other skills. He also teaches me a few things I never knew about the penis, and I’m proclaimed an excellent student.

  He gets the first call from his sister a week after we go and see her, and even though it’s only for a few minutes, it makes him so happy. Another person that is very happy is Hazel. She’s thrilled that Jett and I took the “plunge” as she calls it and she’s overflowing with sex tips. Most of which, I ignore. But still. Her heart is in the right place.

  To celebrate the end of finals (and the end of the academic year), we all go out to the bowling alley again, but this time Jett and I are together, and Jordyn is unattached. Javi brings Marty and Skye and they both spend the entire evening trying to get in her pants, but I think she’s going to take some time to be single, which I fully support.

  Javi decides not to get drunk and instead spends most of the evening joking with Jett and me and teasing Hazel, who definitely doesn’t mind. There’s something burning between them; anyone could see it. But Javi is almost reluctant. As if he thinks that she’s too good for him. Interesting. I ask Jett about it, but apparently guy friends have a code of honor as well and he won’t tell me anything.

  It’s finally my turn and I bowl my first strike. I raise my hands in victory and there’s Jett, raising his hands as well and then scooping me up and twirling me around. Like I’ve won the Olympics. Everyone claps and I laugh as Jett keeps twirling me until I get dizzy. I laugh some more, until I can’t breathe, and then he sets me down and kisses me until my knees are weak and I couldn’t stand on my own, even if I wanted to.

  We’re going to spend the summer together, making cranes, making love and making nachos. It’s going to be perfect. And REAL.

  The Noctalis Chronicles

  Nocturnal (The Noctalis Chronicles, Book One)

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  Nightmare (The Noctalis Chronicles, Book Two)

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  Neither (The Noctalis Chronicles, Book Three)

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  Neverend (The Noctalis Chronicles, Book Four)

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  Whisper (The Whisper Trilogy, Book One)

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  Fall and Rise

  Deeper We Fall (Fall and Rise, Book One)

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  Faster We Burn (Fall and Rise, Book Two)

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  My Favorite Mistake (Available from Harlequin)

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  Sweet Surrendering

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  My Sweetest Escape (January 28, 2014)

  Some books are easy to write. My fingers fly across the keyboard and I am never at a loss for ideas or words, and it’s a delightful experience. And then there are books that fight you. Every word is a battle, and it’s like cutting your skin open and writing each one with your own blood.

  This book was the latter. And so, I have a lot of people to thank.

  My family, my close friends (Caroline, Colleen, Liz, Rachel, Meridith), my beta reader (Laura) who told me what I should ruthlessly cut and who wasn’t afraid to tell me what sucked and what didn’t, my author friends (including Magan Vernon, Tiffany King, Chelsea Fine, Karina Halle, Heather Self, Sarra Cannon and Holly Ward, and the rest of my 12 NAs girls), my bloggy friends who never cease to amaze me with their love and fabulousness, my AMAZING editor Jen, who has been through this book more times than she would probably like, whose suggestions were pure genius, my publicist, Jessica and the rest of the team at InkSlinger PR (including Kelly Simmon) for their hard work and unbridled enthusiasm, my formatter, Ali Cross for her lovely work, my cover designer, Sarah Hansen for the fantastic cover, the guy who asked me to watch his laptop in the Maine Coast Bookshop Café, without whom this story might not be the same, the employees of said bookshop for making my dirty vanilla peppermint chai’s that fueled the writing of this book, the inventor of leggi
ngs, Ray LaMontagne for his beautiful and inspiring voice, and of course YOU for reading this.

  Chelsea M. Cameron is a YA/NA and Adult New York Times/USA Today Best Selling author from Maine. Lover of things random and ridiculous, Jane Austen/Charlotte and Emily Bronte Fangirl, red velvet cake enthusiast, obsessive tea drinker, vegetarian, former cheerleader and world’s worst video gamer. When not writing, she enjoys watching infomercials, singing in the car and tweeting. She has a degree in journalism from the University of Maine, Orono that she promptly abandoned to write about the people in her own head. More often than not, these people turn out to be just as weird as she is.

