When I wake up to find Blake gone yet again, I stare at the hotel ceiling for a beat, trying to remember if he always got up this early. Truthfully, I don't know. Until we started sleeping in the same bed, I never worried about Blake's comings and goings. If I got up and he was gone, I'd draw until he returned, and if I got up and he was already back, we'd plan our day.

Even though I know he has these obsessive routines, like running first thing in the morning, I can't help worrying that his early start times are because I'm in his bed. I'd feel a lot more confident in one direction or another if I'd paid better attention when we weren't sleeping together. And I can't decide whether asking if he'd prefer we slept separately makes me look strong or insecure. Both? Is that possible? When in doubt, assume the one you wouldn't want to appear as.

I'm not insecure.

To prove it, I get out my sketchbook, and I add two more panels to the section I've titled, Before Thirty. Once I've outlined the bones of the panels and captioned them to my satisfaction, I set the book on the nightstand. The fine details can come later.

Since Blake discovered himself naked and starring in my sex fueled sketches, he hasn't touched either of my books. Part of me is relieved, and part of me is a bit sad. We used to have a lot of fun discussing the different ways we saw our time together—his more analytical and mine more creative. 

Before I get in the shower, I pull up the Doctors International website again and check their vacancies. The one I've had my eye on closes in a week. I already redid my resume to fit the job, but I haven't applied. Would Blake hate me for it, or would he be happy? The post doesn't even indicate where I'd be located, so we might not even be close to each other. I should probably ask him more questions about the company before I apply on a whim. That's the smart thing to do.

After my shower, I head to the continental breakfast where my oatmeal awaits. I've just taken a seat at a table, when I spot Blake coming in the door, drenched in sweat. My heart kicks in my chest. There is no sight in the world more beautiful than him. I give him an enthusiastic wave to draw his attention before abandoning my breakfast. Once I'm close enough, I throw my arms around his neck and try to ignore how wet and sweaty he is. He dips his head and nuzzles my neck, his lips skimming along the hollow. A shiver of delight races through me.

"Every morning when I wake up and find you gone, I think I should try running again." Not true. I'm not really into that kind of torture, but I am that into him.

He doesn't say anything, but squeezes me a little tighter, and the press of his lip against my neck is a little firmer. He'd never tell me I'm a terrible runner, but we both know the truth. I could not keep up with him, even if I drank ten energy drinks in a row before we left. As a doctor, that is also a scenario he likely wouldn't approve of.

"Peggy's Cove today?" I ask, creating enough space between us that I can brush his increasingly long hair off his cheeks. I would not be able to exercise with my hair all over my face like that.

"Shower. Eat. Then we'll go," he says, trying to peel his wet shirt off his chest.

"I'll bring some food up the room for you when I'm done." I give him a quick peck on the cheek and hurry back to my table. Blake coming out of the shower is my favorite sight. I cannot get enough of him.

When I'm done my oatmeal, I double plate the floppy Styrofoam ones the hotel uses, and I pile it high with eggs, bacon, home fries, and toast before getting Blake a cup of coffee the way he likes too.

At the hotel room door, I have to set down his coffee before I can open the door, and I keep it wedged with my foot while I balance all the pieces to keep them from falling. There is a good possibility he'll be eating his food off the floor.

Somehow I manage to get everything to the little table in one piece, and I'm just sliding it on when he comes out of the bathroom. One towel is slung low around his waist while he's rubbing his hair with another. He tosses the hair towel onto a chair, and he plucks a piece of bacon off the plate.

I can't help sliding my hands around him, molding myself to him. Some days, I have no idea how I kept my hands to myself for so long. They have a mind of their own.

"How was your run?" I slip one of my hands between the gap in his towel and run my fingers along the thick length of him.

"Long," he says in the turned-on voice I love.

"Is it just me or have you been getting up even earlier than normal?" Might as well just ask, right?

Before he can answer, my phone starts buzzing on the table. Strange for my mom to be calling so early in the morning. I keep him gripped firmly in one hand while I answer my phone with the other. When I glance up at him, he has his eyes closed in pleasure, and I really consider hanging up on my mom. Why did I answer in the first place?

"What's up, Mom?" I ask.

"Oh, gosh. Gwen. You applied to so many schools that I feel like all I'm doing is opening college acceptance and rejection letters."

"Uh huh," I say, my gaze glued to Blake. "Playing the odds."

"Well, you hit the jackpot, sweetheart. Ringling College of Art and Design in Florida is offering, what looks like to me, a full ride. Housing, textbooks, tuition—all of it."

"What?" I drop my hand from Blake, and I turn away, pacing the room in long strides. "No way. Everything? Really?"

"That's what it looks like to me. I'll scan the acceptance and email it."

"When do I have to tell them?" I run my fingers along my forehead. This is unexpected, and in this moment, I realize it's not what I want at all. Florida? Back to college? Neither appeals to me. At the time, I didn't know what I wanted, so having someone else telling me seemed like just as good as anything. Now, I'm not so sure. "I just—I need to think about it."

"Gwen, you said if you got a full ride, you'd go. You can't seem to stay employed on supply chain management, don't make a foolish choice here. You'd come out of the program with no debt and a whole new career. One I'm sure you'd love."

"I'll take a look at it," I say, and I can feel my scowl. Before it was irritating to have my mother and Paige tell me I was doing life all wrong, but now I'm kind of angry about it too. Do they even understand what will make me happy?

My mom hangs up, clearly as annoyed with me as I am with her. With my phone in my hand, I can't help feeling a little stunned. "I got offered a full ride for graphic design at this small college I applied to in Florida. I wasn't..." I stare at him, my heart constricting at the thought of leaving him. "I wasn't expecting this." Any of it. Him. The scholarship.

