by K. A. Hobbs
He brushes his hands over my face, pushing lose tendrils of hair away and leaving my face free for him to gaze upon.
“You have made me come alive, Imogen Thomas. I’ve tried for years to make the best of my life here. I’ve filled my days with books and music, but I’ve longed for a companion—someone to share everything I am with, someone to get close to and show them the parts of me no one else sees. I want you to be that person. I know you’re that person for me.” He leans forward and kisses me once, twice and a third time in quick succession. “I hope I can be that person for you, too.”
“You can. You are,” I tell him, leaning closer so I’m almost in his lap.
“I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. This… It’s all so new to me. I’m afraid I’ll ruin what we already have by being a fool. I am a fool. I don’t deserve you, but I can’t help but want you, need you.”
“You’re as far from a fool as I am a giant.” I laugh. “I believe in you.”
He fixes me in place with one look.
One smoulderingly, sexy look.
Reaching one hand over, he brushes my hair from my shoulder and leans closer. The second I feel his hot breath on my skin, I break out into goosebumps. Then I feel his lips on the bare skin of my neck and I can’t stop the full-body shudder that follows.
I groan as I feel him press a gentle kiss to the most sensitive spot I’ve ever felt, which earns me a groan from him and the vibrations heat my skin even more.
I try to turn my head. I try to show him I want to be kissed on the mouth, but he refuses to budge. He only relents and allows me to move my hand to the back of his neck and then my fingers sneak between the fabric of his shirt and his bare neck.
“George…”
“Imogen…”
“You’re driving me crazy,” I pant.
He pulls back and frowns at me. “Am I not… Am I doing it wrong?”
“No. You’re doing it too right.”
He beams at me and kisses me once again. I lean forward and capture his lips with mine again, gently tugging his bottom lip with my teeth. He seems to like that and I make a mental note to do it again.
“I…” he begins, then stops himself.
“What?”
“I’d very much like to make love to you,” he admits in a moment of unguarded honesty. He blushes and lowers his gaze.
I bring my hand up to cup his cheek and raise his blue eyes to mine again. “I thought you’d never admit that.”
“I’ve wanted it since we spent new year together. Well, if I’m being completely truthful, since before then, really. But it’s not something one says to a lady.”
“I can assure you it’s exactly what one says to a lady. Especially one who wants exactly what you want,” I whisper, trying to reassure him.
“I don’t want you to think anything I’ve ever done or will ever do is to be with you in that way.
I press my finger to his lips and shake my head. “I don’t. I want to make love to you, and I want you to make love to me.”
He takes me by surprise and stands, pulling me with him until I’m standing, too. He turns to walk in the direction of his bedroom when I stop him. “Where are you going?”
“I was going to… the bedroom?” He looks so unsure, so vulnerable, and I want to soothe his worries away.
“Am I to join you there?” I tease him.
He walks back until he’s standing right in front of me. “I very much hope so.”
“Good, because I want to make entirely different music with you. Music only we can hear.”
He closes his eyes and, for a second, I think my forwardness is too much. I often forget George is from a different time entirely, a time when men courted women and women behaved in a certain way. Definitely not the way I behave. But then he opens his eyes again and I see heat, desire and need reflected back at me.
In an old-fashioned act, which speaks of who he truly is, he scoops me up into his arms and carries me over the threshold of his bedroom. He places me on my feet and I take a second to look around the space.
Decorated in much the same way as the rest of his quarters, his room is masculine and classic, just like the man himself. Dark panelled wood decorates the walls, and a big bed sits dead centre. I inhale and delight in being surrounded by George’s scent.
I feel his warmth as he steps closer until he’s pressed against my body. His hands skim down my side, stopping at regular intervals as if to memorise my curves. His fingers dance across my hip bones, lingering for a few seconds more on the soft curves of my bottom before his hands lift me effortlessly, placing me onto the bed. He pushes me back a little then kneels between my legs.
