Truly (New York 1)

“Fear of failure.”

“You think?”

“And being judged. All those passengers.” His stubbled chin scraped over her shoulder, making her shiver. “You worry about that a lot, huh? What people think of you?”

“I guess.”

May listened to the sound of their breathing and the noises from outside. Every now and then, a car drove by, the headlights illuminating the window, throwing faint light on the room.

The bedside alarm clock read 5:09.

Tuesday.

“You can’t do anything about it,” he said. “People think what they think. They do what they’re going to do.”

She wondered if he was thinking of his father or his ex-wife. Or of the old lady in Sardinia—Bibiana.

“It’s early,” Ben said. “We should go back to sleep.” The comforter shifted, cool air finding its way beneath it as he rose behind her. His hand moved down to her stomach. He left it there, a flat weight against the softest part of her. A declaration that he had no real interest in going back to sleep.

Heat crept outward from his palm, settling deep between her legs.

In the U.P., her family would be waking soon. Her mom always rose early on the last day. She’d be packing the household, making lists of last-minute wedding tasks, fretting about getting Dan on a plane to Jersey, and wondering just what May was doing.

May would have to get up soon. Face the day, shower and dress, borrow Ben’s laptop to book a flight. That flight she should have looked into days ago.

All those phone c

alls she should have made.

When she rolled to her back, Ben was there, looking down at her. His brown eyes, dark in the dim room. His face so familiar, she might have known it for years.

I could draw you, she thought. I could draw you a thousand times.

But she knew she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to risk turning Ben into another fantasy, more memory than man.

This was what she had left. This morning. These moments in the dark. Because as soon as they got out of the bed, she would begin leaving.

Unless you stay.

She closed her eyes.

Shut up, shut up, fantasy brain.

When she opened them, he was still there. “I can sleep on the plane,” she said.

He rubbed his thumb over her cheek. “Don’t move.”

With one hand planted on the bed beside her torso, he reached across her body and retrieved the glass of water he’d used to bring her ice cubes last night. He took a long drink.

“Here,” he said. “Sit up.”

She did as he asked. He handed her the glass. She drank the last few inches of tepid water. “Thanks.”

“Put it down.” She set the glass back on the table.

He caught her by the waist while she was still turned away and eased her down to the bed. “Now I can kiss you.”

When his head lowered, she cupped his face, her fingertips resting lightly against his jaw to feel his mouth opening over hers. She concentrated on these tactile impressions—every movement, every contraction and sensation a physical expression of his desire. The flexing muscles. Each stroke of his tongue, cool and wet. His solid body pressing her down into the mattress.