Chapter 20
‘Wow, so casual sex is amazing. I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this for years.’
Rhys groaned, the only sound he could make right now. It took all of his effort to dispose of the condom and then he collapsed back onto the bed, his hand over his racing heart.
As his breath finally evened out, he mumbled, ‘If you can still chatter, I’m not sure I did a great job.’
‘Is that what you were trying to do, shut me up with sex?’
‘No!’ he protested, but he couldn’t give her an explanation for why her words landed uncomfortably on him.
He could still feel her on his skin. The satisfaction from being with her was somewhere in his psyche, not only his nervous system. She’d held him dangerously close to her heart.
He didn’t want to examine why they were so good together in bed – and why he hoped it wasn’t simply because she didn’t usually have no-strings sex. ‘I just don’t understand how you’re not as wrecked as I am.’ He peered up at her to see a satisfied smile form on her lips.
She wasn’t wearing her ring or a stud. How hadn’t he noticed? There was a tiny mark on her skin below her bottom lip, the only indication of what was usually there.
‘It’s probably the little matter of eleven years, old man,’ she teased, scooting down to lie next to him, propped up on her elbow.
‘Don’t remind me,’ he replied, his voice gravelly. He eyed her. ‘Did you ask someone how old I am?’
‘Maybe,’ she responded with a pout.
He’d thought she might grow shy with him sprawled naked on her bed, her own body similarly unclothed, but she didn’t seem bothered by it. She didn’t seem bothered by anything right now, which he envied.
‘I suppose the lack of expectations is freeing,’ she mused. ‘It doesn’t matter if my chatter bothers you, because there’s nothing at stake. I really should have tried this earlier.’
He couldn’t answer that with anything other than an inarticulate grumble. ‘Your chatter doesn’t bother me,’ he contradicted the easy part. ‘Or, if it occasionally does, then my silence bothers you more.’ His eyes drifted closed.
‘Are we playing a game of “who dislikes whom the most”?’
He cracked one eye open. ‘Did you just say “whom”?’
‘Add it to the list of reasons you dislike me.’
She was smiling, although he suspected she wasn’t entirely at peace with the idea of being disliked by anyone. He hoped she knew he didn’t truly dislike her. After today, he was worried about drifting too far in the opposite direction. He didn’t want to miss her when he went to Canada.
‘But you’re right about the silences. They bring out all my insecurities, although I realise that’s my own fault and not at all yours.’
He couldn’t resist. He lifted a hand to her shoulder and trailed his fingertips along her skin: first her arm, then her waist – she was predictably ticklish – then settling on her upper thigh.
He could photograph that one bend all day, trying to capture the texture of her skin, the movement of muscle and the soft curves.
‘I hope at least some of your insecurities have calmed down now?’
She laughed. ‘Some, yes. Plus, you’re talking to me right now. Is sex the way to open you up?’
He certainly felt flayed open. ‘I don’t know why you want to open me up.’
‘I’m just naturally curious,’ she answered flippantly, leaning her chin on his chest. He smoothed a strand of her hair between his fingers – something else he’d been desperate to do for weeks, or maybe even months.
‘You make it sound like you’re Pandora’s box. What will I release if I lift the lid?’
‘All the usual human weaknesses that shouldn’t touch you,’ he answered before he thought better of it. His fingers wandered to her ear now, brushing the three studs in the lobe. ‘Bitterness, disappointment, despair.’
She lifted her head, her eyes narrow. ‘I don’t think that’s what I’d find.’
‘That’s a big statement, even from the queen of all hopefulness.’
‘You shall now call me “Your Majesty”,’ she said with a plum smile. ‘You’ll tell me I don’t know you well, but I’ve seen your photos – from the wedding in winter and also… some other ones.’
She coloured and if it weren’t for her blush, he might have missed her meaning. But it blossomed inside him when he understood: she’d looked up his work, he suspected out of personal interest rather than professional. The thought clogged in his throat.
She was too young for him, too bright and she liked his work and maybe he shouldn’t have taken advantage of these things to end up in bed with her, but it was warm here, next to her.
‘Bitterness and despair are not what I see in your work, Rhys.’
Her words landed on target, right in his chest, but she didn’t fully understand. ‘That’s from my mind and there’s nothing wrong with that, despite the big knock to the head,’ he said drily. ‘But I think you’ll find the rest of me rather depleted.’
‘I have no complaints.’
He chuckled, but his doubt hardened in his stomach when her hand settled on his chest, right over the depleted part. Then she tilted her head, studying his skin for long enough to make his face heat.
‘I wondered what this said,’ she murmured, her thumb brushing the tattoo on his ribcage. ‘I couldn’t read it at a distance that day I was checking you out at the lake.’