Looking down into my eyes, he smiles. “You know, there are some things about the modern world I enjoy. You speaking your mind, telling me what you want is one of them.”
“I can’t imagine why.” I laugh softly.
He dips his head and kisses me, softly yet with undeniable need. I melt into him, wrapping my legs around his hips, pressing every possible inch of myself against him. Everything around me swims as I become lightheaded and consumed by him, and as my oxygen-starved brain demands air, my urgency to be closer takes over.
“Let me feel you,” I breathe into his mouth.
“You are.”
I shake my head. “Skin. Take off your shirt… please.”
He sits back on his heels and makes quick work of unbuttoning his shirt. His long, elegant fingers loosen the buttons and push the fabric off his shoulders, and then his gloriously bare torso is right there for me to admire.
He has the body of a classic male of years gone by—firm yet soft, perfectly proportioned and beautifully masculine.
“You’re perfect,” I whisper.
“I’m just me.” He smiles shyly.
We kiss again, and I allow his passion to feed mine, his need to stoke the fire burning steadily within me. Knowing he won’t ask, I kneel up and turn my back to him. “Unzip me, will you?”
With sure hands, he unzips my dress, allowing it to pool at the front of me. I pull it over my head and turn back around, showing him who I truly am without anything hiding me.
“I’m just me, too,” I whisper.
He crawls forward, taking me into his arms and I groan, warm soft skin on warm soft skin. I look up to meet his eyes and he smiles. “I love you, Imogen. I’ve loved you for a long time.”
I swallow deeply, not expecting his declaration. “I love you, too.”
Hands explore and lips worship. We bare our most intimate selves to each other, and life as I knew it fades to a distant memory. My new life, my life with George, takes up residence in my heart.
It’s so peaceful just the two of us. I wish it could be like this all the time.
There’s no one we need to focus on other than each other. We’re alone, warm and safe, and for the first time since that awful day with Molly, I feel content and happy.
The light from the solitary candle is casting shadows everywhere while the flickering flames from the fire create their own show upon the walls. I’m lying perfectly comfortable with George on the fluffy rug in front of the fire, listening to the classical music he has floating around the room
“Will you show me?”
“Hmmmm?”
I try to focus my brain on what I’m about to ask and not on his fingertips running up and down my spine.
“Your wings… Will you show me?”
He tenses beneath me. “Now?”
“Only if you want to. I’m just curious. I thought I would see them when you removed your shirt, but I didn’t.” I look away, feeling stupid for voicing that. “And I have no idea when I’ll get mine.”
He twists so we’re lying facing each other and runs his finger across my cheek. “You’ll get them when it’s the right time. Please don’t worry yourself thinking you’re not doing a good job. You are. But these things… they take time. I didn’t get mine for a long time. You’ll appreciate them so much
more when you do get them. They’ll mean more.”
“Okay.”
“When I got mine, it was an exceptionally emotional experience. To finally stand in front of the mirror and see them… I’ll remember that moment forever.”
“I can’t wait.”
“So for now, I can’t show them to you. Can I explain why?”
The disappointment I feel at his answer swells inside me, but I swallow it back. “Yes.”
“Do you know what an angel’s wings represent? What they are?”
I shift a little, wanting to give him my complete attention. “No.”
“Our wings are our souls. It’s a uniquely vulnerable thing to do, to show someone else our wings. It’s a massive commitment, a life changing act. When I show you… Imogen, for an angel, it’s the biggest thing you can do for another person, to show them your wings. It’s as big for us as getting married is for humans. Do you see why it can’t be rushed?”
“Wow, I didn’t know.”
“I’ve never shown anyone my wings. I want you to be the only person who sees them. But it can’t be now. Not because I don’t feel anything for you, not because I don’t want to be with you forever, but because I don’t want to rush it, and I want it to be as momentous and significant and memorable for you as it will be for me.”
“I understand.”
