Page 89 of Second Chance

“Thank you. This means everything to me.”

+ + +

I find an old Harlequin paperback in the closet and use it to pass some time. Cora loves romance novels lately, although she preaches romance is dead. Offering too much information, she tells me she uses modern romance for self-titillation. I often hold up my hand, begging off details. I should call Cora, but I don’t want to speak on the phone, afraid I’ll break the code of silence filling the old home. The place creaks and swells with the fall wind outside, but there is a strange comfort here. Ghosts roam these halls, but I’m not frightened. A nervous energy fills me, instead, as I wait for Denton.

Hours pass. I started out sitting on the bed I made up. Then I slunk to my back, but eventually I rolled to my side. It’s in this position where my eyelids give up the fight to stay open and I doze. My mind drifts through images of the past. In no particular order, memories blur together until I recall how Denton would come to my room after run-ins with his father. The floorboards crackle and my eyes spring open to find Denton standing beside the bed.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” I say, my voice low and groggy. My weight-laden body refuses to move.

“My mother’s gone.”

I reach forward for his hands which rest on his hips. He looks lost, uncertain what to do, where to go.

“Denton.” My fingers wiggle for him to take them, and he eventually does. I scoot back on the bed, as I did when we were children, encouraging him to follow. His nostrils flare and I’m not certain if he’s fighting tears of sorrow or something else. He folds down next to me and I wrap myself around him, tugging his head to my chest. He smells freshly showered and I realize his hair is wet. I stroke through the damp locks like I used to do to comfort him.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Please don’t,” he whispers with a rasp in his voice.

“How do you feel?” I keep my voice as low as his.

“I don’t know how to feel. I’m…I’m just numb.”

My fingers slip to the back of his head, and I lean forward to kiss his forehead. Letting my lips linger, I press his head to me.

“Just let me hold you tonight.” He’s asking more than telling me. I wrap my arms around him, pinning him close to my heartbeat. His arms snake around me, tugging me closer, pinning me against him. Our legs entangle, and I hold him like I can’t let him go. Like I won’t let him go. I murmur to him like I did when we were kids. You’ll be okay. Everything will be all right. My fingers move through his wet hair, stroking over his skull in a gentle massage.

“Mati?” he mutters into my breasts. Our bodies are a little different than the shape of us as kids, and his nose nuzzles against achy globes. “Stop talking.”

I chuckle lightly, kiss the top of his head again and linger there as I continue to comb through his drying locks. Instead of speaking, I say the words in my head, adding the most important support I gave him as a nurturing child friend. You’ll be okay. Everything will be all right. One day you’ll get out of this place, and it won’t hurt so much.

+ + +

We both sleep although I’m not certain for how long before my breasts are nuzzled by his nose again. We’ve loosened our hold on one another a little in our sleep, but Denton’s face is still against my breasts, and he’s moving side to side between them. At first, I think he’s dreaming, so I whisper his name. Instantly, his hands clutch at my wrists, forcing them upward above my head.

“Denton,” I squeak, more with surprise than admonishment. His fingers find mine, and he entwines ours together, dragging my hands higher over the pillow until they brush cool metal. Without breaking his concentration on my breasts, he rolls me to my back, following to press over me. He nips at one breast through my thin shirt. My fingers flex at the exciting scrape of his teeth, and he loops them around the spindles above me. A squeeze warns me to keep my hands on the wrought iron, and then he drags his open palms down the underside of my arms, along the side of my breasts to the hem of my shirt.

My mouth pops open about to speak, but he anticipates me. Lifting my shirt, he mutters into my belly.

“Don’t speak.”

I clamp my lips shut as his tongue draws designs over my skin, lapping and licking his way upward as he slowly follows the progression of my shirt. He still doesn’t look up at me as his mouth covers one breast, again with his teeth, but his hands force my shirt upward.

“Off,” he says to the breast, kissing the satiny material covering me. I release my hands only long enough to remove my shirt. He tosses it to the side of the bed, and my hands return to their captive position. As he tugs one cup to the side, my back arches, begging him to take my breast. I don’t know what we’re doing. I don’t know that we should be doing this—here, now.

I question him once again by calling his name.

“Just let me pretend. For one night, let me pretend.” His voice is so distant, so full of hurt and pain and question, and I can’t deny him. His thumb and forefinger roll my nipple, tugging it taut. His tongue stretches to cover me, and then he opens wide, squeezing the achy globe as he sucks me into the heat of his mouth. My back arches again and I purr at the sensation. Wet. Tickling. He suckles before laving around the pert nipple. Then he nips me again, and my back shoots from the bed. Keeping me trussed up on one side, he pushes the material of the other cup aside and repeats the process. Lick. Squeeze. Cover.

He pulls back and presses my breasts together.

“I’ve always wanted to fuck your tits, lion cat.” My mouth falls open at the admission, but before I can speak, he continues. “One day.”

He releases the heavy weight of them, allowing them to fall to the side but trapped by the presence of removed fabric. His hands skate down my sides, and I shiver.

“Still ticklish,” he mutters, more to his fingers moving to the waist of my jeans than me. He’s outside himself, and I sense the disconnection, but I won’t stop him. He might regret this tomorrow, but tonight, he needs me. I remember this feeling after Chris died. The desire to be close to someone at the same time not wanting anyone to touch me.

“Me,” Denton growls, as his hands come to the button of my jeans and works it out of the hole. I worry for a moment I spoke aloud about Chris, and I stare at the top of his head, willing him to look up at me. It’s becoming uncanny how he senses when Chris has entered my thoughts.