Ugh.
Apparently, being eighteen with a thirty-four-year-old man actually does have its hiccups.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do,” I admit awkwardly.
“Just be you. You’re not ever supposed to do—or be—anything else.” He tightens his arm around me. “Except happy. Always be happy.”
“I’m very happy.” For now, at least.
“I am, too.” His lips press against the pulse of my temple. “There aren’t any rules or expectations—especially with me. I only want to be close to you.”
I nod and move my fingertip over the tattoo on his rib cage.
“I just thought it’d be nice to sit and talk,” he says.
“Okay. I’m sorry I’m acting strange.”
“It’s all right,” he says.
Rolling onto his side, he pulls the blanket up over us, and leans his head on his arm to look down at me.
In the background Wildfire sung by Michael Martin Murphey is drifting from the TV. It reaches back into my memories and pulls out a mental snapshot of me as a little girl hearing this song while staying at my grandparents, feeling safe and loved.
I want that again.
Jude bows down and kisses my lips—soft, sweet, and long, taking his time, making love to my mouth in a dreamy way that completely steals my breath and sends my heart into flutters. Such a stark contrast to the hungry, demanding kisses we shared earlier in the tub.
I’m captivated by the hard and soft sides of him—rough in just the right moments, but so incredibly gentle in the perfect moments, too. Jude may not talk much, but his touch speaks a thousand words.
He pulls away a few inches and I look up at him with his hair falling down over his face, tickling my cheek.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” he says softly. “Especially when things were rocky between us.”
“None of that changes how much I care about you.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he says. “About you, and me, and everything.”
My heart shift gears and pounds with uncertainty and anxiety. He’s finally going to open up about his feelings.
“I wish things weren’t complicated, Skylar. I wish you hadn’t gotten hurt so much in all of this. I wish people didn’t look at me like I’m some kind of fucking predator. I wish you weren’t bullied into leaving school. I wish I could feel the way I do about you, and touch you, without feeling like I’m doing something wrong and I’m gonna rot in hell someday. I don’t blame you at all for wanting to leave and get away from all this.”
He traces the tip of his finger over the two-inch scar on my forehead—delicately, as if he’s afraid my head will split open—then softly presses his lips to it. Closing his eyes, he stays that way, inhaling and exhaling with slow deliberation. Finally, he pulls away. “I want you to have a life like a girl your age should, to have adventures, away from here. I don’t want to hold you back. Sometimes I wonder why I couldn’t have met you when you were older. It’s fucking shredding me, trying to win this feud of rights and wrongs with you.” The raw remorse and lost hope in his voice has a heartbreaking finality to it.
He hides his feelings so well that I was unaware how deeply everything has been affecting him. It’s not fair, because all he wanted to do was help me. Things never should’ve gone the way they have, and I’m partly to blame for it.
I reach up and push his hair out of his face. There’s so many things I want to say—and should say. But what can I possibly say that won’t make him feel worse?
If I tell him I want to be with him, he’ll feel even more guilty. And if I tell him I don’t want to be with him, that’ll hurt him, too.
The last thing I ever want to do is hurt him.
I force the brightest smile I can, and wrap my arms around his neck.
“Then I guess I’ll be coming back for you when I’m older,” I say, hoping to give us a doorway into the future.
“You better,” he says with a growl, then rolls me onto my side and pulls my back up against his hard chest, molding our bodies and entwining our legs together under the blanket.
“Good night, Sparkles,” he says, brushing his warm lips over my ear, then resting his cheek against the top of my head.
“Good night, Lucky.”
My heart melts into a puddle. I thought I was here for a continued romp in the sheets. I never expected to be cocooned with him, kissed softly, cuddled to sleep. I blink in the dark, waiting for something to change, but it doesn’t.
He’s falling asleep, hugging me.
Exhaling softly, I settle in his arms, and grab his hand. I hold it against my chest, locking us together. After a few minutes, his breathing slows, and his grip around me loosens just a tiny bit. I force myself to stay awake for a while longer, just so I can memorize all the little details of falling asleep in my husband’s embrace. The lingering scent of his cologne. The warmth of being enveloped in his muscular arms. The soft hiss of his breathing. The lulling beat of his heart against my back. The overwhelming feeling of sanctuary.