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Constance whispered his name and begged him to make her forget hers. She traced the lines of his muscles, drank the sweat of his skin, touched as many places on his body as she could with hers, drinking, swallowing, becoming. He pressed inside her, just as slowly as he’d kissed her, as though gaining permission for every inch. She lost herself in the rising and falling of thousands of tiny explosions inside her body, outside her body, inside his, in a place where they both existed and ceased to exist at the same time. Her mind and body shattered, over and over.
Rhett drew back and looked down at her, his grip on her waist like he clung to something keeping his head above water. His body went hard and tight and slow. He gasped aloud, pressing deep inside her, before he arched and groaned, then slowed, his breath coming shallow as he collapsed against her chest.
They lay there awhile, Constance’s arms around his back, his chest slick on hers, neither willing or able to move, bound in the heat and the energy that pulled and clung. Her lips pressed against his throat, the thrum of his blood strong in his neck as his heart pounded in his chest. Her hands continued to explore his body, instinctual, habitual, the touch changing from greedy, back to inquisitive, discovering how he felt after he’d emptied into her, sharing his hurt, grief, anger and ecstasy. Everything was fizzy and hot and wild.
When the world had settled, Rhett rose and extended his hand. She smiled as she imagined him, the first time they met at the gym. He’d stuck out his hand and helped her to her feet then, too.
Rhett smiled back, as though he’d read her mind.
He scooped his arms under her legs and tossed her on the bed, then climbed in next to her. She nestled into the crook of his arm, her head against the wild horse tattoo, and listened to the sounds of his body: his heart, his lungs, the whispers of his skin.
Within a couple of minutes, Rhett’s chest rose and fell in a slow, deep pattern. He hadn’t slept well last night. She’d learned to read him and she knew.
She closed her eyes.
Constance floated in a world where she truly had forgotten her name. She didn’t know who she was then, whether Constance or Stanzi or Cici or Red—or just a woman who continued to escape death by being reborn.
It didn’t matter.
Just this.