He kneels up in front of me and places his warm hand over my heart. “You don’t, not fully, not yet. Our wings are granted to us when we officially pass over. You’re not ready for that yet, and I won’t rush you. When you’re ready, when you’ve made peace and you’re ready to accept your life here, accept what your life is now, then you’ll be truly vulnerable, and I’ll be here to support you. Then,” he whispers close to my face, “you’ll get your wings, and I’ll bare my soul to you and link us irrevocably together forever.”
The sound is familiar.
A whirring, followed by a choking and then the sudden spurting rush of boiling hot, delicious coffee.
A slow, sleepy smile creeps over my face as the noise settles into my bones, the familiarity of it sending me snuggling down further under the duvet.
Except it’s not a duvet.
And it’s not my bed.
And there is a serious crick in my neck that hurls arrows down my spine when I move to sit. A low cry leaves my lips as my hand shoots to the source of the pain, trying to rub some life back into the sore muscles. As my mind clears from the fog of sleep and I focus in on where I am and what’s happening, the usual pain that crashes over me every morning when I realise the last two years weren’t a dream refuses to quite take its usual grip on me. The busy sounds emitting from the kitchen along with the scent of God’s own nectar have me dragging the thin blanket around myself and shivering as I shuffle through to the kitchen.
I feel a momentary jolt at the sight of the tall, slender man moving around my kitchen. He isn’t who my confused, half-awake brain was first expecting to see, but he paints such an appealing picture of domesticity that I can’t help but sigh inside my blanket cocoon as I watch him.
He is so beautiful, even with seriously dishevelled bed hair and bags under his eyes—bags I want to trace my fingers along to soothe away the blue bruises my late night madness put there. He seems cheerful enough, though, despite having had almost no sleep. His tuneful whistling has a smile creeping onto my face as I move into the room and sing along with a voice hoarse from lack of sleep.
“Well good morning, sleeping beauty,” he croons as he practically dances over to me and drops an unexpected kiss to my forehead.
“Oh yeah, I’m a regular Helen of Troy,” I mutter in reply. “Coffee.”
He chuckles and points to the coffee machine. “That stuff is so bad for you, you know?”
“Uh huh. Says the guy who woke me up making it. Plus, a coffee a day keeps the police away.”
His face scrunches up adorably as he plucks a mug from my uncoordinated hand and shoves it under the machine. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”
“You can always deny me my coffee and find out why.” I give him a slightly sinister smile that I’m certain will tell him everything he needs to know about his chances of survival if he does, and he full on belly laughs before moving to the fridge.
“You take milk?”
“Black. Hot. Strong,” I growl, urging the machine to hurry up.
“Well you’re a veritable delight in a morning.” He moves to the other side of the kitchen island as though he can tell what sort of mortal peril he’s putting himself in, even though he’s still grinning widely.
“The coffee helps me to do the peopling. No coffee. No wakey smiley. That’s the rule.”
Laughing, he stalks out of the room before peering around the doorframe, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think I preferred you when you were drooling into the pillow and snoring like a chainsaw.”
“I do not snore,” I holler, grabbing a spoon off the counter and hurling it at him.
“Touchy touchy,” he sings, dancing out of the way of the flying missile and leaving me to drink my coffee in peace. Sensible man.
Once the good stuff has hit my soul and my eyes are open more than halfway, I start to feel a little bit guilty about throwing things at him and, after dragging my fingers through my disastrous hair, I go in search of him.
Following the scent of his cologne, I track him back to the living room where he’s standing over my dust covered piano, the lid up, tracing his fingers over the keys with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“You can come out now. It’s safe,” I tease, moving to his side and smiling softly as I watch the gentle way his fingers caress my prized possession.
Ducking his head, he grins as he scans my hands. “No more flying cutlery?”
“Only the occasional teaspoon.” I shrug. “Hey, I never claimed to be stable.”
