Page 85 of Love What's Left
Then I feel it. Beside me, his body jerks in a silent shudder. Then again. My sinuses burn, and my throat aches when I finally understand why he turned away.
Tears.
He covers up every hint of vulnerability. Even now, he works to keep it hidden.
From the moment I woke from captivity, I’ve built walls between us from sheer necessity. Tearing them down may hurt us both in the long run, but tonight I won’t wait until he falls asleep to hold him. I won’t steal my own comfort while denying him his. Sliding over, I place my hand on his back until I feel the steady thump of his heart. He rolls toward me, caging me, with one thigh between my legs. His breath, minty and cool, brushes featherlight over my lips as he speaks with gravel in his voice. “You never told me you were proud of me.”
How couldI be so cruel? How was Inot proudof him when he deserves it more than anyone I know?
His thigh, anchoring my center with delicious pressure, nudges against me, an almost irresistible distraction and reminder of what I’ve been craving from him, but fear and guilt ice my veins. The more I learn about our previous relationship, the angrier I become at myself.
I’m not sure anyone could feel so many things at once and remain completely sane. “I was heartless.”
He cups my face. “Never. If you knew me then, you’d wonder how you ever looked past it at all.”
“You’re not a can of peaches. You deserve to be seen for who you are now without my prejudice attached.”
“Some trespasses are unforgivable.”
“Yes. But yours aren’t, or I wouldn’t have married you.”
His laugh sounds strangled. “Do you want me to tell you about them?”
I slide my fingers into his hair, and it feels like cool silk. Like home. “No.”
I don’t want the things the old me judged him for to affect the way I see the man he is today. I won’t give him up to some unbending, unforgiving past version of myself. Maybe that’s more self-delusion, but I trust him more than I trust myself.
I tug him closer and press my lips to his. His muscles go rigid, every piece of him frozen except for the hot, hard thrust against my thigh and the drumbeat of his heart under my palm. One beat. Two. Three. Then he moves, gently at first, then deepening. He licks the seam of my lips in a nudge that says, “Let me in.”
I do, and he plays with me. There’s no other word for it. For me, I’ve only had a handful of encounters like this with him. For him, it could be the thousandth. He’s privy to secrets I didn’t know I had. The way he sucks on my tongue, then retreats just as I forget to breathe, and the way he uses his mouth to make love to mine is nothing less than a master artist at work.
I slide my hands down, determined to lift his shirt and feel his skin against mine, but he catches me by the wrist and raises his head, his breathing ragged. “Not tonight.”
It takes several seconds for his words to make sense, then a wave of humiliation crashes over me. He was having a serious moment. We were talking about his sobriety and when he showed vulnerability, I—
“Hey, whatever you’re thinking, stop. You did nothing wrong.”
“I d-don’t understand.” He’s hard. He wants me.
“If you want to feel good, you have a vibrator in your bedside table,” he says gently. “Use it, not me.”
“I don’t want tou-useyou,” I say, stung. As if I could replace him with someone else or with a toy. He gave my words back to me. I told him he could make me feel good. And then I couldn’t say “I love you.”
“I-I—”I do love you.But the words stick in my mouth. They won’t come out no matter how hard I try to push past the obnoxious apraxia, so controlled by my emotions.Shut up. Don’t speak. Words can hurt him.“I-I—”
“Shhh. It’s okay.” He brushes my hair away from my face and eases off my body, settling on his back beside me.
Like hell, am I going to be made to feel like I somehow stole his virtue in the pool. “Y-you got off . . . e-earlier . . . too.”
“I did,” he says.
“McRae—”
“Don’t call me that here.” He pauses, then speaks more gently. “Please. It doesn’t belong in our bed.”
I shrink beneath the light comforter.
He reaches for me, sliding me tight to his side, his bicep acting as my pillow. Then he takes my hand and holds it against his heart. “Is this okay?”