  Find Chelsea online:

  chelseamcameron.com

  Twitter: @chel_c_cam

  Facebook: Chelsea M. Cameron (Official Author Page)

  And now a sneak peak at A Risk Worth Taking by Heather Hildenbrand!

  Chapter One

  Summer

  “What you seek is seeking you.” –Rumi

  I looked around my bedroom at the growing pile of cardboard boxes and sighed. There was something seriously depressing about moving home again, regardless of the fact that it’d been voluntary. I picked up a box, calculating open space, and set it down again. My college dorm room had been roughly the same size. How had I accumulated more items than the space allowed between there and home?

  My room was exactly as I’d left it almost four years earlier. Right down to the purple-and-charcoal bedspread with curtains to match. Dad hadn’t made a single change while I’d been away. Not in my room, not in the rest of the house, and from what I’d seen, not with his business either. The only change he’d made hadn’t been his choice. She’d made all the changes for him. And she hadn’t looked back.

  But that’s why I was here. To pick up the pieces she’d left behind.

  The furniture was a dark oak with neutral accents, but instead of making the room feel depressing and drab, the muted colors were soothing, like sitting underneath a giant shade tree. Being in this room had always been the one place in the house I could escape.

  Living at Heritage Plantation came with a certain level of chaos. There was always a body in the house, whether family or staff or someone we considered both; the noise and bustle was constant—all part of the territory when you lived under the same roof that you worked. Well, the business end of things was under this roof. The office, now mine, was downstairs off the kitchen, an add-on my dad had given the place when the farm really got rolling several years back. The rest—the hay and cornfields, the greenhouses, the tractors—had their own space. And lots of it. Heritage Plantation was big enough to get lost in and still never leave “home.” I loved that.

  Still, when the crowd became too much, my room was my solitude. My peace and quiet. I was hoping for that same feeling now that I’d come back again. But things were so different, I wasn’t sure there was any place that could make me feel that way. Dark thoughts crept in before I could stop them, my eyes pricking with quick tears. I hated that the thought of her, of what she’d done, still shook me like this.

  The sound of boots on the stairs startled me out of my thoughts. I pretended to survey the boxes as I blinked away the moisture. A pair of weathered hands appeared, wrapped around a large box. My dad’s narrow-brimmed cowboy hat bobbed up and down behind the cardboard, his face obscured by the load he carried. He grunted as he set the box at my feet—somehow finding space in the middle of the mess—and then straightened. His back popped as he arched it in an exaggerated stretch.

  “You okay?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I am now. That was the last one. Finally.”

  “Thanks for helping me carry all of it up.”

  He snorted. “Next time we’ll get a crane. Whaddya have in these bags? Bricks?”

  “Close,” I admitted. “I brought a lot of books home.”

  He grunted something unintelligible but didn’t complain further. We both knew what I’d given up in coming home. I’d had plans for a Master’s, a career in the city. The farm had always been my parents’ thing, not mine. He’d tried and tried to talk me into staying, to pursue my dreams. But how could I follow a dream born from a life built on a lie?

  “I’ve gotta get back to work. I’ll see you for dinner?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it, Pop. Thanks,” I told him, planting a kiss on his cheek and following him to the top of the stairs. His boots made a clop-clop sound as he trudged downward. The sound was a familiar one. I’d been listening to it from my bedroom doorway my whole life. It was comforting, steadfast in a way other things weren’t. Not anymore.

  For the millionth time since walking in the door, I thought of my mother and a pang shot through my gut. A cross between nausea and heartache. Even after six months to digest it, my mom’s decision to leave, to divorce my father, still seemed surreal—especially now that I was home.

  I examined the foyer from my perch at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t so much what was here as what was missing. Little things. Figurines, cross-stitched pictures in frames, coffee table books. The absence of fresh flowers on the side table. And even though it hurt like a fresh cut, I’d said nothing as I’d followed Dad through the house and upstairs. If it was this painful for me, I could only imagine what it did to him every time he walked by.

