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We’re out of control.
Entranced by the hum of the fire and tick of the clock by my head, I’m lost in my thoughts.
Do I leave? Do I stay?
I don’t want to go anywhere.
Jumping at the tug of the jacket, I stiffen, my limbs seizing up as Christopher works it down my arms and throws it into the fire before he swoops me up into his arms.
No words are said as he walks me through the suite to the bedroom. Walking us through the sumptuous silk-lined rooms, he only stops once we’ve reached the en-suite.
It’s startlingly quiet; even the air particles are muted within the fogged walls. My heart is racing so fast in my chest that I half expect my ribs to crack as he puts me down on the toilet. Swivelling me to face him, Christopher stands looking at me, his bottom lip sucked into his mouth and his brow creased as if he’s pondering some great wonder.
All the while his gaze peruses down my body, and I don’t know what it is about it, but it feels like he’s trying to see inside me, beyond my physicality to the intangible parts of me. Rolling his shirtsleeves up his forearms, he crouches at my feet. Taking each one in either of his hands, he props them on his knees.
“Why do you insist on wearing such ridiculous shoes?” he sighs as he goes about taking them off. “They make your feet sore, and you don’t need them.”
Unsure of what’s happening, I take a deep breath, hoping that if I blink my puffy eyes enough, somehow my throat won’t feel so dry. That I can reply with half as much cool as him. But I can’t, so instead I let him do whatever it is he’s doing. I simply bask in in the attention and care he’s giving me.
The one thing that’s always amazed me about Christopher is how capable he is of hiding his thoughts and his feelings when he chooses. For the most part he’s so forward, taking no prisoners or suffering fools. But then there are times, like now, where you wish you could know his thoughts and he is impossible to read.
Releasing my stockings from the clips, he rolls them down my legs and drops them on the marble floor beside him. It’s only when he traces up my thighs to my waist, his hands wrapping around my belly, that I pull away.
He’s looking at me with those honeyed eyes that are full of hunger and wonder and pity.
I don’t want your pity.
No wife wants their husband’s pity. And I’ve had more than enough from everyone else.
Like a mockery to my thoughts, a lone, solitary tear snakes down my cheek. And before I can wipe it away, Christopher catches it with his thumb, rubbing it between his fingers like he’s sampling a fine fabric.
Standing, he shucks his shoes off along with his bloody shirt. The sight of his wound makes my heart squeeze. It aches at the thought that had that bullet hit him any lower, he might well be dead. And that would be it for me. I wouldn’t survive that. A life in a world without him…it isn’t for me.
It takes me a second to work through my blurry vision, but when I do, I’m gobsmacked. I can’t think as the ache in my chest builds to an unbearable pain.
My rings.
They hang down his chest like some kind of medal. There’s some light chafing along his neck from the rough rope, I’m so thrown.
r /> He asked me for a divorce, but he’s wearing my rings like they’re a possession he can’t part with.
I’m sucked into a vacuum of jarring and leering thoughts that I can’t come back from.
The sound of his growly sigh as he steps back brings me to, and I want to throw myself at him. I want to beg him not to leave me.
Whipping his belt off his trousers, he runs the supple leather through his fingertips. That sound and that sight bring back so many memories.
How many times have I watched him undress?
My body heats up even with my self-conscious anxiety. His eyes dart to mine as he drops the belt and then his trousers to the floor, stepping out of them before pulling his socks off somewhat awkwardly.
My breathing picks up as I take in the chiselled lines of his body and the smattering of hair on his arms and legs, the light trail leading to the top of his underwear and disappearing under it.
Christopher is so perfect, and at one time, I wouldn’t have thought twice about him in respect to me. But looking at him, taking him in, all I can see are my scars. They’re ugly and a reminder of what we’ve lost.
I go back to my rings. The gold looks beautiful next to his tanned skin; it looked better on mine though. The sick feeling hits just like when I took them off at the hospital. I’d just said goodbye to Kit, and all I could think was that I wanted to get the people that tore us all apart. Francis and my father had a plan. I thought it was the best thing for us.
Fucking idiot!
