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“I do.”
“Good.” His body rises up out of the water, sliding against mine. My nipples tingle and pinpoint as his chest hair, wet and flat against his pecs, rubs along my skin. He drips on my good arm as he stands before me.
I’m eye level with his naked torso.
I take my time looking.
He lets me.
In that space, I let my emotions come without judgment, my body responding to the pure sexual rawness of his naked body so close, so wet, so obviously aroused for me. Drew doesn’t make a move, his taut muscles rippling with compact energy, defining a body made for protection.
Made for me.
How can I not want him? How can I not want him to make love to me? My thumb worries the thin gold band of my ring.
I’m scared.
I’m scared and stuck with the muscle memory of stress and terror.
It’s time to replace it all, though.
Time to let love live in my bones and muscles, in my tendons and vocal cords, to replace all the dominant worry with a force stronger than hate.
With Drew’s love.
Our love.
For four years my entire world was the Island. Schedules and routines, confessions and pills, the conspicuous putting back together of the pieces of me the world saw.
My inner life didn’t matter.
I protected it like a secret treasure.
As I stand, the residual bubbles clinging to my thighs and belly, Drew gives me a long look, taking his time, too. There is no pretense. The room smells like vanilla as I inhale deeply, blurting out the first true feeling that comes to mind.
“I shouldn’t want you,” I say, touching his bare chest, my palm scraping against his wet nipple, his eyes turning soft as he tries to understand. I step into his embrace, my sling in the way. Our thighs meet and I can feel how much he wants me.
“What?”
“I – shouldn’t want you this much. It’s so overpowering. It’s all I can think about now.”
“Why shouldn’t you? You can feel whatever you want, baby.” His hands are strong on my good shoulder, my hip, then up my back, feeling me, bringing me here and now, pulling me in from the wide distance where I’ve been living for too long, out on the edges.
“I’m in a million little parts, scattered to the winds, trying to collect them all and put them back together again.”
He kisses my bad shoulder, then my neck, my cheek, my nose. “Every kiss is a piece of you coming home,” Drew whispers. “How many kisses do you need?”
“All of them.”
“I have more than enough to bring back all the shattered pieces of you, Lindsay. You get all my kisses, forever,” he says, and then he stops talking, mouth on mine.
The warm, wet heat of his body makes me feel more grounded, his tongue slipping in to tell me all the ways I can be close to him. I only have one hand, my movements drawn down, wanting to find his solid muscle, marveling at the hard lines of his body. Drew is kissing me with the quiet urgency of a man who is holding back for reasons of honor, of respect.
I don’t want that.
I want him to make love to me with wild abandon, with the synergy of two people who find refuge in letting go.
Chapter 20
