Page 44 of The Saint

Jael didn’t gasp like she had when she’d seen my old motorbikes and our hiking gear. There was no sound but the quiet plunking of the thick raindrops on the pavement outside. In that silence, I could almost believe she wasn’t here. That the nightmare building inside of me was unwarranted.

When I peeked out from a narrowed eyelid, she was still there. Back to me, hands dangling loosely at her sides. The profile of her face, which slowly came to view as she scanned the room, showed wide green eyes and parted pink lips.

I licked my own, remembering how it’d felt when she was in my space. When she barged into my apartment, holding my sketchbook in her hand. When she’d looked the same way as she took in months and months' worth of work that I’d carelessly left lying around.

That I hadn’t yet moved here.

Jael moved forward, her footsteps tentative, almost as shaky as her lifted hand. Her fingers hovered before the painting I’d left on an easel. Still unfinished, it showed her oldest brother, Arik, and his wife and kid.

It was supposed to be a surprise, if I ever had the guts to give it to them. Arik had been there for me when my world had fallen apart, and I’d wanted to give him and Sarah something to show my gratefulness.

Jael snatched her hand away from the painting, bringing it to her lips. Then she moved along the room, eyes jumping from one canvas to the next. Each time they landed, it felt like a knife to the gut. Like the pain of the bullet ripping through my shoulder was being transferred, torn in strips from my stomach and chest.

When she rounded one of the other easels, this one mostly blank but for the idea in my head, she turned back to me, her hand pointing over her shoulder at the corner.

“Stairs?”

My shoulders lifted into a shrug, because she needed nothing more. Yes, there were stairs, leading up to the loft I’d built. It wasn’t much. A stable platform made of basic lumber that gave me more storage, the ability to keep my canvases and papers off the ground. Underneath, I housed my oldest work. Things I’d fought with throwing away for how bad it all was, but couldn’t bring myself to because it reminded me of just how far I’d come.

I cringed when her foot hit the first step. Sucked in a shaky breath as she climbed to the top. My heartbeat pounded as hard as it had when I first saw her after five long years.

I knew when she saw it. There was that gasp, those hands raised to her lips, a backward step that had me racing toward the platform, thinking she might fall off. And from my new position, hovering below her in case she fell, I could see the painting that had put her under a spell.

A work of art.

A masterpiece if I’d ever made one.

A picture of Jael stolen from my memory, the image ingrained so deeply in my heart.

It was her. The way she’d looked up at me from my teenage bed, hair tousled, mossy eyes half-hidden behind heavy eyelids. Lips parted, bare chest and neck flushed with color, she filled my heart as I filled her our first and only time.

I hadn’t been able to erase the memory, hadn’t been able to get it out of my head. Even with the picture of her hidden here in the storage unit, that image played through my head nearly every night.

Because when I looked at it, when I remembered the feel of her body wrapping around mine, there was only one thought in my head.

Love.

Love, love, love.

I fucking loved her, as much now as I had before she left.

And the cage around my heart would never be enough to protect me. The bars were too thin, the material too weak to defend against the power she had over me.

“Rolly.” Jael looked down at me from the platform. Stepped to the edge so my head came up to her calves, my eyes drawn to hers, my heart thudding because there she was. So close I could touch her. She sat, legs hanging over the unguarded edge, and I moved closer, wanting to reach out and yet still scared to get too close.

She cupped my face with her hands, and that touch was too much. That cage rattled and broke free, leaving me in a free-fall I wasn’t sure I could recover from. My own hands slid over the outside of her thighs to her back. As the plunking of the rain competed with the thudding of my heart, I pulled her close. Pulled her off the edge and into my arms.

A gasp broke free from her chest, but she just smiled, wrapping her legs around my waist. Then I did what I’d been dreaming of for far too long: I tasted her smile. Pressed my lips to hers, nipped at her bottom lip, tugged until she covered my mouth with hers.

I brushed my mouth up and down, forward and back, taking in little tastes of her with every kiss. I wanted more, wanted it more than I should. Her taste, the scent and feel of her, it was all the perfect drug. She didn’t push me, took only what I gave even though I could tell from the sounds she made, she wanted more.

Who was I to deprive her?

Who was I kidding, depriving myself?

Nudging her mouth open, I swirled my tongue with hers, my hands sliding against her back as I tugged her as close as I could. Her own hands cupped my cheeks again, then slipped behind my head like she could keep this connection from breaking with nothing but her hands.

But life had other thoughts. A low rumble of thunder shook the air, and at the same time, my cell phone rang.