by Nia Arthurs
A whimper. A moan. A sound I’ve never made before.
I cling to his shoulders.
Grip him hard as I fall apart.
And then he picks me up, carries me down the hallway and lays me out on the bed.
Twenty-One
Heath
My fingers trail down her bare shoulder and back up to the pulse in her neck. My hands are all that’s on her body. Not even the blanket gets to touch her. The heavy quilt’s been pushed aside. It lost its throne to me.
I find her lips and savor them. Sip from them.
Little touches of her hand on my chest set me aflame.
I thought I would break her. And yet I found myself quivering when she touched me. Drowning when she kissed me. Falling when she put her mouth on me.
I died.
I came back to life.
I died again.
Crazy.
This.
She.
Everything.
This woman should come with a warning.
Dangerous. Handle with care.
My body hums with contentment and every other thought escapes me.
There’s nothing but Brenna on my mind, in my mouth, at my fingertips.
I run my hands over her hips. Trail the soft, brown skin. The small waist. The thighs that are a perfect handful. Perfect to grip. To lick. To push apart.
I remember how they’d trembled around my head. How they’d quivered and flexed. How they’d hoisted and swiveled.
She’d sighed. Bawled out. Shuddered so hard against me that I wondered if she’d slip out of her skin.
But she didn’t.
Her body was stronger than I imagined. More responsive than I’d anticipated.
She’d been waiting for me.
No. That’s too brazen of me to say.
She’d been waiting for this.
Release.
Freedom.
I saw her worry leaving on the moans that gathered in her mouth.
She was waiting to be broken.
And now she’s filled.
Empty.
Limp in the bed.
In my arms.
She’s exhausted.
But I’m not done.
I bring my hand up to her shoulder again. My nose follows the path. She smells like flowers. Like sweat. Like my cologne.
She smells like me.
I like that.
I love that.
Makes me want to mark her again. Makes me want to cover every inch of her in my scent. Not just her stomach and her lips. Not just the places where I exploded, and she lapped me up.
Everywhere.
Her heart. Her soul. Her mind.
She gave herself to me and I want to keep her safe. Right there in my chest. Carve a giant room for her. I’ll work with the best architect. I’ll build rooms. More than enough. Rooms with pianos and vases and books. A room for her and a room for Glory.
Different rooms but they’ll be the same size.
I’ll have them both.
The vision lives on and takes a life of its own.
I’m lying in bed next to the woman of my dreams. I knew before I undressed her. Before I sank into her. Before I made her dizzy and hoarse.
I knew.
And it feels right.
Brenna eases off the kiss to stroke my chest slowly. Her fingers are dark against my pale skin. The nails are cut bluntly. It makes me smile to think of how much damage they can do anyway. When they dig in. When they scrape and scramble.
“Heath.”
“Mm.”
“I think you broke my bed.”
“I think you broke me,” I respond.
She smiles that sleepy, satisfied smile. And I want to tear her apart again. I want to put my mouth on her and hear all the loud, dirty ways she can come apart.
“Did I?” She sounds pleased.
“I can fix your bed.” I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her wrist. “But I want something in exchange.”
Her sigh flutters the curls that are sticking to her damp cheek. “What?”
“A band-aid.” I tap my chest. “Right here.”
She places a kiss right over my heart. “Better?”
“And here.” I tap my chin.
She kisses me there. “Mm.”
“One more.” I tap my lips.
“Wait. I think I have a ladybug band-aid lying around.” She starts to get up.
I drag her back down. “Very funny.”
She sighs, biting down on her lip and looking thoughtful.
I interlace our fingers. “I’ve never felt this way before.”
Her lashes bounce up and down slowly. There’s a bit of light tiptoeing through her window. Flickering silver from the lamppost. It turns her brown skin to something golden and otherworldly. It makes her look like a dream.
“I’m sure you have.”
My brows crinkle. “You don’t believe me?”
“It always feels like love when you’re naked,” she says.
“I told you. I’m a simple man.”
“But it’s still complicated. The farmhouse—”
“It’s simple.”
“No.”
“Say it.” I stare at her.
“You’re too arrogant.” Her lips quirk up. “Give me a break.”
I smirk. Nudge her thighs apart. “Wrong answer.”
She sighs again.
I caress her jaw. Then trail a heavy finger down her stomach. “Why is this simple, Brenna?”
“Because I want you,” she closes her eyes, “and you want me.”
“Yes.”
“Am I supposed to feel this safe?” She smooths her fingers through my hair as she widens herself for me. “Right now. In this moment. Am I supposed to feel so… okay?”
“No. You’re supposed to feel like your veins are on fire.” I nudge her thighs further until they’re as wide open as my heart is. “You’re supposed to feel like the world is coming apart at the seams.” I grab protection. “And that nothing will ever be the same again.”
“I feel that.”
“And?”
“I’m okay.”