  I yanked on the tie holding my hair back and let it shake free. Thick brown waves with honey highlights spilled over my shoulders. I ran absent fingers through the ends, brushing out the tangles that seemed to form the moment I moved my neck in the mornings. I was forever combing tangles—a trait that had skipped a generation if my mom’s perfectly groomed twists were any indication. Although, I couldn’t complain too much; thanks to her Brazilian heritage, I could eat and eat without gaining an ounce. Something I was grateful for when the other girls at college had been too obsessed with their figure to enjoy a good dinner. Sorry for your luck. This girl was eating her entire cheeseburger. And fries.

  My phone beeped inside my pocket. I pulled it out, examined the screen, and bit back a grimace. I’d avoided this long enough. Now, standing in the privacy of my own room, I decided I’d better get it over with.

  “Hello?” I said, struggling to keep the resignation out of my tone.

  “Summer?” The familiar voice on the other end was a mixture of both worry and relief.

  “What is it, Aaron?”

  “I’ve been calling you for days.”

  “I know. I just—there wasn’t anything left to say.”

  He paused. I wasn’t sure if it was because he knew I was right or hadn’t really expected me to answer the phone in the first place. “So nothing has changed then?” he asked quietly. “You still want this … us to be over?”

  I knew his words, the very sound of his voice, should tug at me, make me feel something. Aaron and I had been together two years, after all. But I felt nothing. That, in itself, was my biggest clue I’d done the right thing in breaking things off before graduation.

  “Nothing’s changed,” I confirmed.

  Aaron was silent. I pictured him squeezing his eyes shut, trying to find the right words. But there weren’t any. None that would make me change my mind, anyway. I needed to make him see that without hurting him in the process. Well, more than I already had.

  “You and I were good together, Summer,” Aaron said. “We got along, never fought, we had fun. I was happy with you. I thought you were happy with me too.”

  “I was … sort of.” How in the world could I explain it to him when I couldn’t fully make sense of it myself? “This thing with my parents has made me think.”

  “Think about what?”

  I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice, but it crept in. Just like it did any time I tried explaining to someone exactly what the divorce had done to me. No one ever got it. My friends at school had worn blank looks, my dad didn’t seem to want to talk about it. I’d avoided anyone else who might ask just so I wouldn’t have to face the strange looks when I trie
d to make them understand. “I don’t want to ‘get along’ or ‘have fun,’ Aaron,” I said. “I want to live. I want to feel it. I want it to matter.”

  “I thought I did matter.”

  “I …” I’d already said it once and that had been hard enough. Why was he making me say it again? I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered, “I just need to go my own way.”

  Heavy silence hung on the line.

  “If it’s space you want, I’ll give it to you,” he said, his words clipped. “Enjoy the wide open. But Summer?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not your mother.”

  “I know that,” I said. Then I hung up.

  I took my time unpacking, carefully choosing what to store and what to keep out. Space was limited, but I didn’t mind. I needed the dilemma the shortage of space provided—it distracted me from problems that had no easy answers. Like Aaron. And my mother.

  I knew Aaron was working through disbelief and heading for anger. And he had a right. We’d had no real issues, no obstacles that would raise a red flag in the relationship. He was nice. Took me on dinner dates. Remembered birthdays. He laughed at my jokes. Listened—mostly—to my rants about the literary research papers I had to write, and about my professor with a crooked nose and nasally voice that you couldn’t hear unless you sat in the front row. Aaron was patient, always understanding when I couldn’t see him because of a test to study for. He was predictable. Steady. Calm.

  I’d actually liked those things about him at one point. Even the predictability. It meant something you could count on. Both were things I wanted in a boyfriend. Both were things I’d seen in my own parents’ relationship. Until I’d come home for winter break and my parents had said they were separating. Not a trial basis, but the first step toward the d-word. Papers were filed. My mother had already moved out. Gotten a little apartment in the city. And from the way my mom had smiled when she’d said it, I knew it was really over. It grated on me—that smile, that happiness.