“God, Patrick,” I groaned, “comeon.”
He leaned forward, snagging my bottom lip between his teeth.I gasped, and he released. “One more question. If I wanted to take off yourclothes, and showyathat I still remember all thoseplaces you lovedhavin’ touched, all those thingsthat made you feel good, would that be okay?”
Feel good. God, the thought wasso foreign to me. When was the last time I had truly feltgood? When wasthe last time I had stopped fighting myself and succumbed to my wants, myneeds? Fixating my gaze on his, I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember thelast time I had laid underneath a man, gotten lost in the fiery labyrinth ofdesire, and much like those lightening-bug-lit nights in the backyard, itfrustrated me to no end that I had allowed myself to go that long without it.That I had denied myself the pursuits of other men. That I had allowed mycrippling regret and sadness to control my life for so long, I could scarcelyrecognize the quickening of my pulse that told my legs to move just a littlefurther apart.
Or maybe it wasn’t all of that at all. Maybe it wasn’tabout my anger or my guilt, but about a love that I could never control; a loveI never had a choice in. Maybe it was simply that I only ever wanted him.Nobody else would have been good enough, nobody else would have been rightenough. Nobody else would have been him.
My eyes met his, hope and lust melding together, holdinghands with the niggling fact that I was going to crave him and his peanutbutter name forever.
“I think you’ve asked enough questions for one night,Kinney. Just do what you’regonnado.”
My voice said indifference, but then he smiled against mylips, and my hands found the scruffy sides of his face. I kissed him withparted lips, tongues slipping beyond all the boundaries I had set, andthatsaid I needed him. That said I was going to need him forever.
His shaking hands fumbled with my shirt, with the button atmy waistband, and with the clasp at the back of my bra.
“Jesus Christ,” he said with an embarrassed laugh, as Iassisted him in the removal of our last bits of clothing.
He was nervous. Patrick “Cool as a Cucumber” Kinney wasnervous,and as I pulled his body down to press his bare chest against mine, to feel ourhearts speaking to each other in the language only we knew, I asked what waswrong.
“I’ve imagined you like this almost every night for over adecade,Kins, and if I was lucky, I’d dream about it.I had to. Just to remember whatyafelt like. I neverthought I’d see you again, let alone like this.”
His fingertips traced the underside of my jaw, down myneck, over the swell of my breast, and the soft indent of my hip. I watched, ashis eyes followed his hand with beautiful awe, and I caught the glistening ofmoisture collect along his lower lashes.
My throat constricted. “God, you really are a little bitch,you know that?”
“I’ve missedya,Kins. I’ve missed you so goddamn much, and if that makes mea little bitch, then fine, as long as I can be yours.”
And with that, we closed the door on estranged ex-lovers,allowing our feet to dangle over the threshold of rekindled passion, testingthe waters with eager tongues and trembling fingers. It was only when hisforehead met mine, his fingers intertwined with mine, and his body joined withmine that we jumped in. Shudders passed through him, resonating through me, andI knew it was the violent resettling of our souls, coming home and slamming thedoor on the brutal past. Goodbye silly mistakes. Farewell twists of fate. Itwas the locking of the door, throwing away the key, and collapsing in a room tomake our own.
His forehead had nestled into the crook of my sweaty neck,speckling my chest with cherished kisses, humming “Sweet Thing” by VanMorrison, and I felt it—everything was perfect again.
My fingers stroked lazy circles over the muscled ridges ofhis back and shoulders, my eyes staring through a euphoric haze at the singlebulb hanging in the middle of the otherwise bare room.
It was a metaphor, that little bulb. Or maybe I was justexhausted, physically and emotionally drained. But no, that bulb … I justknewit was symbolic. It was our love. The light against a blank canvas that hadnever burnt out. The canvas needed paint, but we could always buy some. Hell,we could buy sequins and glitter if we wanted, butas long asthat light still shined, we could do anything.
We couldsurviveanything.
“Tell me you love me, Kinsey.” He interrupted his humming,and his words speared my heart, sealing those last pinpricked holes.
“I have some conditions.”
“Anything.”
I cleared my throat. “I want you to stay in River Canyon.”
“I’m notgoin’ anywhere.”
“And I can’t live in this apartment, you know. It’s way toosmall for us and Meghan.”
His smile prickled against my chest. “We’ll get a biggerplace.”
“And your truck sounds like shit.”
“I’ll get a new one.”
I bit back the giddiness that threatened to consume me. “Anewone, Patrick. None of these pieces of crap you buy.”
He nodded. “Yep. Brandspankin’new.”
