He loves me.
“I…,” I start to say.
He loves me!
He runs his thumb over my lips. I’m glad I wore flavored ChapStick. “I don’t want you to say it back. Not ever.”
I’m dumbfounded. “Not ever?”
“They’re my words for you.”
“And what if I feel the same way?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll know it when you do,” he says, before kissing me.
And if those words, those words, hadn’t stolen all my breath away, this kiss does it.
This kiss is oceans deep.
Fingers in my hair, on my face, the small of my back.
This kiss is the prelude to my dreams.
Lips locked, we stumble back into the house.
Up the stairs.
To my room.
The door shuts.
I lay back on the bed.
I’m nervous. I’m so nervous. Anders isn’t moving, he’s standing at the foot of the bed, pinning me down with his eyes. There are so many emotions swirling in them that I don’t know which one to latch on to. There’s hope and awe and pain and anguish and lust. Pure lust.
I decide to latch onto the lust.
Because that’s what I’m feeling too.
Right down to my bones.
But still Anders doesn’t move. He continues to stare.
And the more he stares at me, the more my mind begins to drift. To think. To over-think. To worry.
But then he snaps out of it.
Moves fast.
A blur, removing his jacket and throwing it on the floor, then his shirt.
Then he climbs on the bed, hovering over me, hands skimming up the sides of my shirt. His skin is fire against mine, his palm melding to my breast as he takes off my bra, my top.
I’m bare now, my skin burning under his touch, under his gaze as he takes me in.
Please don’t hurt me, I think.
And I don’t mean the sex. I know it will hurt a little, that it will feel strange at first.
But this boy loves me.
And I love him.
And I’m about to give him my virginity.
If this doesn’t last, if this doesn’t work, I’ll be ruined. I know it. He’ll always live large in my life as the guy I first slept with. That’s something that can never be erased or taken back.
“I love you,” he whispers to me as he undoes my jeans, pulls them down over my thighs.
“I love you,” I say back, even though he told me not to.
His eyes flash with darkness and desire and something else I can’t describe.
The thrill shoots right through my heart.
He takes off his pants, presses his body against me, the hard length of him between my legs and I know this is it.
He pushes himself inside me.
It hurts, a little. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least.
But it’s him. All of him. It’s what I wanted.
I try to keep it from my face but he pauses, kissing my lips, my jaw. “Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”
I shake my head, wincing, pressing my hands onto the hard muscles of his back. “Don’t stop.”
We can’t stop what’s already in motion.
10
Shay
Now
I’m dreaming about a swimming pool. My tears filling it, spilling over and drowning the whole world. Then there’s knocking. Always knocking, like someone is at the bottom of the pool, wanting out.
Anders.
I groan and roll over, scratchy wool on my cheek.
Where the fuck am I?
The knocking again. Louder now.
Here.
Not dreaming.
“Shay?”
The sound of a door creaking open.
I roll over again and try to sit up, to open my eyes. The room is hazy grey, on the cusp of darkness. I see a familiar silhouette in the doorway.
“Are you awake?” Anders asks, his throat extra husky in the dim of morning. “It’s five. I gave you fifteen extra minutes to sleep in.”
Good lord am I ever tired. And disoriented as fuck. I’m only now realizing I’m at his house in Todalen. Still don’t know why he’s waking me up at this ungodly time.
Oh right. I was buzzed last night and told him I’d like to help with the farm chores.
I am such a moron.
“Uh,” I say, my throat feeling stuffed with cotton. I cough. “I’m up. I, uh…was in a very deep sleep.”
“I can let you go back to sleep,” he says. “I won’t think less of you.”
“I’ll think less of me,” I tell him, even though I already hate myself for being so stubborn. I fumble for the light switch on the bedside table and flick it on. Even the low glow burns my eyes and I quickly cover them with my hands. “How do you do this every morning?” I mumble.
“Imagine only getting two hours of sleep, in a smelly bunk, in a rolling ship, in the freezing cold, day after day,” he says. “This is a piece of cake.”
I peer at him through my fingers. He’s fully dressed in jeans, a forest green flannel shirt and a brown waxed cotton jacket, a black beanie pulled low on his head. He’s holding two cups of what I pray is coffee in his hands.