“Everyone gets sad sometimes. That’s how you know what happy is,” he said.
Mia tucked her face into Reece’s neck. “Happy is not sad.”
He smiled and tickled her. “That’s what it is.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t be sad, Reece. I love you.”
He closed his eyes and when he opened them he looked for Audrey’s. “Now, I’m happy.”
Audrey kept Mia busy while Reece cooked. Another thing he was much better at. Then the fight to get Mia to bed, to get her to stay there. He was gone for his run when she got finished, the kitchen clean and Mia’s pile of toys packed away.
She got her laptop out and fired it up. She sent Chris an email, asking for a meeting. She explained she was due back at work and wanted to talk about her options. That was vague. She couldn’t let on she knew about the planned redundancies. He might say no to seeing her. He very likely would, but he’d been so genuinely considerate of her over getting sick, perhaps he’d give her fifteen minutes as a courtesy. This might be a wasted effort and make her seem desperate, never a good career move, but it was time to take charge again and this was one thing she could do, one step towards fixing it so she could keep Reece.
She knew when he came in the front door that he’d try to avoid her. She deserved it, but she wasn’t going to take it. She had a bottle of whiskey. She wanted his lips on hers when she drank it.
She met him in the hallway with the bottle in her hand. He was drenched in sweat, his track pants stuck to his thighs. He’d taken his shirt off, held it in his hands.
He took in the bottle. “I need a shower.”
He smelled of hard work and turned earth and the citrus burn of a mandarin peel. She let him walk past her to his room and she followed. She took a swig out of the bottle for courage and held back the cough. He sat on the bed unlacing his shoes. She stood in the middle of the guest room and knew she had to fix things now.
“Are you sure you should be drinking that?” He dropped his shoe and pulled the sock off.
She shrugged. “Probably not.”
He tackled the other shoe, bending over to reach it, the muscles across his back flaring. She took another swig, the liquid in the bottle sloshed; it didn’t burn going down this time.
He had the bottle out of her hand, he had her bent backwards, he had her lips claimed before she could think about taking a more sensible approach to apologising for how things were.
He kissed with the fury of a cyclone, his lips tight on hers, his tongue swirling, tasting, blowing all reason, scattering all thought. He hugged her so close her feet came off the ground and she wrapped them around his waist. He straightened up and took a drag from the bottle, attacked her lips again. The kisses burned and blurred and intoxicated. She would find a way to keep him close, find a way not to let him get hurt by the demands of her life that would rob him of making his.
He lowered her feet to the ground. “Strip for me.”
That made her uncomfortable, but she’d started this and he wanted it and she owed him more than her tears. He sat on the bed with the bottle in his hand. He took another slug and she watched his throat work while she took her cardigan off. He focused in on her when she took her shirt off, lifting it over her head, shivering when the air met her skin, but more from the emotional than physical exposure. He wasn’t smiling.
“Give me your foot.” He patted his leg. He meant to undo her shoes. He put the bottle between his thighs. She put her foot to his knee and he undid her laces, got rid of her shoe and sock, gestured for the other leg. His hair was wet and he’d lost his sunshine, he’d run headfirst into a storm. It was the first time she’d seen this edgy emotion in him. She put her hand to his shoulder to balance while he took off her other shoe and sock. She didn’t know how to make this sexy. She had her underwear and her jeans on. He had thunder caped about him and he wanted her to be his sheet of lightning.
She stepped back and opened the top of her jeans. He took another swig. She pushed them down her legs and kicked them aside.
“You know I think you’re beautiful.” He twirled his hand. He wanted her to turn around. “Slowly.” He tipped the bottle up and drank again.
He was making her nervous. She reached for the bottle and he handed it over. She gulped and coughed and turned in a slow circle, her feet feeling five times too big, almost tripping her up.
“I get to the do the rest. Come here.”
She put the bottle on the dresser and went to him. He looked older and more tired than she’d ever seen him. He drew her between his knees and pressed his face to her chest. All the air came out of him. “I’m sorry.” He slumped into her arms.
She encircled his shoulders, folded over him. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” She stroked her hands over his back. Her giant; her gentle man. Tonight he seemed to fear his own strength, his very capability to be anything but gentle.
“I’m putting pressure on you.”
She unfolded and climbed across his lap. “I can take it.”
He looked up, taking her measure, the conflict in him a heaviness like humidity, hanging between them. “I trust you.”
“What do you need from me?”
He dragged her bra straps down her arms, till her nipples were only just covered. “I need you writhing under me. I need you out of control. I need you needing me.”