He grinned. “Sometimes. Mostly, I just play.” He motioned for me to join him, and I slid toward him. “We could write a song,” he suggested. “Put a twist on Callahan’s assignment.”
I laughed. “We could, or we could just write a paper.”
“There’s that, too.” Laying the guitar aside, he reached for me, pulling me into his embrace, my back against his chest, his lips finding my neck.
Our relationship wasn’t based on sex, but I won’t lie and say we didn’t spend a lot of time making love. We spent more time talking, driving the back roads, and visiting with family, but there was also sex. There was an underlying current of heat that drew us together, simmering just beneath the surface, a strong need to be as close as we could to each other.
Each time we made love was different. Like kissing, the sex got better. It was more intimate and less embarrassing. We could talk about things that would have horrified me before. We discussed what we didn’t like and what we did, what places on our bodies felt better than others. Whispered words often mingled with gasps, occasional laughter and clumsiness mingling with pleasure.
That afternoon, I turned in his embrace, my lips crashing with his, passion turning something gentle into something heated and desperate. It was as if our bodies knew we were running out of time, our clothes gone as quickly as we could shed them, the protection pulled out and slid on, his body joining with mine.
“Look at me, Clare,” he demanded.
My gaze locked with his, his body thrusting into mine, sensation building between us. When we were together, we weren’t Hawthorne and Heathcliff, we were Max and Clare, everything stripped away except the vulnerability in our eyes, the things we’d never be able to say written in our gazes. In many ways, we let our bodies speak rather than our mouths.
His fingers fell between us, working their magic, his gaze never leaving mine. “You first,” he said.
I writhed, my breath coming in pants, my cheeks flushing. My eyes started to close, and he touched my face.
“Don’t you dare,” he breathed. “Look at me.”
My eyes met his, my brows furrowing as the sensations grew, my body coming apart. His orgasm followed mine, his lips parting on a groan.
“You’re so beautiful, Clare,” he murmured afterward. “Especially when you’re falling apart.”
“You, too,” I replied, the words embarrassing but right. “I see you, Max.”
His embrace was a safety net, full of things I’d never thought I’d experience, emotions and feelings and sensations that tore me apart and put me back together again.
“Eight weeks until prom,” he mumbled against my ear, his lips continuing to drive me wild despite our exhaustion.
“I know,” I answered.
Prom was good-bye. My birthday came first.
Two weeks after the night in the woods, I turned eighteen. It was a Saturday. By then, Uncle Gregor was unable to move around without help. Nurses came in to assist him, helping him into a wheelchair in the mornings, his wasted body still smiling.
I cried. A lot. My heart was a shredded mess, my time with Heathcliff and Rebecca my only ties to the living world beyond the threat of death.
The day of my birthday, Uncle Gregor’s wheelchair met me at the table. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, his eyes bright. “I’ve given it a lot of thought actually.”
A door at the back of the house opened, a winded breath calling out, “Am I too late?”
Heathcliff’s face materialized around the corner, a smile plastered on his face.
“Wait for me!” Rebecca’s voice joined his. She skidded into the hall, her grin as big as Heathcliff’s.
From my place at the table, I stared, my gaze flicking from face to face. “What is this?”
My uncle glanced at Heathcliff. “Max, bring it in.”
Heathcliff disappeared, returning a few minutes later with his back to me, something long and heavy dragging behind him. Rebecca turned, her back united with his, their stances a joined effort.
“Uncle Gregor—” I began.
“I think this plantation needs a name,” he interjected. “I don’t know if I’d call it official, but we do have a marker now.”
Heathcliff and Rebecca turned, a wooden sign dragged before them. Designs were carved into the surface. Birds flew across the top, storms clouds on one side being chased away by the sun, a line of crepe myrtle trees hanging over the words, For My Sake Plantation.
My eyes burned.
“What do you think?” Uncle Gregor asked. “The Vincents worked on it for me. They’ll be here later.”
“We’re having a party,” Rebecca exclaimed, her eyes finding my face, her gaze sobering instantly when she noticed my expression. “Oh, but just a small one. Max’s family mostly.”
My eyes were frozen on the sign. For My Sake.
A single tear escaped, the lone explorer forging a trail for the ones that would follow.
My gaze swung to Gregor’s. “I love it.”
For the first time since he’d been diagnosed, a tear rolled down my uncle’s face. “It seemed right.”