My eyes, the very shade he just described, lift to meet his.
“There it is,” he whispers softly.
“Why’s it like this with us?” I ask, fully entranced by his gaze.
“What do you mean?”
My head tilts, trying to put into words what’s going through my mind. “Easy.”
“Why should it be difficult?” he asks.
I look down to the plum liquid in my glass. “Everything is difficult.” The admission is a sigh from the depths of my soul, spoken barely above a whisper.
Eyes still trained on my wine glass, I feel the dip of the couch as Tyler scoots closer. He takes the glass from my hand and places it on the coffee table next to his own. And with one finger he captures my chin, guiding my gaze back to his. He dips his head until our foreheads rest against one another.
“Nothing about this has to be like that.” He speaks the wordsslowly, deliberately. Like each word carries its own weight, its own significance. Tyler’s velvety deep voice is a balm to my battered heart. How could anything that solid and comforting not be a source of steadfast support?
With his finger still holding my chin, I process his words, allowing a thread of hope to wind itself around my heart.Don’t hope. Don’t hope. Don’t hope,my mind whispers to my heart, but the words must get muddled along the way, because the only word my heart hears ishope. Maybe this doesn’t have to be hard. Maybe this could be as easy as breathing. And maybe, just this once, I shouldn’t snip that thread tethering me to that dangerous thing called hope.
For years, I’ve told myself that too much hope can destroy, and when it’s done with you it leaves a hollowed out heart in its wake. But Emily Dickinson has always reminded me that hope is the thing with feathers that kept so many warm. So, for tonight at least, perhaps I can trust my old friend Emily, and choose hope.
Tyler’s eyes dip to my lips, and I’m almost certain he wants to kiss me again. Do I want that? From my peripheral vision, the hand not holding my chin flexes in his lap, like he’s grasping for restraint. My resolve wanes, because yes, I most certainly do want that.
Do it,a tiny voice inside me shouts, barely heard over the whirring of my heart.
I’m unsure who moves first, but when Tyler slides one large palm to the back of my neck, his lips slanting over mine, those butterflies in my belly turn ravenous. I turn to putty at his touch, nothing but searing heat. It’s been over eight years since I’ve been kissed by a man, and the last I remember was void of all emotion. I have no recollection of it ever being like this, like to Tyler I’m a delicacy. The only kiss that has ever unleashed such desperate want in me happened fourteen years ago. An explosion of want and need pulls our bodies closer.
My mouth responds to Tyler’s with fervor, my body slidingto his lap where his hands settle on my hips. Threading both hands in his hair, I deepen the kiss, my lips parting to allow him entry. He tastes of wine and mint and something familiar. His tongue dances with mine and I shift impossibly closer, my breasts pressing against his chest, nipples pebbling. I moan shamelessly, and Tyler smiles against my mouth.
I feel him thicken beneath my center, intensifying the ache where I want him most. A heady sensation coils low in my belly, something wild and alive thrumming under my skin, and because I am helpless to whatever force connects us, I roll my hips against him, spikes of pleasure already building.
No matter the walls I’ve tried to hold in place, I crave Tyler’s touch.
“Jo,” he groans low, voice thick with want.
Somewhere in my hazy kiss starved mind, a tune is playing, but I ignore it, devouring Tyler’s mouth with my own. The tune stops, and when it starts back up again Tyler breaks the kiss.
“Jo, sweetheart.” I know I should be listening to the words coming from his mouth, but Tyler just called me sweetheart. No one has ever used a term of endearment on me. “Josie,” he repeats more firmly, breaking me from my trance. “I think your phone is ringing.”
Reality rushes in like a splash of cold water and I pull myself from my haze, hearing the tune for what it truly is. The ringtone I assigned to my Mawmaw’s living facility.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.” I jump up, adjusting my clothes as I rush to the entry table where I left my phone earlier.
“Hello?” I say, breathless, my lips still tender from our kiss.
“Ms. Thomas. This is Nurse Jackie. I’m afraid your grandmother had a fall. She’s headed by ambulance to the hospital in Creekwood.”
“Is it bad?” I ask, hands shaking as I tuck the phone under my chin to slide on my shoes. Nerves so rattled, I almost lose my footing, but I catch myself.
“We aren’t sure. The hospital will be able to give you more information.”
“Why was she moving around? She’s always asleep by this hour,” I demand, while internally chastising myself. So enamored by Tyler’s presence the last couple days, I’ve failed to visit her. If she tripped on something, or seemed more off than usual, I might have caught it had I paid her one damn visit.
“We’re also unclear on that. A nurse was across the hall and heard her fall.”
“Thanks. I’m headed there.” I end the call and fish around in my purse for my keys.
Completely forgetting Tyler’s presence, I jump when his solid frame steps up behind me, holding my coat out for me to slip into.
