Page 63 of Devil

And then he asked me why I chose wood instead of stone as a medium and then if I’d ever been to Europe to see the sculptures in the cathedrals there. He asked what I ate for dinner, how the visit with Busy had gone, if I thought they should extend the toll section of the interstate eastward toward Kansas City.

And then:

If you were here, I’d make you finger yourself until you were wet enough to fuck. Then I’d hold a vibrator to your clit while I used you.

The shower smells like you but you’re not here.

The bed feels empty.

I can’t sleep.

Fuck, Birdie.

Fuck.

The last text came around two in the morning, and I’m certain he must be sleeping in now. But when I walk inside, he’s already awake, sitting on the couch with his ankle propped on his knee and his foot bouncing. I think he’s trying to work, but the screen of his iPad is dark, like it’s been ignored for some time, and he tosses everything to the side the moment he sees me and surges to his feet.

I’m caught up in his arms and slammed back against the now-closed front door, his mouth hot on mine and his erection against my stomach.

“Birdie,” he mumbles, his hands everywhere, roaming, greedy. “That was horrible. I hated it.”

I canfeelhim pouting against my mouth, feel his fussiness as he squeezes my arms and shoulders and hips. Tentatively, bravely, I slide a hand around the back of his neck, nervous that I’m being clumsy with my own desire to touch him, nervous that I’m doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. It’s impossible to believe that he is mine to touch, that I’m allowed to have my palm pressed to this fine, powerful neck, that I’m permitted to gently tangle my fingers in the curls at his nape.

He shudders when I do, breaking off from our kiss to pant softly against my hair when I scratch my fingernails over his scalp.

“Keep touching me,” he exhales. “God.”

I know it’s only lust that makes him sound like this, but a small, secret delight curls inside me all the same. That I have the power to makehimshudder and beg…I still don’t understand it, but it makes me drunk, breathless and giddy, and the answering desperation in my blood burns away all other considerations. Who cares if I’m here to be a convenient receptacle for him? When his lips are burning velvet on my neck and he’s quivering from my fingers in his hair?

I move my other hand up his chest to rest it over his heart, but he catches it before I can. Feeling chided, I try to pull my hand back, but he doesn’t allow that either. Instead he guides the hand he’s holding to the hem of his T-shirt and then pushes my fingers against the warm skin underneath. I hesitantly slide my palm up his stomach, feeling every ridge and mesa of muscle, savoring the dusting of curly hair on his chest.

He kisses my mouth again, almost reverently, his lips gentle and his tongue attentive and seeking.

My face flames, remembering precisely how attentive that tongue can be.

“You were goneso long,” he whines between kisses. “You were gone forever.”

It shouldn’t be adorable, this pouting, this spoiled behavior, and yet there’s a swell of light in my chest that feels like a star igniting. It’s lovely and fun andpainfulalmost, and it takes him pulling back to trace my mouth with his fingertips, a pleased, possessive look on his face, to realize that I’m smiling. That he’s tracing the shape of my smile and that the igniting star in my chest is…happiness.

I’m happy right now.

It’s almost lethal, being happy after so long, and the force of it makes my eyes sting. My chin dimples, and he touches that too.

“Smiling and crying,” he murmurs. “I hope you know I’m flattered on both counts.”

I don’t want him to misunderstand, so I whisper, “I’m happy.”

“Happy enough to cry?” He sounds interested, not skeptical, and he’s currently searching every inch of my face, his hand coming up to cradle my throat. His thumb rests on a pulse point, and I get the sense that he would be taking my vitals right now if he could, that if he had an MRI machine in his house, he’d herd me inside just so he could watch which parts of my brain lit up and when.

It speeds my pulse to have this kind of avid, dangerous interest bent on me, and I don’t know that anyone has ever wanted to hear me answer a question as much as Bell does. I think that’s part of why I answer him so fully. I can’t not respond to that attention; it feels like such a gift, and I want to give it back.

“When I walked in and you were so eager to see me, when you kissed me—being so close to you—” I shake my head. “I don’t know that anyone’s ever missed me when I’ve been gone. It feels so good to be wanted, but that makes it sound like a selfish thing, something for my ego, and it’s more like…I don’t feel lonely right now? I don’t think I can explain how lonely I’ve been and for how long and then explain the relief of not feeling it. It’s like the pain medicine they gave me in the IV at the hospital. You almost feel high from the absence of misery alone.”

“Baby, youwerehigh,” he says, smiling, pressing his forehead to mine. “And I will take every bad thing out of your life, but loneliness…yes, I’ll take that most of all.”

“Just seeing you and there’s the sunlight through the windows and skylights and the shadows on the brick and wood. Everything in this moment is lovely, and I’m so happy that I get to have it—” My voice thickens and I break off, a tear streaking fast down my cheek. “It’s overwhelming. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he soothes, kissing my mouth, then the tear on my cheek, then my mouth again. “It’s okay. You can feel anything around me. I want it all.”