Chapter Twelve #2
A warning flashed behind his eyes, and I tipped my chin down with a nod again, allowing him to lose himself, and take me down with him.
When he plunged inside of me next, it was with a force that knocked the air out of my lungs and a loud growl out of his throat.
And then, Turner fucked me. In earnest. He was getting me back.
Not being gentle with those parts of my body that craved the opposite.
Turner gave me all of him. Sweaty, raw, rough, solid, and nurturing, in the way only he could. Only he knew how.
“I knew you’d take me this good,” he gasped, his rhythm turning erratic.
Breaking. “I’ve always known you were made just for me.
” Sweat cursed down his body, his breathing shallow, the muscles cording his thighs spasming with what was coming, his whole body pulsing with mine.
“Fuck. Fuck, Frankie. Come with me, baby. Please.” He stilled, hands squeezing around me, my wrists, my hip, marking my skin.
Making me teeter. Fall. Break right along with him. “Hot fucking damn, I can feel you.”
Hot fucking damn indeed.
I could feel him too. Everywhere.
I was boneless. Sated. Happy.
I was finally Turner’s.
Turner’s palm rested on my belly, his thumb caressing the skin under my navel.
“I wish I could tell seventeen-year-old Turner about what we just did,” he confessed. “If he’d known you’d scream my name that way, he wouldn’t have been so angry all the time.”
I rolled on my side, so I could get a good look at his face.
A long time had passed, and we were still lying in bed. Naked and roasting from each other’s body heat, and the fire Turner had started soon after the emergency generator had kicked in. I was moving into the honeymoon suite forever, it had everything I needed in life.
“You weren’t angry,” I complained. “You were quiet and thoughtful.”
Turner chuckled. “I was angry. I couldn’t have the girl I wanted.”
My stomach dipped with a giddiness that I’d never experienced.
I couldn’t believe I was looking back in time with it.
Without the sadness that always accompanied the memories.
“Why seventeen-year-old Turner?” I asked him.
And when he didn’t answer, I tickled his side.
“Tell me. You can’t bring it up and not tell me. Come on. Please.”
Turner snatched my hand and brought it to his mouth.
Mustache and stubble tickled my skin. “That first summer we went to Ferry Beach, near Camp Ellis,” he finally said.
“When I picked you up, you were wearing one of those tops you’d done things to.
The Fleetwood Mac one. You’d cut the sleeves and hem a lot shorter than any other top you had ever modified.
Your hair was half down and half up in one of those knots at the top of your head.
And when I honked, and you came out that door looking like that?
Gave me fantasies for weeks. Months even. ”
My lips parted with surprise, and he smiled. “I remember that day perfectly. It was one of my favorite summers.”
“You came running to me,” he said. “You shot towards me, running like you’d be willing to beat anyone who dared race you. It was impossible to deny it from that point on.”
“I was trying to beat Ric,” I said. “I always called shotgun, and he never respected it. I did beat him that day, and sat in the front with you. And when you placed your arm behind my headrest to reverse the car, I swear I almost lost it and asked you to kiss me.”
Turner laughed and when that faded, he brushed the back of his hand across my jaw with a tenderness that felt impossible. “I hate that I wasn’t there for you this year. I don’t want you lonely. Or sad. Or scared.”
I kissed his palm, then the back of his hand, right over that beautiful pattern of inked lines that united us. “I can’t promise you I won’t ever be sad again, because I … I might be. But with you, I don’t think I’ll ever be capable of feeling lonely.”
“I know you’re scared, Frankie,” he said, softly but in that stern tone that meant business.
“I am too. I keep thinking how powerless I’d feel if you’d gotten stuck here without me.
How absolutely terrified I’d be. But I want to make one thing very clear: whatever this psychopath has done is not on you.
Got it? It’s only on him. You’re not horrible for having a moment of weakness. He’s horrible for exploiting it.”
I nodded my head. Words couldn’t describe what I felt for this man.
The way I wanted to take that and keep it warm inside of my chest so it’d fight the darkness I’d felt.
I was also terrified, not just scared. I was terrified he was here, in this Inn, stuck with us.