His eyes seem to assess me for a moment, and I get the feeling we’re not joking any more. Perhaps cracking funnies about my mental state after calling him out in the middle of the night to stop me from losing the plot completely isn’t the best idea.
“Do you play?” he asks, apparently deciding that pursuing that particular line of conversation isn’t a good idea.
“I, uh… kind of.” I eye the piano with a mixture of trepidation and affection. It’s been so long since I’ve played. I have so many memories tied up with the instrument, and each one of them hurts—memories of tranquil weekend days spent reeling out new melodies to match Ben’s words, changing the mood each time he asked me to. We were the strangest partnership ever; I played and he wrote, and we were happy.
I haven’t played the piano since.
“Kind of,” he repeats, turning to lean his hip against the piano so he can fix me with that intense stare of his that feels like it x-rays right down to my soul.
“It’s been a while,” I admit.
“Haven’t felt like it?” His head tilts with the question, understanding filling the gaps left by the playfulness diminishing in his eyes.
“You know how some things just… hurt more than others?”
‘Yeah, I understand.” He nods sympathetically before stretching out his arms and enfolding me inside them.
“So, Tesco,” I say more brightly than I feel. “I don’t know about you but I’m starving.”
“Mmm, famished,” he replies, his eyes fixed on me with an expression I haven’t seen from him before. It looks a little like… desire.
“My turn to cook,” I state with finality, allowing my arms to linger around his solid frame for a moment before disentangling myself from him reluctantly.
“I’m not sure I trust anybody whose fridge looks like that to cook for me,” he teases, plucking one of my curls into his fingers and giving it a tug. “Anything could happen.”
I huff, slamming my hands onto my hips petulantly. “I’ll have you know many people have eaten food prepared by these fair hands and hardly any of them needed hospitalisation.”
>
“Well, as reassuring as that is, I was thinking about going out for breakfast, which is now lunch because your sleep pattern is seriously messed up.”
Glancing at the ugly Salvador Dali clock on the wall that Ben always insisted was art rather than nightmare inducing, I gasp at the time. It’s already gone two in the afternoon. My weekend is almost over already.
“Will there be cake?” I question, already knowing that I’ll follow this man wherever he takes me.
“Always.”
“And cheese?”
“Together?” He grimaces.
“Obviously not. Stop being facetious.”
He laughs and throws an arm over my shoulder casually, as though he’s been doing it for years. “Food first, then Tesco.”
When he told me we were going for food, he totally failed to mention that there was a three thousand mile hike along the coast to get to the specific tea shop he had in mind. I’d envisioned strolling into town and picking up something in one of the tourist places there. But no. As it turns out, Seb. Astian is an outdoorsy person—a fact that he’s kept irritatingly quiet up to now—and is therefore of the belief that fresh air is just as good as medicine. And no amount of disputing that will deter him from his path—a path that is overgrown with greenery and lined with about three feet of mud underfoot.
I can’t deny the beauty of the vista spread out beside us, though, nor the thrill of excitement that I experience every time his hand closes around mine. The water twinkles in the reluctant winter sunlight while the waves crash into foam against the craggy coastline. I’ve seen this view so often over the years I guess I’ve become desensitised to its beauty, but Seb’s constant enthusiasm for the changing views around every corner have me looking at it all through new eyes and seeing beauty in things I’ve never spotted before. Plucking his phone from his back pocket, he grins as he drags me to his side and stretches out to take a selfie with the water lashing the coast behind us.
I stare at the photo after he takes it, at the beaming smile on his face, and the amazing fact that mine appears to match it. My cheeks are flushed, partly from the cold but also from the enjoyment I’m finding in the most simple of walks with good company. And he is good company. He seems to be able and willing to talk about any subject knowledgeably, showing genuine interest in things he doesn’t know about and happy to share what he does know. His voice is lively and has a gentle lilt to it that could lull anybody into happiness, no matter how much they tried to fight it.