When he tells me how talented I am, I wonder if he's siding with my mom and Paige. Would he do that?

"I should take it then, right? The offer. I'd be silly not to."

He doesn't answer right away, and I'm guessing that's a yes. If all the logical people in my life think I should take it, then maybe I'm overreacting. At least the weather would be nice in Florida. My lip is almost painful between my teeth.

"If you're looking for a reason not to go to Florida," Blake says, "I can give you lots of them."

My heart thumps. "Really?" I hope one of those reasons is that he doesn't want me to go to Florida.

"They have alligators for one," he says, buttering his toast.

My hope sinks like a rock, and I'm not even sure what else he says after that. When he seems to be waiting for me to say something, I stumble.

"No, it's..." I shake my head, trying to organize my thoughts. "I can get this degree, and all it'll cost me is time." Basically my mom's argument.

"Time is a precious commodity."

He is so right about that. I can't believe we have hardly any time left together.

"Do you want to go?" he asks.

"Not really," I say. An easy answer. From the minute my mom told me, I knew in my gut. "But I don't have a reason not to go. And I promised my mom and my sister that I'd go if I got a full ride. One has landed in my lap. That's like...that's a pretty significant sign, considering the odds of getting a full ride are very low."

"Less than one percent," Blake agrees.

"Of course you'd know that," I mutter, and the stress of deciding eats at my stomach. When I glance up, he's in front of me, and his calm certainty immediately quiets the riot inside me. If I could just live in these moments of stillness with him, I'd be happy forever.

He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I close my eyes, breathe him in. The best feeling.

"What's your heart telling you?"

To stay with you. To follow you. To cling so hard to you that I'll scare us both. "That the scholarship isn't the right thing for me. But Blake, my heart is never right. Epically wrong, usually." Which is true and not true. The list of whims I have followed that haven't worked out is long—Paige and my mother would argue too long—but what I feel for him doesn't seem temporary.

"Okay. What's your head telling you then? Honestly?"

I can't tell him. It's scary even to admit it in my own head. Instead, I inch closer to him, and I rest my cheek against his chest. The steady, even rhythm of his heart is the sound I fall asleep to every night. "I love this sound." I place my hand beside his heart.

"That's not answer."

It is, in a way. "My head says there's something out there that's a better fit. Something I'd like more. Maybe even something I'd love." It's as close as I dare get to the truth.

"There's your answer. Head and heart are aligned. Simple."

If only it was. "What if what I really want to do might upset people?"

"Whatever it is, they'll get over it."

Hope blooms in my chest. Would he?

"Maybe someday they'll be proud to have an erotic graphic novelist in the family," he says.

I poke him in the side at his gentle teasing, and he laughs.

"In all seriousness," he says, "they won't be mad forever."

"Promise?" I can't look at him, but I'm hanging on his words.

"I can't imagine anyone every staying mad at you."

I take a deep breath, and I slide my hand between the folds of the towel. "I'm going to hold you to that."

"You can hold whatever you want," he says, trailing kisses along my neck. "As long as you keep doing what you're doing."

"I'm going to do a whole lot more than that." I yank on the fold of his towel, releasing it, and I toss it aside. Then I sink to my knees in front of him, and I grab the base before running my tongue along the underside of his shaft.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and he releases a hiss as I tease him with my tongue, taking my time before easing him into my mouth.

One of his hands reaches down my shirt to cup my breast and toys with the nipple, while his other one is in my hair. His mutters and murmurs of pleasure are intoxicating. They fuel my desire for him.

"You are so fucking good at that," he says, his hand fisting in my hair.

"Hmm, hmm," I hum against him in agreement, and he lets out a strained chuckle.

"You live to torture me," he says.

I take him deeper, and he groans.

"I think it's your turn," he says, drawing away.

"I'm not finished," I protest as he pulls me to my feet and sweeps me into his arms.

"If I let you finish, I'll finish, and I've got other plans for you." He's stripping me with expert precision. God knows we've done this enough over the last few weeks for him to have the sequence down to an art.

"Plans, huh?" I say as my bra drops to the ground. "What kind of plans?"

"I'm going to lick your pussy until you don't know whether you're begging me to never stop or dying for your release."

"Quite a conundrum," I say as I lie back on the bed, and he spreads my legs. "You've got that much confidence?"

"You've been very good at encouraging me," he says, and he rotates the tip of his tongue across my bundle of nerves.

"Blake," I moan, digging my hands into his hair.

"Just like that," he says as his tongue begins to create magic. "I love how much you want me."

He's not wrong. I want him all the time, everywhere. But I'm not alone. My straightlaced Blake has even gone down on me in semi-public places—my sundresses have been getting a workout this fall. We've had sex in national parks, against the back of buildings, in the truck, in a rest stop bathroom, in every conceivable space of a hotel room—the need is mutual, unstoppable, and so much more potent than I ever would have suspected the first time our arms brushed on the bus. It is the most intense, all-consuming sex of my life, and I never want this to stop.

"Blake, please," I say, feeling myself nearing the edge. That's all I need to say.

He flips me over, grabs a condom from the nightstand, and he eases into me. He reaches around me, his fingers circling in time with his thrusts. His breath is on my neck, and he kisses a line across my back.

"I cannot get enough of you," he murmurs. "I could live inside you forever."

I grab his free hand, and I grip it. "Faster," I pant.

He increases his pace, and I think it's possible I might break apart into a million pieces as he drives me over the edge.

"Oh, my god," I cry as I fly over, my whole body feeling light and airless but completely connected to him. "Blake, holy shit."

He clutches me tight as he follows me into the abyss.