Somewhere outside the safe bubble of this suite.
I was terrified it wasn’t safe enough, that it would burst, and Turner would somehow get hurt just because he was with me.
This man had called him Elliott. Me, Eden.
Himself, Enzo. I’d spent years crafting a villain he knew as well as I did.
The possibility of him impersonating him was … fucked-up. Terrifying.
I snuggled closer to Turner, tucking my head on his chest, making the decision to just be with him. Be present. Savor what this moment was right now, because it felt a little magical. Special. Fragile, like all rare and unique things were.
“Tell me more things I don’t know,” I told him. “Happy things. Something nice.”
He brushed my hair softly, fingers playing with the strands a little distractedly. “I was in New York last month. For work. It reminded me of you. I was a little surprised when you chose to move to Boston. In my mind, if you were to ever leave Maine, you’d go to New York. Why didn’t you?”
“I thought about it,” I admitted. “But it seemed too much of a challenge. As if I was taking myself too seriously, with my publisher being there and all. Boston felt a lot less intimidating. I love the waterfront and the history, and I love where I live in Back Bay. Mrs. Flanagan brings me leftover roast on Sundays and lingers to tell me about her kids that are no longer kids. Like how her oldest son met the love of his life and ended up being the talk of a gossip podcast with national reach.” I chuckled.
“But I asked you, so you would talk, not me.”
“You only ramble with me. I like it.”
I’d missed the way I could be with him. I more than liked it. I dropped a kiss on his chest. Right over a patch of skin with no ink. “Now tell me about New York and your work trip. I want to know.”
“A chef invited me to see the plans for a restaurant he’s working on opening.”
My head whipped in his direction. “A chef! Turner, that’s amazing. Why didn’t you say anything before?”
He bit back on a delighted smile. “You proud?”
“I’ve always been proud. But this is incredible.” I let my head rest back where it was, and squeezed him with my arms. “About time someone smart enough came knocking on your door, begging to steal you.”
“Begging is a stretch. But he’s definitely interested. We met at a convention a few weeks prior. Hate the crowds, but I told Ric I’d do it. He sat me down one day and presented a plan for me to broaden my business horizons. With a power point.”
“Sounds like Ric.”
He hummed in agreement. “The chef’s a Spanish guy. Too talented and good-looking for his own good. He doesn’t need me, frankly. But he was looking to partner with someone who could take care of doughs and baked goods for the spot he’s opening in Brooklyn.”
There was a soft pause. Turner’s hand had returned to the back of my head, the mix of his soothing touch and his voice making my body relax gradually against his. “What else?”
“I pictured you there, Frankie. Every step I took, I could see you. You’d fit in right away, no matter what expectations you’re setting for yourself, or the amount of success you have, or will ever get to have. There’s no challenge too big or too hard for you, baby.”
My heart expanded. My eyelids fluttering closed. “Did you picture us?”
“I did. I couldn’t not do that. I’m not saying I want to leave Portland, but a part of me imagined doing so. With you by my side.”
My consciousness was slipping away from me. Traveling to that place Turner was painting with his words. “We could think about it.”
“We could go there one weekend. Check that part of Brooklyn. Meet Lucas. You’ll love his wife. She’s a writer too. Romance. I checked one of her books out, and it’s about time travel.”
“I don’t have writer friends in real life,” I said, hearing my voice a little fuzzy with sleep. “You think she’ll like me?”
“She’ll adore you. They have a dog too. You love ‘em. We could go to the shelter, get us the saddest boy or girl. I’ll make both of you happy.”
I’m already happy, I thought.
But the words did not leave me. Reality had bled into my dreams and I was dancing between the two.
One with the man in my arms as we painted the canvas he’d laid at our feet.
And the other with the hard realization that, as much as I wanted to forget what awaited outside this bed, this honeymoon suite, this bubble, it was still there.
Climbing to that crescendo we could no longer pretend to ignore in favor of living in the moment, or pretending any of this was normal.
It wasn’t.
And I had the feeling we’d see just how much sooner, rather than later.