‘I know. I read the leaflet, too. But I’m tired of being treated like porcelain.’
‘You’ve only been out of the hospital for four days!’
‘I’ve been out of your bed for much longer. I want to feel your love, Rose. Not just hear you utter it as you press a kiss to my forehead when you hand me a glass of water, or we turn in for the night.’
‘Is worrying about you, looking after you, not showing love, too?’
‘You confuse it with pity.’
‘That’s unfair, and you know it.’
‘It took this accident for you to admit your feelings—’
‘You think I told you I love you because I felt sorry for you?’
I know I shouldn’t be raising my voice, I know all about neurological fatigue, pain, and the possibility of overstimulation because I’ve spent hours on the internet trying to prepare myself for what to expect. Yet, this is no whisper-shout.
‘I knew you loved me well before you told me,’ the arrogant ass retorts. ‘Are you glaring, or do you have something in your eye?’
‘Yes, it’s called murder.’
His gaze runs critically across my face, almost examining me. ‘It isn’t conceit. I knew it when I saw how much hurt my foolishness brought you. But now I’ve heard it from your own lips, I want nothing more than the evidence of it. I crave it like a physical thing. I’m not breakable, Rose. And I want you like I’ve wanted nothing else.’
I realise he’s right in that sickening instant. I’ve been treating him like an invalid, scared to touch him, maybe even afraid he wouldn’t be the same man. Frightened that he was almost taken from me. Fearful because I hadn’t told him what he meant to me.
‘Do you know, you even recoil from my touch in your sleep?’
I find myself on my knees in front of him. Why? Because sitting next to him on the chair, I’m frightened I might somehow hurt him. Jostle him? I don’t know. He’s not the only one who’s scarred from the incident.
As he lifts his laptop over his head to put it on the chair, I slide my arms around his waist. We don’t speak for some minutes—I don’t know what to say. Not as his fingers sift through my hair. Not as they move to loosen the knots in my back. I just stay there listening to the sounds of his breathing and feeling his touch.
He’s alive, and he is well. I’m not going to break him with the strength of my love.
‘The lengths a man will go to get your face in his lap,’ he murmurs almost carelessly.
‘Not even funny. And also not even a little bit subtle.’
His deep chuckle echoes under my ear. As do the signs of his discomfort, the way his body goes taut, and the tiny stifled groan I’m not supposed to notice.
‘You’ll injure yourself.’
‘A risk I’m willing to take, though I’d rather the fault be yours.’
I pull away, sitting back on my heels. ‘You want me to hurt you?’ I ask, deadpan. ‘You know, there are names for people like you.’
‘I want you to fuck me, and if I die in the course of that fucking, you can mention in my eulogy that I died visiting my favourite place. That I went with a smile on my face.’
‘Nobody’s dying. And nobody’s getting laid. How about a compromise?’
‘As long as this compromise does something about this.’ He takes my hand, pressing it to the part of him that’s clearly defined through the fabric of his shorts.
Pleasure licks at me at the unexpected contact, my mind already awash with plans. Yet I blink back, almost owlishly, as though not quite sure what he’s asking. But I can’t hold onto my grin as I answer, ‘Oh, I think I can manage that.’
37
Rose
Thirty minutes. I asked him to give me thirty minutes before following me upstairs.
Sure, I could have lifted him out of his shorts and taken care of him on the sofa, but that’s not what he asked for. Seeing the outline of him right before me was more than a little tempting. His hands in my hair, his eyes glazing over at my touch.
Could have. Would have. Gladly. But he’s right. We’ve both been scarred by this week. We need to come together, and we need to heal.
Also, in coming together, we might even come together.
If we’re lucky.
So, I flit around, carrying things to and fro between the master bedroom suite and the adjoining bathroom, which has the kind of styling you’d see in a home magazine. A copper bathtub sits in the centre of a room that’s a very handsome mix of modern and heritage stylings. The dark, sleek tiling is contrasted by pale marble vanities, the black and copper-coloured veining tying the look together.
I don’t have time to admire the gilt-framed mirrors or the shower that’s the size of a squash court because I have plans, the first of which involves stripping off to treat myself to a super quick d-i-y trip to the spa. Slather and shave in record time. I’ve been kind of preoccupied the past few days.