Then, clinically, coldly—like I’m running through the pros and cons of treatment options—I consider my choices.
A) I could tell the Dowager Countess to stuff it and let the chips fall where they may. The only problem with that is I care about Tommy—he’s so easy to care about. And he’s been good to me—caring and passionate and so sweet my heart aches. And she’ll do what she said, I’m certain of that. And he’ll be harmed, he’ll pay the price—because of me. And I think about my own career, all the hours and years of work I’ve put in and I know how devastating it would feel if that was all taken away on a whim.
B) I could tell Tommy what my grandmother is threatening. I probably should tell him—I already trust him more than I’ve ever trusted anyone, and he deserves to know. And what will a man like Tommy Sullivan do in face of her threats? He’ll tell her to fuck off—and to keep fucking off, and after she’s done fucking off she should fuck off a bit more. I can practically hear him already. And then again—he’ll be harmed, he’ll pay the price—because of me.
C) I could do as she told me. It will hurt, badly . . . but this was never supposed to be anything. It’s not his fault I’ve come to depend on him, want him, need him. It was an arrangement; that’s what we said. It was always going to end at some point—wasn’t it? And this way, if I just do it, choke it down and get it over with, Tommy is not harmed, he doesn’t pay any price—he walks away unscathed and free of me.
When he strolls through the door a few hours later with his laptop and a brown paper bag of food in his hands, I take extra time to look at him. His smooth grace as he slips out of his coat, the stunning lines and proportions of his body, the strong angles of his cheekbones and jaw.
I stand up from the sofa and go to him, resting my hands on his corded shoulders and reaching up on my toes to kiss him. It’s not desperate or frantic like the night we lost Maisy.
It’s slow and deep and savoring—a kiss I’ll remember.
Tommy sucks on my upper lip, stroking it wonderfully with his tongue. Then he pulls back, gazing down at me with a slight tilt of his head.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I lie.
He tucks a strand of my hair gently behind my ear.
“Did something happen at the hospital?”
“No.” I stare at his sternum, running my palm back and forth across his chest, committing the warm, solid feel of him to memory. “I just want you.”
His eyes go heated and hungry at my words. Tommy pulls me to him and we’re kissing and tugging at the annoying barrier of our clothes. And I let myself drown in him—slowly dragging my lips and tongue across his collarbone, his chest, down his bunching abdominals . . . and lower. I delight in the taste of his skin, in the way his hot, silken thickness fills my mouth, in the feel of his fingers clenching desperately in my hair.
And though I want to relish each moment, I’m swept up in him, in the blissful blur of sensations and want and piercing pleasure so deep it’s almost painful.
We end up in my bed, a writhing mass of moans and lips and clasping limbs. Tommy’s breath is a sharp rasp against my ear—whispering beautiful, filthy words that make my skin tingle and my head light. And I kiss him and kiss him, pouring all my feelings—all the words I can’t say—into the wet dance of our mouths. I don’t want it to end, but it does—in a perfect swirling rush of pleasure and groans, thundering heartbeats and pulsing, contracting muscles.
After, we lie next to each other, and I look at him some more—soaking up the image of him in the bed beside me.
Perhaps in a bid to stave off the inevitable, I ask, “How’s work?”
He glances over at me and smiles.
“Things are good. The crop of new hires has potential and we’ve got a nice stable of recurring clients.”
“You’re building a reputation,” I say flatly.
“Yeah.”
“And that’s important in your field, isn’t it?”
“Sure.” Tommy nods. “Clients need to know they can trust us, count on us—that’s everything.”
Gangrene is a potentially fatal condition that results from a lack of blood and oxygen to an extremity, causing the tissue to die. It can be treated with antibiotics, but if the affliction is too far gone the only way to effectively cure it is amputation.
You lose the limb to save the life.
Right now, I’m gangrenous to Tommy. And the surest way to save him . . . is to cut myself off.