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I tucked his hair behind his ear and petted him a little, just admiring the lines of him as my blood cooled and settled. Then he reached for his dick, which was on the other side of me, and set it gently on the bedside table.
“Speaking of nice dick…” I licked my lips and almost convinced myself not to ask. But considering what we’d just shared, I didn’t think he’d mind—and I kinda needed to know, now I’d had the thought. “You ever fuck yourself with your own?”
“Oh, yeah.” The dimple deepened even further. “A few times a week at least.”
“That’s hot.”
“Not as if I had other options, if I wanted a good dicking.” He patted the flat of his belly. “I don’t like to remember the before-times, but I do remember enjoying that, when I had the chance of it.”
That drew me up short. “But… you’ve been with others.” I didn’t say it like a question, but it definitely was.
Thankfully he knew. “Ages ago. A hundred years ago, I suppose.”
I propped myself up on one elbow, amazed, “Wait, you haven’t been with anyone since you’ve been in the forest? Or just anyone with a dick?”
“Anyone.” Jack sighed with obvious contentment.
I covered my face with both hands. “Oh my god, Jack!”
“What?”
“I can’t believe your first fuck in a century was me just laying here like a—”
He kissed me to shut me up. And I had the completely stupid thought right then: Well goddamn. I’m going to fall in love with this man.
Chapter 8: The Search
As we washed up, ate breakfast, and prepared for a long walk the next morning, I felt roughly a hundred pounds lighter than I had the day before. Not just because I was moving better—still sore and achy but serviceable—either. We were a good half-hour into our hike through the forest when I finally realized what it was: “I’m relaxed.”
Jack shot me a sideways look. “Good. I’m glad you’re not frightened of the forest, after all that.”
I shook my head. “No. I mean, I am frightened still. A little. But it’s not like…” I thought back to the morning I’d wandered into Ferry Vale, and how on edge I’d felt. The frazzled nerves and the pounding headache of hypervigilance born of never-ending nightmares disguised as memory.
“Not like?” Jack prompted.
“I’m always scared,” I admitted. “I don’t remember ever not being scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of people who look suspicious. Of loud noises I can’t explain. Of walking alone on a dark street.” I realized I was grinding my teeth and made a concerted effort to stop, relax my jaw, and take a deep breath.
“You never seemed scared to me. In the whole two days I’ve known you.” One corner of Jack’s pretty lips tugged upward. “Not since the very beginning, anyhow.”
“I am,” I said, though I smiled too. “Can I tell you something kind of dark?”
He nodded. “You can tell me anything.”
I knew he’d say that, but it was still nice to hear. I said, “When I was really, really young, my father… He murdered my mother and then himself.”
Jack stopped walking. Eyes wide, he indignantly declared, “So not just a cunt but also a coward.”
I smiled sadly and stopped beside him. “And I’ve had these nightmares ever since I was maybe sixteen or seventeen, when Amma finally told me what happened, where I’m in the room when he does it. But I’m under the bed and I can’t see anything. I just hear it.”
Jack set his axe on the ground and gathered me into his arms. He wasn’t quite tall enough to put his chin on top of my head, but he pressed it into my forehead instead. That smell of salt and evergreen, more foresty than the forest somehow, wrapped me up. I settled my head against his shoulder and slid an arm around his waist. After a moment, he said, “How old are you?”
“Thirty-one next month.”
“That’s a long time to have the same nightmare.”