She was going to be the death of him. ‘I don’t need my ego inflated any further,’ he grumbled.
Her only response to that was a flicker of mischief in her quick glance. ‘I see now it’s written the wrong way round and I wouldn’t have been able to read it anyway. I need a minute to figure this out – or a mirror.’
He’d rarely regretted getting that second tattoo, but he regretted it now. It came too close to the visceral memories of six years ago – memories he didn’t want to share with her.
She read slowly, from his sternum to his right side, her fingers gentle on his skin. ‘This stranger is you.’ He could have spoken the words along with her. He saw it – the correct way round – in the mirror every day.
She clapped her hand over the tattoo, as though covering it could make things better. When she spoke, her voice was flat. ‘You had this done after the accident?’
He nodded.
‘You couldn’t recognise your own face.’ It wasn’t a question. She was confirming what she understood, but he nodded again anyway.
She sat up suddenly and ruffled his hair vigorously. He looked up at her in confusion, trying not to admit to himself how good it felt to have her lavishing touch all over him. When her fingers found the raised scarring on the left, she stopped searching and leaned over to look.
‘Ginny, you’re not wearing anything,’ he reminded her, glad of the distraction of her body from the conversation he didn’t want to have. He reached for her waist, his hand sliding up, but she swatted it away and then sat back to look into his face.
‘Did they shave off your hair?’
It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. ‘Yes.’
‘So you couldn’t even recognise yourself from that.’
‘I couldn’t remember much of anything for a couple of days, so it wasn’t as shocking as you’re imagining. It was worse when—’
Now there was somewhere he did not intend to go.
With a deep sigh, he grasped her hand, remembering the shock of that contact half an hour ago when she’d pulled him into bed. It would be far too easy to sink into this comfortable place with her. ‘Come here.’
She didn’t need to be asked twice. When she settled next to him, tucked against his collarbone, she melted immediately.
‘You feel too good,’ he muttered, too wrecked to wonder if the admission was wise.
‘I suppose that’s okay, since you won’t remember me in the morning.’
He tightened his arm around her. She probably didn’t realise she was papering over her uncertainty with that joke.
‘I will remember you,’ he said emphatically. His nose in her hair, he breathed in. ‘Vanilla and coconut.’ He pressed a fumbling kiss to her temple. ‘And some kind of cream on your skin.’
He dipped his head to nuzzle her lobe.
‘Then there are these pretty ears.’
She shivered at the touch and flinched away. ‘Prominent, not pretty,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t think my ears count as conventionally attractive. They’re a flaw, rather than a feature.’
He shook his head. ‘Definitely a feature,’ he insisted. ‘You’re very pretty. It’s these freckles here.’ His fingertip wandered over her cheek. ‘The colour of your hair. This bottom lip.’
She couldn’t seem to find a smart response for that one.
‘It’s hard to believe I’m the first person to tell you you’re pretty, Ginny.’
‘You’re not,’ she said, which made him smile. ‘But coming from you it’s… different.’
He didn’t want to know how it was different.
She went so still in his arms that he knew she was summoning the courage to say something and he braced himself. ‘Do you…? Are you going to stay? Here, tonight? I don’t expect you to. It’s probably not a very casual thing to do.’
He was floored to realise he’d assumed he’d stay without questioning it. ‘Do you want me to?’
‘Well, you’re nice and warm and it’s pretty cold outside.’
‘You want me as a heater?’
‘That’s casual, yeah? Am I doing it right? I am kind of a snuggler, though. I should warn you.’
‘I’ve been warned.’ His fingertips drifted up her back and down again, making her exhale on a sigh.
Her lips brushed his earlobe and he didn’t know what game they were playing, but there was a smile on his face. ‘If you’re here anyway…’
‘Keeping you warm…’
‘Maybe we should… confirm that we really are that good in bed.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You need reminding already?’
She stretched, tossing her head in a self-conscious attempt at seduction that was entirely unnecessary. He was seduced every time she opened her mouth, every time she moved. ‘It’s just that, in my memory, it was utterly spectacular. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight.’
Slowly and purposefully, he rolled her onto her back and propped himself on one elbow, his hand stroking smoothly up from her hip. Just that touch was enough to convince him they hadn’t been imagining anything.
He dropped his lips to her collarbone. ‘You definitely weren’t thinking straight.’
She slung her arms around him and he hated to think how he would feel right now if she’d asked him to leave.
‘But I’d be happy to mess up your thoughts again and remind you of exactly how hot I can make you.’
He stared as she lifted her shoulders and tipped her head back in a giggle. He wanted to photograph it, bottle it – carry around a tiny 3D image of Ginny Weller exactly like this. ‘Pretty’ didn’t begin to cover it.