I kiss her. Slow. Easy. Like Sunday morning drives and love songs on the radio. Like lying down in dewy grass and catching fireflies in glass jars. Like star-gazing and cloud watching and making angels in the snow.
I let my fingers play like they would on the piano. No one ever taught me how. One day, I just sat at the instrument my parents kept in the hall. They bought that grand thing for show. It looked lonely. So big and shiny and expensive. And ignored.
So I put my hands on it.
I pressed a key and it sang for me. A low throaty sound.
I pressed another key. A little deeper. A little harder. And it sang in a higher key that trembled in the air.
I liked that response. I liked using one finger and then two and then three. Listening to the sound it made together. The cry. The fullness. The beauty it presented to my ears. It thrilled me knowing I could bring that stunning instrument to life without saying a word.
And now I look down at Brenna. Smooth and unbroken brown. Just like the piano. Eyes as white as the keys made jagged by the black. Every part of her body arches against mine as I stroke her and release the music I want to hear.
She shouldn’t feel safe right now.
She’s not.
Not here.
Not in this moment.
Not with me.
There’s still a wall around her. I still feel her resistance. I still sense the doubts that swirl in her mind even as I invade her. Still. Still.
I’m going to tear those walls down.
I envelop her until she’s buzzing. Until she’s panting.
Her nails dig into my back.
She gasps loudly. The sound drips with shock and pleasure.
I find the end of her and still push deeper. Farther.
Everything in my world tilts and darkens.
I lose control again.
I fall again.
This woman…
No matter how much restraint I think I’ll show, she pulls more out of me with her fierceness. With those rocking hips and those faces she makes that are real and gorgeous and unpretentious.
I hold her.
I grip her.
I collide with her.
Falling. Falling.
Oblivion.
This is the kind of rush that comes before a storm.
Before a disaster.
Before the end of the world.
What did I do to deserve this? To deserve her?
I don’t find the answers, but I dive deep until I find the end of her again.
And we don’t stop until late into the night.
After, I lie with Brenna in my arms.
Her fingers play in my hair. The rhythm of her gentle strokes makes my eyelids heavy. “You should go soon. Glory will want you to tuck her into bed.”
“You think she will?”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“I’m lying to her.” I stare at the ceiling. “I think she knows.”
“She does.”
“Telling her the truth might harm her more than help.”
“Yes.” The pillow rustles as Brenna turns her head to meet my eyes. “How long are you going to run?”
I grin.
“A really handsome guy once told me that, eventually, you need to face that fear and fight.”
“Sounds like a great guy.”
“I don’t know.” She flops on her back. “He’s kind of cocky.”
I laugh and give her a deep kiss.
Twenty-Two
Brenna
I’m a little lost, I think.
And a little found.
I’m cool, flowing liquid and a hot, blazing fire.
I feel… different.
The woman who fell into bed with Heath last night and the one who woke up without him this morning… they’re two different people. Two different Brennas.
Last night was more. More than Heath hammering into my soul. More than his lips that stole all my oxygen. More than long, calloused fingers stroking me to ecstasy.
I found something tangible to hold on to, to ground myself in for the first time in my life.
Hope.
There’s a part of me, the smallest, most fragile piece, that can’t accept that I’m here. That I’m naked and splayed out in my bed. That I’m thinking about the next time I can pull Heath on top of me. Or climb on top of him. Or fall to my knees.
That fragile part tells me anyone would have said the words I needed to hear. It says I shouldn’t trust Heath just because he found a way to hold my hurt. It warns me that Heath’s comfort doesn’t make him special. The fact that I revealed my secrets to him did.
I quiet that voice. Those doubts. That uncertainty.
They can’t touch me here.
I’m full, remember? I’m fire.
My limbs are boneless and weightless. The mattress is softer right now. Or maybe I’m still floating from last night. Maybe I haven’t come down yet.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to steady my breath. The bed feels bigger without Heath in it. Without those strong legs reaching all the way to the end. Without that smirk on his lips, his head propped up in the palm of his hand, elbow staked into the pillow. Without his long, golden hair blowing in my face and held within my grip as I pulled him down. Or he pulled me in. Or we exploded together.
We’re moving too fast, I think. There’s so much that’s still unresolved. Shushing me every time I bring up the farmhouse won’t make the problem go away. We’re still on opposite sides of that battle. We’re still—someone is going to have to lose.
And if Heath loses…
If he suffers because of me…
Do we survive?
The doubts keep creeping towards the bed. They slink and crawl and hiss. They paw at the sheets stained with the mess we made, with the mess Heath left of my heart.
I sit up slowly, carefully. My body’s lethargic still. Parts of me that were invaded and caressed for the first time last night are showing their inexperience now.
Will I be alone when this is all over?
I could throw the farmhouse case. Tomorrow, bright and early Monday morning, I can march over to the city council and withdraw. Heath would be able to continue with his construction. Glory would continue to receive her treatment and I—
I’d lose one thing and gain a whole lot more.
