by Tina Martin
She moans. Purrs.
The cold doesn’t bother us.
The restriction of clothes does.
I break away from her again, punch in the code to unlock the door and when I do, I help her out of her coat, then take off mine. She’s tugging at my belt. I’m pulling her shirt over her head. She unzips my pants and loosens the buttons of my shirt. I’m tugging at her work pants.
We’re desperate.
In the moment.
We’re not thinking.
We’re going with the flow of whatever’s about to go down in the foyer by the door.
The house is warm. We’re naked. Naked and desperate. I smell her essence. Her skin smells like heaven. She makes my mouth water for her taste.
So I taste – take her nipple between my teeth before devouring her altogether, stretching my mouth open wide to take as much of her inside as I possibly can. She tastes so good. I don’t think I can ever get enough to calm my desire for her. I’ve never experienced this kind of hunger when it came to a lover.
Her back is against the wall as I feast. One breast after the other. I’m still devouring, taking my time to make sure I get all I want while she sings my name. The melody of her voice adds to my desire for her. Increases everything in me that wants all of her.
“Magnus,” she whispers.
I stop the assault on her breasts to look at her. I stand tall, look down into those beautiful eyes I love. “Yes, Shiloh.”
I know she doesn’t want anything. She’s just relieving pressure. Saying my name helps her do that.
“You have something to tell me?” I ask, taunting her. Touching her.
Her eyes close. She chews on her bottom lip.
Why did she do that? Now I want them again. So I take them while her eyes are closed, and they taste good – so good. Sweet like honey. Soft like marshmallows.
I knead the flesh of her breasts and alternate to squeezing the pillowy softness of her bottom. My tongue is in her mouth when I lift her. She opens her legs, giving me easy access to what I seek and I take it, run deep inside it. Own it. Take it like I never had it.
She’s steadily moaning, saying my name. And then I feel her body lock up like she’s about to break and she does – splinters to a million fragments at my hands. And I’m breaking. Slowly. Drawing it out so I can watch her. I love watching her. Love seeing what I do to her. The agony on her face. The way she screams. I see tears in her eyes. I observe the last spasm as it leaves her body.
I’m desperate to start them up again. Making her cry out for me again.
I withdraw from her and carry her to the stairs. Her breasts jiggle as I walk. My plan was to make it upstairs, but I don’t think I can. Halfway up the stairs on the landing, I lower her there and watch her legs fall open. She wants me again.
I ease inside her until I’m deep – with my sword and my heart.
“Oh, Magnus,” she whispers, her voice soft.
I move inside her, over and over again. She handles the beginning with ease, but when I grow anxious and my rhythm increases, she cries out. One hand is gripping a spindle. The other is holding on to the edge of the step that’s right beneath her.
Each time I stroke her I go deeper, intent on giving her all of me. I’ve pumped into her so many times, I’ve lost count and I have no desire to slow down.
“Hold on,” I tell her when I know she’s close – so close to the edge.
I’m there, too. That’s why I want to feel her arms tight around me. Want to feel her breasts pinned to my chest. Want to feel the heat of our bodies igniting the passion we share.
I’m giving.
She’s taking. She has no other choice but to take.
And I’m giving. Boy do I give. The stairs are my domain. They give me power. I’ve never done this on the stairs before. Never been this needful – this crazy – with a woman.
It’s her.
She does this to me and so I do what I want to her.
She quakes beneath me as she says my name over and over. Loud to loudest. Magnus to MAGNUS! She cries out. Her body shakes against mine. Her nails claw into me. Her moans turn me on. Sends me closer to insanity. And then I hold her possessively still when I explode, fighting for my vision to see her clearly. I want her to see how she makes me feel. How she makes my body give her everything inside me. Holds nothing back.
And we lay here, on the stairs, catching our breaths before I lift her, carry her up. The feeling in her legs haven’t returned. It doesn’t return when we shower together. I’m still holding her up, against the tiles this time, when I bury my length into her depths and have her screaming under warm water – water that’s washing evidence of our desire down the drain. I love having her. When I’m with her, I feel euphoric. I don’t have time to dwell on the past or the grief that lives inside me because my moments with her are happy ones. She makes me happy.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Shiloh
A month of this sweet madness goes by. In many ways, I feel like I’m living in limbo because even though I know in my heart I love Magnus, I doubt if he feels the same for me. He likes me. I know that for a fact. He loves being with me and he loves spoiling me with roses, jewelry, dinners, massages and salon visits. Seeing me happy adds to his own happiness but I also think he’s using it as a way to keep me around. To string me along.
I go along with it for two reasons. One, I’ve missed two cycles of my period and that has never happened before. Ever. I’m certain I’m pregnant with his child although I haven’t taken a test or had it confirmed by a doctor. Two, the more time I’m with him, the less pain I feel when I think about papa. I can’t believe how fast a month has gone by since I lost him. I’ve had my bad days of dealing with the pain, but Magnus always comes to my rescue with kind words, ensuring me everything will be okay.
