The Last Writer by Adriane Leigh (books like harry potter .txt) 📕

the bench lengthwise, his body hovering over mine while he dotted kisses up the underside of my arm. Goosebumps erupted everywhere, sensation lighting my veins with firecrackers wherever he touched.

And he touched everywhere.

In the next minute my dress was over my head and his lips were tracing circles around the cups of my cotton bra. I hummed with energy when I felt his hardness press against my thighs, hot tears burning my eyelids when he asked if I was sure.

I was sure.

I was more than sure. And when Nate made me his, he locked the cage around my heart forever. His love was slow and lingering, like he’d crossed the terrain before and was savoring it like one does after many trips. I, on the other hand, felt wholly different—someone else. Someone who knew love, had been loved, held her head higher and her spine straighter. Nate made me a woman. I welcomed the physical pain his intrusion caused, I needed the reminder that he’d been there—that I was his.

While the moon waxed in the dark sky, Nate finished with soft grunts before gathering me in his arms like a favorite toy. He held me close and hummed words from A Midsummer Night’s Dream in my ear before rocking me into a peaceful sleep.

PAST

Zara - Summer 1964

A robin’s song woke me the next morning. I smiled as I thought of Nate and I sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the cliff yesterday, our conversation random and filled with so much meaning, and then what had happened after.

I felt the ache of his touch on my flesh.

I smiled again, unable to help it as I stretched, realizing he must have carried me back to my room in a love drunk delirium late last night. We’d gotten good at sneaking around under Mother’s nose, but now that Nate had actually taken my virginity, I felt the guilt as clearly as a red stain on bedsheets. Or in my panties.

I stood, swiping the cotton panties from last night off the floor. The panties that carried the evidence of my entry into womanhood. I folded them up tightly, unwilling to wash the evidence of us away, before tucking them deep into the old tin lunchbox I never used anymore. I’d have to find a better place to hide them, but right now I could only think of Nate.

I couldn’t wait to see him today. I pushed out of bed and dropped my warm toes to the cold floor. Hugging my cotton nightdress close to my form, early morning rays of warm sunshine drew me to the window. I widened the small slice of daylight until the entire room lit with warmth.

A tiny nest of baby robins chirped loudly in the towering evergreen that rooted at the corner of the house. I cracked the window, my smile deepening when the mother bird landed on the edge of the branch and began to feed the wiggling babies in her nest.

My eyes scanned the garden, appreciating the help Nate had given me in the orchard as more birds dashed and swooped in and out of the healthy remaining branches. A tiny cotton-tailed bunny rabbit hopped along the hedge, his furry body hopping down the garden pathway, visible only from my perch overlooking the garden and fountain below. An eager pleasure circled in my stomach as I thought of escaping to the garden early this morning and maybe catching Nate before he started his work in the cellar.

I was just about to shut the window and slip out of my nightdress when a broken window in the greenhouse caught my eye.

I was sure all the windows had been pristine, because I’d spent just this past Sunday on a ladder scrubbing grime from the window-paned corners. My fingers clutched the wood trim of the window as I squinted, trying to make out the dark shadow moving around in the morning light. Was Nate awake already? Maybe sent to clear the glass before the kids could cut themselves on it?

I turned, some weird flip of dread churning through my stomach now as I disrobed and pulled on my undergarments, and then a dark navy dress over my head. Pushing my worn oxfords on my feet, I was taking the steps two at a time and didn’t even bother pausing in the kitchen before pushing out of the front doors and into the morning air.

I sucked in a breath, sights set on the greenhouse, when a heavy palm caught my shoulder.

I tensed, prepared to fight my oppressor off when I found my mother's gaze, eagle-eyed on me. “Why are you in such a hurry? I just sent the kids down for their morning shift before arithmetic lessons, I was hoping to discuss some things with you this morning over breakfast.”

“I never eat breakfast.” I couldn’t possibly imagine eating now anyway, not when something had clearly happened in the greenhouse last night.

“Well, we have yogurt and fresh peaches—”

“I’m not hungry. I’m just going to get to work in the garden.”

“Oh, the garden can do without you for a day. I was hoping to share a few passages of my book with you. I have a lunch meeting with an important literary agency today that represents some of the most famous New York writers. They represented Truman and Harper and now they want to work with me. I just have to pitch them the right scene.”

“And you want my opinion?”

“Well.” She waved her hand, looking humbler than I’d ever recalled seeing her. “I’ve sent a few things to friends, but I’m just afraid to reveal the twist, you know? It’s all about the twist in these kinds of books.”

“Okay.” I breathed. “Whatever you need.”

“Perfect, can we do this in my office?”

“Your office?” I followed her back into the house, anxious to both read what she’d been working on that made her act so...unlike herself, but also get back to my regularly-scheduled investigation of the greenhouse.

“I cleaned out one of the old rooms. There's a