Right?
I sigh again and look at his side of the bed. One night. All it took was one night for him to take over.
My hand slides over the sheet.
His warmth still lingers even though he left before the sun rose.
Am I losing myself to him?
Should I give up what matters to me over a man?
The doubts that were crawling on the floor are on the bed now. They take up the space where Heath had slept. They inch closer and closer to me until I can feel their hot breath on my cheek.
My phone buzzes.
I reach for it.
HEATH: Glory’s still sleeping.
ME: She must be tired from all the partying.
HEATH: Mercy said she asked about my dad last night.
I wince.
ME: I know you’ll do the right thing.
HEATH: You have more confidence in me than I do.
ME: I have more confidence in who you are.
HEATH: And who is that?
ME: A good father.
Heath doesn’t immediately respond, so I set the phone away and plod to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
Before I can get there, someone knocks on the door.
I scrunch my nose.
Could it be Kaelyn? She would have texted me first before dropping by though.
“Who is it?” I call, pulling my pants on and shrugging into a tank top.
The knocks continue.
Warily, I approach the door and peep through the hole.
A man with greying hair and Heath’s green eyes stands on the other side. My heart jumps to my throat, and I throw the door open. “Mr. Jameson.”
“Good morning, Ms. Scott. Can I come in?”
I glance at my cramped apartment. “S-sure.”
He steps inside and, immediately, my living room looks shabbier in the presence of his fancy clothes and hardened gaze. Another man dressed in a sharp business suit steps in too.
It’s nine on a Sunday morning.
I’m in my own damn house and yet I feel woefully under-dressed.
“Can I help you?” I ask, settling into the chair across from Mr. Jameson.
“No, Ms. Scott.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m here to help you.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
He gets comfortable in my sofa. A trouser-clad leg hefts over his knee. Both arms spread out along the back. There’s a spark in his eyes. He’s a man who’s just found the reason he was born.
“Change always brings pain.” Mr. Jameson lifts a hand and reaches for the rays of sunlight spiraling through my window. “Progress always brings problems.” A sigh works its way out of his thin, pink lips. “I didn’t grow up with all this, you know.” He gestures to his fancy clothes and diamond-studded watch. “We were so poor we ate bean paste and days-old bread everyday. My father was a gambler and he lost every penny he ever earned. And still, my mother not only stayed with him but continued to have children for him.” He laughs softly, almost sorrowfully. “It was painful for her. She suffered with every pregnancy.”
He blinks into the distance. “I’ll never forget what my mother said after giving birth to eight of us in a tiny basement in a war-torn country.” His eyes fall to me. “She told me that the moment she held her baby in her arms, she forgot all about the agony of labor. All she saw, all that mattered, was the end result. She held the future in her hands.”
“Sounds like an… interesting woman.”
�
��She was a saint.” Mr. Jameson chuckles. “Unlike me.”
I don’t dispute the comment.
His hands move to his knees. “Heath is being stubborn because he’s afraid of change. Always was. He’d rather stay in the same place with the same people than make a move for himself.”
“I don’t believe that’s true.” I arch an eyebrow. “He left your family, didn’t he? I wonder how bad it must have been that such a loyal, steadfast man would turn his back on you.”
Mr. Jameson’s lips tilt up. “You’re not what I expected, Ms. Scott.”
“I’m not going to ask what you expected because something tells me it wouldn’t be flattering.”
His eyes scan me intently. “You truly care about my son, don’t you?”
“You still haven’t gotten to the point, Mr. Jameson. What exactly are you here for?”
“I’m here to keep this fight with Heath as civil as possible.” He pauses. “And I’m here to offer you a chance to wipe your hands clean.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” I fold my arms over my chest.
“This quiet gentleman is a lawyer.” Mr. Jameson gestures to the stranger he brought with him. “He has fought countless social justice cases and won. If there’s anyone who can save the farmhouse, it’s him.”
“I can win on my own.”
“Yes.” He leans forward. “But do you want to?”
“I—” My words get lost as I think about Heath and Glory. A week ago, the answer to that question would have been a solid ‘yes’. But now…
“This doesn’t have to be complicated.”
“Working with you is complicated.” I narrow my eyes. “You think I don’t know that you’re only trying to use me to get to Glory?”
“She’s my daughter, isn’t she?”
“A man isn’t automatically a father because he produces a child, Mr. Jameson. A lot more is required.”
“Look,” he shifts in the sofa, “I would share custody with Heath if he’d give me a chance, but he’s not moving. It’s his fault that I have to take drastic measures.”
“And I won’t be a part of them,” I say firmly.
“So you’re going to give up on the farmhouse?”
I glare in his direction.
“You and I both know that’s the only way you and Heath can be together.” His tone turns soft and cajoling. “How can Heath ever be with the woman who undermined everything he’s worked for? Don’t you think he’ll come to resent you soon enough?”