Now I’m wondering if he really believes that.
Yesterday while Magnus was at work, Lucille snuck in his home office, found the notebook she’d mentioned earlier and brought it downstairs, furnishing me proof of her suspicion. I felt like it was an invasion of privacy looking at Magnus’ personal notes, but it was exactly what Lucille thought it was – a series of suicide letters – declarations of how his life was over when Nicoletta and MJ died. The most recent letter was dated two years ago. It’s a letter that made my heart literally cry tears that should’ve fallen from my eyes. A letter where he wrote in part:
I can’t wait for our reunion. Can’t wait to put our family back together. Once I’ve left a piece of me on this earth – a baby – son or daughter, I’d be okay to end it all and come home to you and MJ.
You being Nicoletta.
That’s why he wanted a baby. His plan was to leave a legacy behind on earth so he’d be comfortable taking his own life and being with Nicoletta and MJ again. The logic is far beyond my comprehension because as much as I’ve suffered after my father and mother died – as much as I still hurt – I can’t justify ending my life to end the pain I feel. Life is still life. Suicide only creates more pain for the people you leave behind. The people who love you. Would he do something like this to me? To our baby?
This is all the heaviness on my mind as I sip hot tea in the kitchen when Magnus comes inside. He’d just finished his Saturday ten-mile run, and he doesn’t look exhausted. He’s wearing a black body shirt and a pair of loose gym shorts. Those are black, too.
“I’m going to run up to shower. Breakfast should be delivered momentarily.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to feel out his mood. He’s strange at times. Up and down. Last night, he made love to me so good, I felt like I was paralyzed from the waist down when we were done. This morning, I can’t even get a good morning, Shiloh. Maybe he has a lot on his mind that the run didn’t burn off.
A food delivery driver drops off breakfast and Magnus returns downstairs shortly thereafter.
“I could’ve cooked us breakfast, Magnus.”
“I didn’t want you to cook.”
; “You don’t like my cooking?”
“I love your cooking. I just didn’t want you to cook today. You’ve cooked breakfast the last three Saturdays in a row. I thought I’d give you the morning off. Isn’t that kind of me?”
“Yes, Magnus. That is kind of you,” I say smiling. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, have a seat.”
He takes the trays from the bag, places one in front of me. Then he walks over to the fridge and grabs a bottle of apple juice. He takes two glasses from the cabinet.
He sits, fills our glasses.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he tells me.
I open the tray to reveal the bacon, eggs, French toast and grits all neatly organized. He hands me butter and syrup packets. I thank him again and start eating.
He’s quiet.
I’m quiet.
I glance up at him.
His eyes are on me.
I smile.
He doesn’t smile back.
Ugh…I can’t take this. “Magnus, are you not in a good mood this morning?”
“I’m fine, Shiloh.”
“Are you sure, because you didn’t say good morning and you usually do.”
“Good morning,” he says, being a smart aleck.
“Good morning.”
I watch him eat. It’s times like this that makes me feel like something is really wrong with him. That the notes in those journals have some truth to them because, while I know Magnus’ body like I know my own, I have no clue what’s going on in his head. I don’t know his quiet thoughts. His secrets. His deep feelings. Those are all things he keeps hidden from me.
I want to know those things. That’s the progression of relationships right? People show you the best parts of themselves upfront. The not-so-good comes out later – the damage. The baggage. The things that would’ve made you refuse to give the person the time of day. It’s those things I want to know about him. Now that I’m invested, they won’t make me think any less of him. I won’t run for the border. I want to help him through his problems the same way he helps me through my grief, but only to the extent he’ll allow me.
“Magnus?”
“Yes?”
“How do you cope?”
“With what?” he asks.
I’m certain he knows what I’m referring to without me having to say it outright. “You lost Nicoletta and MJ. How do you cope with that?”
He sips juice, shrugs his shoulders and resumes eating. So maybe he’s not coping…
“Do you realize how often you ask me that?”
“I know. I’m curious because…um…you don’t talk a lot about them and—”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Sure there is. You can talk about how you’ve been dealing with their loss.”
“Shiloh, your father recently passed. It’s still fresh for you. Nicoletta and MJ have been gone for years.”
I’m listening for what he’s not saying – the answer to my question. “So, are you telling me you’re over it?”
“No, I’m not over it.” He frowns. “Grief is not something you get over. It’s something that sticks with you for the rest of your life. It never leaves. It’s always there waiting to come out. Waiting for a memory to reveal itself so you feel sad all over again. It’s a continuous cycle of feeling miserable, mad, sad and lonely. A cycle of pain.”
I take a sip of juice. He’s back to eating.
How do I do this? How do I bring up the subject of suicide? I’ve come this far. I can’t retreat now. So I ask, “Have you ever been suicidal?”
He frowns. Stares at me. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because I want to know.”
“That’s one heck of a question to be asking out of the blue.”
“I know, but—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Shiloh. You’ve been through my notebooks, right?”
