“I could never regret being with you.”
He had his back to her. The very last of his control was in the brace of his shoulders, the stiffness in his neck. It flowed from him into the space with the choppy sound of his breath.
There were so many things she could say to convince him she understood, she cared, she’d stand by him, and work through the mess of his guilt and his rules. It should all be said in time. In time, she hoped he’d be able to listen, without fear of being judged, with hope of being understood.
“I’m sick, Foley. I’m like Alison. There is something wrong with me. They call it an adjustment disorder. It’s a member of the post-traumatic stress family. You should go upstairs and let me be.”
“But you can be well again.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know that. I don’t know that I want that. If being well means I accept the price of my ambition is the death of innocent people who simply have trouble sleeping. I didn’t like how medication made me feel. I didn’t like the therapy. I preferred to make my own way. That brought me here, this foyer and the cave and it brought me peace until I saw what that would mean for you—how I live, how I can’t fit.”
“We can make a fit.”
It was an absurd thing to say. Did it mean she was agreeing to live in a cave, to squat in a foyer or reside upstairs while he lived down? That was insanity, as distorted as what he was putting himself though for inability to cope with a traumatic event.
But it was the right thing to say because without him there was a hole carved in her life, and the goodness of teasing laughter and wit, of the deepest listening, of clever conversation and easy companionship, of desire, turned to fine grains of sand and spilled out of her, blowing away in the wind.
“Drum, we can make a fit.”
He put his hand out, palm flattened against the wall. “You’re smarter than that. I failed, and I’m too messed up for you.”
She said the one thing he’d have no defence against, deliberately aiming at him, targeting the soft underbelly of his yearning. “I lo
ve you.”
“Ah, Foley.” His voice fractured. He turned his head away as if she had managed to strike him. “You can’t.”
She took the few steps towards him. “I love you.” She would stand with him, whatever it took. She slid her arms around him and pressed the side of her face into his back. His whole body trembled like he was fevered. “I want you.”
He caught one of her hands in his and held it against his heart and this too was right.
“You love me too.”
He didn’t have to say it. It was written in every look he gave her, every touch he’d withheld, every kiss he’d waited for, and in the shared agony of their separation. She’d never been so sure of a man who was so unsure, so distrustful of himself.
He spun them so they were face to face. The colour had drained from his features, his winter tan gone pale with anticipation, but his eyes were hot, heavy jewels. “You are my sunrise, my sky, my weather. I adore you.”
It was more than enough. It was everything. He cupped her face and kissed her and she handed him permission to give, to take what they both needed.
He took her hand and led her up the stairs, no hesitation, no trace of the furtiveness he’d had about him, the discomfort about being on the second floor. The bedroom was dark, a sliver of light from the street though a split in the curtains. His lips were close to her ear, his nose nuzzling her neck. “What do you need?”
“Only you.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yesss.” She hissed it as he brought their hips together, his stance wide so she felt him though the fabric of her skirt, both of them flexing, the subtle beginning of a grind.
“It doesn’t have to be now.”
She folded her fingers over his ears. “You can’t mean that.” She’d be the one needing a padded cell if he walked away from this.
He nuzzled her throat and she tipped her head back to let him put heated lips on spots of skin that were control points for other places in her. A spot under her ear made her knees go soft, another across her throat spun her stomach like on a carnival ride; she wanted to whoop as she felt lifted higher and higher, anticipating the swooping fall.
He found another spot that forced air to the outer edges of her lungs and made her shake. He spoke against her clavicle, his voice like sandstone, shedding grains of his civilised manner. “It’s been a long time and I want you so much, this can’t possibly be good.”
It was already far hotter than anything Foley had ever done and they were both still dressed. The top of her head was going to lift off with delight; there were butterflies in her brain and soft swirling pulses low in her abdomen, making her belief in gravity a pure thing.
“It can’t possibly be bad.”