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He thumbs wet strands of hair away from my face. His eyes are coal dark, yet warm.
“How do you do it?” he asks suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Love a monster like me.”
I trace my fingers down his chest. I feel for the scar across his right side, where the bullet went through him protecting me.
“Because you’re my monster,” I tell him. “And I trust you.”
He nestles against me. “I am yours.”
I run my fingers through his beard. I open his mouth and press my fingertips to his teeth.
“My, what big teeth you have.”
“Better to eat you with, my dear.”
“Is that a promise?”
He kisses me again, and this time, I’m swallowed whole in his love.
31
ARCHER
We walk naked back to the house.
We’re staying at a resort house on the beach. Besides the outdoor shower, it’s got a long wraparound porch, a screened-in reading nook, a large kitchen and living room, and two bedrooms upstairs.
We’ve christened every room. Finley has filled the house with her moans.
When we’re not fucking, we’ll usually spend our days on the beach or in the small, local town. The town is a bike ride away; the beach, a mere six feet. Finley can (and often does) bring her easel out early in the morning, when the light is just right, so she can paint the sunrise on the ocean.
It’s not a private beach, but it might as well be for the lack of foot traffic. The beach feels like ours. The island feels like ours.
The world feels like ours. Ours to claim.
We’ve cut out a small sliver of paradise here. I’m finding it very hard not to enjoy retirement.
The two of us go upstairs, into the master bedroom, and grab towels off the rack. Finley dries off and then passes the towel to me so I can dry off as well.
My eyes follow her as she walks into the other room. Her bare feet barely indent the carpeted floor. Finley has fallen off the OCD train here—her normally overorganized brain has taken a vacation. Her clothes are in messy piles strewn across our bedroom. Somehow, she still finds what she’s looking for in a pile next to the dresser (not in the dresser, next to the dresser). She pulls on a small black dress that clings to her sleek form. She’s a short girl, a small girl, but the way she carries herself is with such poise and precision, she has an energy that takes up the whole room.
The dress has a swoop down the back. I admire the exposed skin there as she tries to fasten the belt around her waist. Her hair, dark from the shower, clings to her throat. I want to fist it in my hand and suck her neck until it’s red.
She’s so fucking beautiful, it hurts.
“Need a hand?” I ask her as I watch her struggle with the tie in the back.
“Please,” she says.
I stand behind her and tug the ribbon. Immediately, it comes undone. I pull her dress off her shoulders, and it drops to the floor.
“You’re not helping,” she says, but it’s with a smile.
“Aren’t I?”
