Ryan walked towards me, stopping within inches of my face. I closed my mouth. “I want to kiss you, but I’ll only do it if you’ll let me.”
I didn’t think twice about it. I flung my arms around his neck and pressed my lips to his. Everything about it was familiar, and I wasn’t afraid anymore. I never said the words to him in the past because I was fearful of them. But not anymore. I murmured them against his lips over and over.
“I love you. I love you,” I said, until his tongue invaded my mouth, garbling my declaration.
I clung to him with a fierceness foreign to me. I felt I was making up for lost time. Three years of being without him, and so much to learn. I pulled away and held his face between my hands.
“I need you to tell me everything,” I said. “Will you? I want to know everything about your life. I’ve missed so much, Ryan, and I don’t want to miss out on anything else.”
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “But first, let me say how much I love you, Brooke. I told you a long time ago in a bad place when I was a bad person. I’m not there anymore, and I’m not that boy, but my love for you has never changed. I love you. I’ll always love you. There simply isn’t anyone else.”
Epilogue
I lay naked in our unmade bed, hands grasping the bars of our iron headboard like he instructed. Our bedroom walls were covered with paintings we’d done together, mostly at the ocean where the sun and water created the ideal atmosphere. I stared at them until Ryan redirected my attention.
“I think I’ll need to make it up to you for the rest of my life,” he said, hovering over me.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The secrets I kept from you. Lucy’s rape,” he whispered.
I couldn’t believe I was just now piecing it together. The reason he slept with all those girls. He was trying to atone for his guilt by giving pleasure to other women. I felt sorry for him, but not in a pitiful, condescending kind of way. I felt sorry for him because he was still trapped in the guilt, and it had been a year since we were back together. A year since I had forgiven him.
We were living together in Chapel Hill. I was about to start law school at UNC, and Ryan was finishing a business degree. We led a quiet life, surrounded by a few close friends. We spent most of our weekends in Wilmington when the weather was nice. During the cold months, we hunkered down in our tiny rented house, fire glowing warm and inviting, wrapped in blankets and each other’s love.
I looked at my boyfriend and sighed. I could say the words of forgiveness again like I had done a hundred times before, but they seemed to make no difference.
“You don’t have to make it up to me, Ryan,” I said finally. “I just want you to love me and let me love you.”
He dipped his head and kissed me long and slow. Then he pulled away and grinned. It lit up my heart. Nothing explosive. Just lightning bug flickering, and it warmed me through and through.
“Well, then ladies first,” he said, and kissed my neck.
I loosened my grasp on the railing, and he whispered into my shoulder: “Hold on tight, Brooklyn.”
He kissed down the side of my neck to my collarbone and finally to my breasts. He took his time with them, drawing one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, forcing my fingers tighter around the bars, before he moved to the other breast. He licked my nipples then tugged on them gently with his teeth eliciting protests from my mouth and hands.
“Put your hands back on the railing, Brooklyn,” he said, running his nose gently over my right nipple.
I shook my head.
“Brooklyn,” he said, and gathered my wrists above my head with one hand while his other snaked down my belly. “Do you want me to touch you?”
I squirmed.
“Well?”
I nodded, afraid to look at him. I don’t know why. We’d made love nearly every day since we reunited. But it was something about him when he got in one of these moods. It aroused me, and I thought I shouldn’t like it. But I did like it—being told what to do—because his demands were gentle, and I knew he’d never abuse the power I entrusted to him.
“Look at me, Brooke,” Ryan said.
I obeyed.
“Spread your legs.”
I did.
“Wider.”
I complied, spreading my legs until he grunted his satisfaction.
“I’m going to touch you,” Ryan said. “And then I’m going to taste you. Is that all right?”
“Yes.” I sounded like I was in pain, but it was purely sexual frustration. I wanted him inside of me now, but when he was like this, he made me wait for it. He would touch me, lick me, taste me everywhere before intercourse, making it nearly impossible for me to hold out longer than two minutes once he slid inside of me.
I cried out when I felt a single fingertip on my clit, circling slowly and gently. Reflex or the intense sensation made me snap my legs together in one swift movement. I don’t know why, but it embarrassed me.