Page 100 of Tears of Ink

Eventually, we turn back to the hotel. I hold on to the belt of his jeans and follow up him up the steps. We are silent, all words spent.

In the room he turns to me, the tip of his finger trailing down my face and along my roses. “Let me love you,” he whispers.

I nod, briefly.

Love. It’s something I don’t know. An emotion hidden from me, deep within the black of my heart. But I know I want to be with him, hold him, have him. I open my arms, so he can step in, and sweet kisses land on my lips, my cheeks, the tip of my nose.

Slowly, with more care than we’ve shown one another before, we undress. One garment at a time falls to the floor until we are two people naked and bare for each other to see. His hand slides to my shoulder, running down my arms. My body hums in response, but this time I allow it. I don’t think it’s a bad thing, I don’t try to fight it. I just let it happen, opening my heart and mind to whatever comes next. My nipples harden, and he runs his palms over them in a gentle circular motion. It links directly to the growing heat aching in the pit of my tummy.

“Does it seem crazy we’ve only known each other a few weeks?” I ask, my head falling back so he can kiss my neck.

“No. What’s crazy is I haven’t known you before.”

With his words, he lifts me to the bed and holds himself above me. There’s no wild frenzy of discovery. It’s slow and sweet and he keeps his eyes on me the whole time as he slowly fills me up and rocks me into a rhythm that has my heart pounding gently in my chest. I cling to him when I come, clenching myself around him, and when he groans my name into my ear, I kiss his neck, his shoulders, his mouth. He’s still here despite what I told him on the pier. Despite what I told him my body allowed me to do. For years I never let myself believe I was a victim. But right there and then, with his gentle lovemaking, he showed me acutely how it is meant to be. That’s how a first time is meant to be. It’s supposed to fill you up, allow your heart and soul to bloom and to leave you in a place from where you grow and develop, blossoming into someone else, someone better.

He just gave that to me.

I stare at him. Unspoken words run between us.

I allowed him to love me.

And it’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.

It’s the depth of night. Morning hasn’t yet stolen its clear and bright fingers of sunlight into the corners of the hotel rooms. Eli’s breath is regular, his chest rising and falling, and I’m laid across it, my arms around him tight, my fingers playing with the light smattering of hair across his wonderful chest. But I can’t sleep. I’m thinking of everything. All the things to be lost, all the things to be found. I know I’ve got to walk away from Eli in a couple of weeks. It’s what we always said. So why does thinking about it hurt me as much as the thought of Al in that hospice bed? Why, when I think of it does all thoughts of the future and any plans I should be making evaporate, leaving me on an empty precipice of nothing?

I can’t come back to Brighton, I know that now. Life has moved on here without me, and that’s fine. I need to see what’s happening with my exhibits at the gallery. Maybe I should call them later and find out if there has been any success.

I’m dreading facing Jennifer at Bowsley, and the wicked witch. She will know I’ve done the one thing she guessed right back on that very first morning and fucked her grandson.

“What are you thinking of?” Gentle lips press against my forehead and I snuggle deeper.

“Your grandmother.”

He chuckles, his chest rocking me gently. “Not what I want you to be thinking of right now.”

I snigger. “Better than a whole host of other things.”

He wiggles down until we are eye-to-eye and his thumb brushes against my cheek. It makes my heart beat wildly. “I’m glad you shared with me.”

I nod. It’s good to be open, and honest.

“What happens when we go back to Bowsley? I don’t want to get you in trouble, Eli. I really don’t.”

His gaze is steady and for a moment he’s silent. “I don’t know.”

“What happened with your dad?” I snuggle into his side, loving the way the warmth of his skin sinks into me.

His fingers trail up and down my arm. “He was never my gran’s choice; my mother insisted on following her own path.” His voice is clipped. “He had money, but it wasn’t the right money for Gran. But Mother insisted she loved him. She got pregnant with Peter quickly—too quickly—and the marriage was rushed through before any scandal could arise.”

“She was pregnant before they got married? Wow.” I can’t imagine the infallible Jennifer ever allowing that to happen.

His fingers continue their journey. “I had a happy childhood, actually. There was always laughter. Dad was fun. He loved music, art, and drama.”

“Did he paint, too?”

“Yeah, but then slowly it all got shifted to one small corner of the house, and then eventually time was swallowed, and he never used to do anything like that. The music stopped.”

“That’s why you paint in the attic?”