“No—yes—no. I—”
Anger clouds his good looks. “That’s what you do when I leave the house? You ramble through my office?”
I can’t snitch out Lucille. Surely he’ll fire her if he knows she’s the one who showed me the journals, so I don’t say anything. I helplessly look at the anger in his eyes that’s shooting back at me.
“That’s what you do?” he asks again.
“Wait, Magnus, before you—”
“You need to understand something, Shiloh. You’re not privy to certain things about me.”
“I know that—”
“I wasn’t finished!” he says loudly, the veins in his neck forming into thick ropes. “I tell you what I want you to know and that’s all you need to know. You’re only here temporarily, and as much time as I like spending with you, you’ll never be what Nicoletta was to me if that’s what you were thinking.”
My mind goes blank. Spins a little. I can’t believe what he’s saying. He has no mercy as he lashes out because he thinks I’ve been going through his things. His words are harsh. Cuts me deep because he says them like he doesn’t care how I’ll take them. I’m temporary, he said. I’ll never be what Nicoletta was to him. He obviously doesn’t care about my feelings. How could he when he doesn’t care about himself? How could he possibly give a crap about me?
I don’t know what to say. I can’t form words. In a way, I feel numb again – the same way I felt after losing papa. It’s because I loved my father.
And I love Magnus.
That’s why it hurts – why I’m numb as I stare across the table at him, still looking for excuses for his words. I know he’s upset and hurt by tragedies in his life, but I’m not one of them. I’m not a tragedy. He sought me out. It wasn’t the other way around.
Even still, I know when I need to go and I refuse to stay where I’m not wanted. I tried – love will make you do that. Try. I tried when his highs were high and lows were low. I rode the waves with him and endured the shifts in his mood. This morning, my mind won’t let me do that. If I’m truly temporary, today is the day I walk out the door.
I take a napkin, wipe my mouth. My stomach feels nervous. I feel sick like I’m about to puke. I hold it all together to stand up. I take my uneaten food to the garbage while he remains at the table, not moving a muscle. He doesn’t say a word. He just sits there.
Before I exit the kitchen, I look at him a final time. My voice is low when I say, “I haven’t done anything to justify the way you’re treating me right now, but thank you for reminding me I’m temporary.”
I want to say more, but I don’t want to come across as one of those bitter women who doesn’t know when it’s her time to go. So I go. All I take is my purse and some of my other belongings. The clothes he bought, the shoes, the jewelry and gifts he’s given me – I leave all that behind. If I’m temporary, those things were too. They meant nothing.
I return home to an empty house – empty because papa’s not here. I sit on the couch and wait to feel anger, but the anger doesn’t come. I’m surprisingly calm as I sit here alone thinking about the baby I’m possibly carrying. I’m afraid to take a test because I fear the results.
I don’t want to be pregnant by a man who doesn’t love me.
Chapter Forty
Magnus
A week passes.
In that time, I feel the emptiness that has crept into my life and taken Shiloh’s place. It’s not something I can brush aside. I knew that from the first day she didn’t come home or contact me.
In my mind, I told myself she was temporary. That’s why my anger prompted me to tell her that out loud. But in my heart, I knew it was a lie. It was a lie when I thought it, a lie when I said it and it’s a lie now. Shiloh is more to me than any woman I’ve encountered since losing Nicoletta.
Shiloh’s the reason I’m sitting at my desk at work, staring out the wall of windows behind my desk instead of doing actual work. I can’t work for thinking about her. She’s the reason I’m meeting with Mason St. Claire later to discuss my possible
relation to him – to find my family. She’s the reason I’ve been happy. The reason I haven’t thought about taking my life. The reason I left work early plenty of times. She’s the reason I smile.
And I hurt her…
I saw the moment I destroyed her with my words. The moment she absorbed them. The moment they broke her. She hasn’t contacted me since. Hasn’t talked to Lucille. She just went on her way, about her business. Working at the bistro on a more consistent basis now.
I know that because it’s the only place I see her. Some nights, I sit in the parking lot and watch her to get my fix of seeing the face I miss. The lips I need. The body I crave. I get satisfaction in knowing she’s okay, at least physically. Emotionally, she’s damaged.
I’ve damaged her.
I’ve damaged myself.
That’s why I’m packing up on a Friday to head out of the office early. I need to get some things off my chest and be truthful with my therapist.
Before I leave, Bransen intercepts me at the door.
“Ay, where are you running off to—thought we had a meeting.”
“We do?” I ask. My mind hasn’t been on work in a week.
“Yep, but no worries. We can reschedule.”
I stand there, frowning. I feel like I’ve lost control. Nothing’s in order anymore. “Yeah. Get Hilda to put something on the calendar for next week.”
* * *
When I arrive at my therapist’s office, she instructs me to sit as usual. Asks if I want coffee or water. I usually always refuse. Today, I take water.
She gives me a look that I’m sure has some significance to her.
“This is the second time you’ve called an emergency consult, Magnus.”
“I know. I apologize for the inconvenience but it couldn’t be helped.”
