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He tightened his grip, his elbow bent, drawing her to him. She shifted and their bodies met, his arm wrapping her close, his forehead bent to hers. His breathing was erratic and the sadness in him made him tentative, clumsy with his gentleness. He wouldn’t let her have his mouth, but he held her face a
nd kissed her cheeks, her, jaw, her brows, the tip of her nose.
The sex happened slowly, deliberately, with infinite care and exquisite tenderness. None of the comfort sex Zarley had chased was like this. It was always quick and thrilling but momentary and empty and over. None of it caught her up and made her feel vulnerable at the same time as she felt strong and safe.
Reid’s touch made her ache for him, made her deliciously hesitant with him, as if she might startle him if she moved too suddenly. They pleased each other in a space carved out from disappointment, in a cocoon of wordless passion, where her willingness to give and Reid’s desire for relief collided in a shower of shivers and heart-stopping quakes.
She provided and he accepted; he offered and she received, kisses made from longing and understanding, movements made from push and pull and lift and fill. Reid couldn’t still the trembling of his body and his breath was snatched and tattered. Zarley didn’t want to lose the flutter in her chest that told her this was vital, this she had to keep. It was beyond comfort, it was raw and revealing and drenched her senses in colors and feelings that made her body sing to Reid’s, be mine, be only mine.
Afterward, Reid’s face was wet and she gave him the privacy of that as they lay tangled together in a comedown bittersweet with things felt and unsaid.
This was complicated, but she could no more walk away from Reid now than she could when she’d first come to his bed. Because this thing was made from the opposite of mindless lust. It was choreographed with fragility and hope, from challenge and difference and mutual admiration.
She liked Reid for all his awkward grace and bullheadedness, for all his mental quickness and physical dominance. She liked his honesty, tenacity and ambition slammed alongside his willingness to learn from her. She liked his friends and the fact they loved him enough to be hurt by him. She loved his body and how he’d learned to use it to tune into hers.
She liked this man and she wanted to keep him past the use-by date of a thing.
He didn’t sleep; she let him think she did. Let him leave the bedroom and deal with his demons his own way while she lay in the comfort of his bed and dealt with hers.
In the morning she expected to find him passed out on the sofa or brooding at his desk. He wasn’t in the apartment. But he’d left a note.
Most awesomest Flygirl
You are a piece of magic like I never knew existed. I don’t know if I can hold on to you. I don’t know if you want me to, but I’d like to try.
I’ve got stuff to do to try to fix this mess I made, but when I get done with the groveling I’m coming back to you to eat more dirt. I hope you’ll wait for me.
I should be home by lunchtime.
If you don’t want me to chase you to the ends of the earth to make things up to you, leave me an answer.
Under that he’d written check one and drawn three boxes. She had a choice between: teach Reid about kinky sex, it was nice knowing you, or Reid who?
So not sulking then.
Under that he’d written. PS: You never told me tender sex might make an asshole like me want to weep, but in a good way.
TWENTY-ONE
Reid started with Sarina. Found a florist. Parked outside her place on the bike and watched the florist empty a van and fill her doorstep with every sweet-smelling lily they had. Her rattletrap car was in the drive so it was likely she was home. He didn’t knock. She wouldn’t want to see him. The card said simply, I’m sorry I’m an asshole and made you cry. He didn’t need to sign it.
He went from Sarina’s to the park where Owen cycled on Sunday mornings. He waited an hour but Owen was a no-show. Next stop Dev’s. He parked outside and called him. The call went promptly to message bank. That was the decoy. He knocked on Dev’s front door a minute later and when a sleepy Dev opened it, he put a foot in the jamb to stop it being slammed on him.
“Two minutes, that’s all I want, Dev.”
“Month of Sundays. I’m busy doing nothing. I don’t have two minutes.”
That was better than an amputated foot. “I’m sorry. I was an asshole and I was wrong.”
“No, no, no. That’s not how it works. You don’t get to rock up here and say sorry and think it’s all over with.”
“I don’t think—”
Dev pulled the door further open, but blocked the entrance. “Shut your mouth. I learned to cook Indian food for you.”
Reid’s jaw hinged open and Dev silenced him with a shove to his shoulder.
“I learned to do it, because on the rare occasions in college you bluffed someone out of their allowance at poker and we could afford to order in, you devoured the stuff. And when you were on a genius coding binge you stopped eating. I was always worried you’d pass out. You’d go flog yourself at the gym and then code for sixteen hours straight and not eat unless I brought you food.
