Page 25 of Letting Go at 40

One night, I’m in my bedroom and a short knock sounds on the door. The room is dark. The hour is late. I hesitate for a moment, almost hoping whoever it is will go away. Then I reconsider, knowing it’s probably one of the kids and they need me.

I slide out of bed with tears staining my cheeks and snot under my nose. I scrub a hand over my face and then run my fingers through my loose hair as I cross the room for the door. When I open it, the outline of a man stands just outside. His arms are stretched, fingers clutching at the doorjamb.

“Mason?”

“Anna,” he whispers. Pain and anguish and something more laces my name.

“What are you doing out here?” My voice is raspy and hoarse from the tears.

“Why are you crying?”

The question sounds absurd. If anyone should know why I’m crying, it’s Mason. He lost a friend, a confidant, a brother from another. Still, I shake my head. I don’t know why the tears have fallen tonight. Looking up into his shadowed face, his blue eyes sparkle from the backlight of a lamp somewhere down the hallway. The tension in his arms almost vibrates as if he’s ready to rip the wood trim off the casing around the doorframe. He steps forward, and without thought, I step back.

Mason enters, closing the door behind him and I lean my back against the wall. Our eyes lock in the darkness. The blinds are open. A natural glow dimly illuminates the space.

“What are you doing in here?” I nearly choke on the question. My heart hammers in my chest as my palms flatten on the wall. He’s standing too close to me, and I’m surrounded in his scent. Expensive. Sensual. Alive.

His large hand lifts and he swipes a finger under my eye. Dragging it slower over my cheek, his hand curls and he cups the edge of my jaw. His thumb strokes my cheek next.

“When will you stop?” His voice remains low, patient, and curious. He isn’t scolding me, telling me I must stop crying. He isn’t upset, demanding the tears stop.

“I don’t know.” I rasp out the words, feeling the thickness in my throat again. My vision swims. I close my eyes as if shutting my lids will capture the sorrow and contain it. “I don’t know if I ever will, but I want them to stop.”

The thought saddens me even more. I want the tears to cease.

“They will,” Mason whispers, his thumb smoothing over my cheek, brushing away each new droplet. “You’re one of the strongest women I know. Solid as a rock.”

My eyes flip open. Ben said something similar to me. The memory is foggy in my head. I inhale at the coincidence and the mention of stone. The heart-shaped rocks had continued to appear. Even after Ben was too sick to visit the beach. Even after his death. Maybe Ben is trying to reach me from the grave. But those thoughts need to stop.

Everything needs to stop.

The inhale of breath gives me a fresh whiff of Mason. He’s crowding my space and yet I don’t feel suffocated by him. I—

Our lips are touching before I can finish my thought.

At first, the connection is so soft, I almost think I imagined it.

I don’t know why I’d imagine such a thing, but it doesn’t matter in this moment.

Because a second brushing of lips occurs. A little firmer. A little longer.

My heart continues to hammer, nearly sprinting inside my chest. My hands are pressed into something soft and well-worn, and then my fingers curl into the fabric and squeeze.

The firm hand along my jaw turns into two hands cupping my face.

And my lips are pressed again with more intention, more purpose. I sip at the connection, pulling back but afraid to lose contact. My teeth nip at his lower lip before it can get away from me.

Then chaos ensues.

A tongue is rushing forward, tangling with mine as I open to accept the intrusion. My fingers are clutching at the softness of cotton beneath them and my body leans forward. My breasts ache, nipples sharp peaks beneath the thinness of my sleep shirt, and I meet the hard form of solid pecs.

A hand releases my jaw and strokes down my back, squeezing my ass and tugging me closer.

Our mouths continue to seek. Tongues. Lips. Teeth. The kiss grows more impassioned.

I release a portion of his shirt and reach for the back of his neck, fingers combing into hair thick and curled at his nape before clutching at him. Uncertain if I’m trying to pull him away or hold him in place, neither matters as the meeting of our mouths incrementally increases in eagerness. Desperate. Harder. Faster. As if we can chase whatever is happening between us.

My mind is vacant of all thought but his mouth against mine. His hand at my back holds me against him while the other hand on my face slides down my neck and over my chest. Then a firm palm squeezes one breast and I cry out into his mouth. He increases the pressure of his lips and hands, keeping me attached to him, swallowing the pleasure evoked by his palm kneading the swell that hasn’t been touched in so long.