“I do.”
“Good.” His body rises up out of the water, sliding against mine. My nipples tingle and pinpoint as his chest hair, wet and flat against his pecs, rubs along my skin. He drips on my good arm as he stands before me.
I’m eye level with his naked torso.
I take my time looking.
He lets me.
In that space, I let my emotions come without judgment, my body responding to the pure sexual rawness of his naked body so close, so wet, so obviously aroused for me. Drew doesn’t make a move, his taut muscles rippling with compact energy, defining a body made for protection.
Made for me.
How can I not want him? How can I not want him to make love to me? My thumb worries the thin gold band of my ring.
I’m scared.
I’m scared and stuck with the muscle memory of stress and terror.
It’s time to replace it all, though.
Time to let love live in my bones and muscles, in my tendons and vocal cords, to replace all the dominant worry with a force stronger than hate.
With Drew’s love.
Our love.
For four years my entire world was the Island. Schedules and routines, confessions and pills, the conspicuous putting back together of the pieces of me the world saw.
My inner life didn’t matter.
I protected it like a secret treasure.
As I stand, the residual bubbles clinging to my thighs and belly, Drew gives me a long look, taking his time, too. There is no pretense. The room smells like vanilla as I inhale deeply, blurting out the first true feeling that comes to mind.
“I shouldn’t want you,” I say, touching his bare chest, my palm scraping against his wet nipple, his eyes turning soft as he tries to understand. I step into his embrace, my sling in the way. Our thighs meet and I can feel how much he wants me.
“What?”
“I – shouldn’t want you this much. It’s so overpowering. It’s all I can think about now.”
“Why shouldn’t you? You can feel whatever you want, baby.” His hands are strong on my good shoulder, my hip, then up my back, feeling me, bringing me here and now, pulling me in from the wide distance where I’ve been living for too long, out on the edges.
“I’m in a million little parts, scattered to the winds, trying to collect them all and put them back together again.”
He kisses my bad shoulder, then my neck, my cheek, my nose. “Every kiss is a piece of you coming home,” Drew whispers. “How many kisses do you need?”
“All of them.”
“I have more than enough to bring back all the shattered pieces of you, Lindsay. You get all my kisses, forever,” he says, and then he stops talking, mouth on mine.
The warm, wet heat of his body makes me feel more grounded, his tongue slipping in to tell me all the ways I can be close to him. I only have one hand, my movements drawn down, wanting to find his solid muscle, marveling at the hard lines of his body. Drew is kissing me with the quiet urgency of a man who is holding back for reasons of honor, of respect.
I don’t want that.
I want him to make love to me with wild abandon, with the synergy of two people who find refuge in letting go.
Chapter 20
Drew
I really was prepared to spend our wedding night celibate. I was. If that’s what she wanted, I was prepared. Stilling my desire was hard, but I’m accustomed to meeting challenges.
Lindsay’s change of heart is an honor. It’s a sign of trust, of commitment. I’ve served her well if she can feel passion and excitement, crave intimacy and caring.
I have to do this right.
I have to make it so good for her.
Steam surrounds us, left over from the bath, making her skin dewy and her eyes so big and round, pleading with me to touch her everywhere, kiss away the hurt, make her remember what it’s like to be loved and wanted with an all-consuming need that she’s the center of everything, of the world, of my universe.
She’s damn close to being holy, a goddess, an altar for me to worship. Maybe my kisses are enough. My hands, rough from work and years of field exercises, feel so unworthy of her flesh as she matches me, touch for touch, sound for sound, breath for breath.
We step out of the bathtub and I reach for a towel, thick and abundant, drying the ends of her hair, patting her back, her shoulders, her arms, then sliding over her breasts, belly, ass, and legs with the attentive care of a man who can’t get enough.
“Drew,” she whispers, like moonlight spins itself from her heart and comes out through her mouth. The rush of my name from Lindsay makes my heart beat double time.
We’ve had sex twice since she came home, my body fully inside hers, once reverent, once playful and fast, speedy and insistent.
This time she is my wife. We are connected by choice, by law.
They say that an orgasm is a little death. If that’s true, then what is the resurrection? We come back to each other after the divine, after relinquishing our bodies, our blood, to the mad rush of climax. We bond over shared flesh, by opening ourselves to each other, by saying I do.
As I lead her to the bed by her good hand, help her under the covers, then prowl up her sweet, fine body, her curves tight and bruises lessening, I find myself wanting to die a thousand times while inside her.
And only her.
“You lead the way,” I say softly, breathing hard, practically shaking from holding back. Part of me wants to kiss her, slide into her, ride hard and make her moan until she goes hoarse from pleasure, until all her fear has been fucked out of her, until we’re both boneless and nothing but our bodies and mutual pleasure exists.
That’s her call, though.