Chapter 30
Fisher had given Eliza more than she’d ever known she could take.
So much passion. So much pleasure. So much…love.
Except that last bit is only me,she thought sadly as she lightly ran a finger up and down the sweaty divot of his spine.
She forced herself to mentally shake off any sorrow. She refused to focus on what she didn’t have when what she did have was so, so much.
She had Fisher. She had his lust and admiration and respect. She had his affection and his friendship. She had his lovely weight pressing her into the mattress and his long, thick cock buried inside her.
He’d shoved his hands beneath her, cupping her ass when he drove into her as his orgasm hit. And he squeezed each cheek now as if, despite his satisfaction, he couldn’t help continuing to tease her and, by extension, himself.
His head was beside hers on the pillow, his nose buried in her throat. Which meant his voice was muffled when he asked, “Am I crushin’ ya?”
“No.” She wrapped her arms and legs around him. “Don’t you dare move.”
“Mmm,” he hummed contentedly, kissing her pulse point. “So I take it you’re satisfied? Don’t need me to leave the room so ya can finish yourself off?”
She smacked his shoulder. “If this is your way of asking, Was it good for you? I think you already know the answer. But I’ll bolster your ego if you need me to.”
“You’ve spent most of the four years we’ve known each other cuttin’ my ego down to size, so I think it’s only fair if ya give it a pat on the back now.”
She dutifully patted his back. “Good boy. Job well done. Best orgasms ever.”
He pushed up on his elbows to stare down at her. She loved seeing him from that vantage. She’d dreamed of seeing him from that vantage.
“I’m not sure I like the note of sarcasm I’m detectin’.”
She tenderly pushed a whorl of hair back from his forehead—he really did need to go see his barber. Then she cupped his cheek. “Best orgasm ever,” she told him softly, sincerely.
“Yes!” He shot a fist in the air. “Score one for Fisher!”
“And score three for Eliza,” she was quick to add. “Which makes me the real winner.”
He dropped his hand. His expression turned serious. “That you actually believe that between the two of us you are the real winner is the best compliment ya could’ve given me.”
She shook her head. “You’re amazing, Fisher. And not just in bed. In life. You don’t give yourself enough credit. You should work on that.”
“I’d rather work on you some more.” He wiggled his eyebrows and reclaimed her lips. When his tongue delved into her mouth, mimicking the recent motion of his body, she felt her vagina clamp around him.
“Lord almighty, that’s hot.” He sighed as he pressed his forehead to hers. “But it reminds me I need to vacate the premises. I don’t want the condom to leak.”
I do.
The thought buzzed through her head before she had time to catch it and throw it away.
If she got pregnant with his baby then maybe…
No. I’d never trap him.
Even if the idea of having a little boy or girl with her dark hair and his pirate’s eyes filled her with a longing she’d never experienced before—she’d always said she wasn’t sure she even wanted kids—she could never use that as a reason to make Fisher stay when leaving was all he’d promised.
Hoping none of what she was thinking showed on her face, she patted his shoulder. “I’m ready.”
They both hissed when he slid out of her. It felt delicious. And also a little sad. Because she’d been complete before and now…she wasn’t.
Turning onto her side, she pressed up on one elbow so she could watch him walk to the bathroom. His ass was so high and round and tight, his back so wide and muscled and tan. He truly was The. Most. Beautiful. Man.
And thoughtful too. Because he returned from the bathroom with a towel and a glass of water. Both of which he handed to her before climbing into bed and pulling the covers over them.
After she’d taken a drink—more like gulped down the entire glass—and used the towel, she snuggled in beside him. With her leg thrown over his hard, hairy thigh and her head nestled on his chest, she could hear the solid, steady beat of his heart.
Solid and steady. That’s Fisher.
Had he always been that way, she wondered? So dependable? So loyal and true? Or had the Army taken the amorphous lump of clay that was eighteen-year-old Fisher Wakefield and molded him into the man she knew today?
“If you could redo any moment of your life,” she asked, “which would it be?”
She felt him duck his chin to look at her. But she didn’t return the gesture. Instead, she played with the swirling hair over his chest and stared at the window that was covered with a blue tarp.
“Wow. Your pillow talk is really…uh…serious.”
“Considering we’ve known each other for four years and considering what we just did together”—she gestured between them—“I figured I’d skip the small talk and get to the good stuff.”
“Ya consider regrets the good stuff?”
“No.” She moved her thumb over his flat, brown nipple and watched delightedly as it hardened. “I consider having conversations that mean something to be the good stuff.”
“How ’bout ya go first, then. If you could redo any moment of your life, which would it be?”
“That’s easy.” She closed her eyes and immediately regretted the decision when the image of Charlie’s bullet-filled body projected itself across the backs of her eyelids. Opening her eyes, she forced herself to focus on the opposite wall, on the festive-looking Mardi Gras masks Fisher had hung on the bricks. “I’d decline Charlie’s invitation to attend his father’s cocktail party. I knew he was more serious than I was. And I knew I wanted to pump the brakes because, as much as I liked him, I’d already resigned myself that I was never going to fall in love with him. If I’d told him any of that, we wouldn’t have gone to that party, he wouldn’t have sacrificed himself to save me, and he’d still be alive today.”
“Charles McClean’s death is not your fault, Eliza.”
Even though he couldn’t see her, she made a face of regret. “Maybe it wasn’t my fault, but I’m the reason he’s dead.”
“No.” Fisher hooked a thumb under her chin and forced her to look at him. There was such kindness in his eyes that she felt tears tickle the back of her nose. “If ya hadn’t gone to that party, who’s to say he wouldn’t have gone without ya? And even if he hadn’t used his body to shield yours, chances are more than good he’d still be dead anyway. That chef managed to kill most everyone.”
That was true, she supposed.
She opened her mouth to admit as much, but Fisher wasn’t finished. “Charles is the reason you’re alive. But you’re not the reason he’s dead.”
She hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to hear that logic until he spoke it. The tears that’d tickled her nose rushed to her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. She tried to duck her head, but he wouldn’t let her.
“Nod and tell me ya know that what I just said is true.” He used his thumb to brush away her tears.
She nodded and found herself caught up in his arms. And that’s when the tears really came.
He held her through the storm of sorrow and regret, petting her back, murmuring sweet nothings. When her sobs were reduced to sniffles, he pulled a tissue from the box on his bedside table and chuckled when she noisily blew her nose.
Afterward, she released a tired breath and once more lowered her cheek to his chest. There was something infinitely soothing about the hard, rhythmic thud of his heart.
She counted the beats for a minute or two before saying into the quiet of the room, “Your turn.”
She could tell by the hitch in his gentle stroking he’d hoped she’d forgotten he hadn’t answered her question. And when he was quiet for the span of a dozen heartbeats, she thought perhaps he’d choose not to answer at all. But finally…
“I’d go back to the day my mom died.” There was regret in his voice. When she pushed up on her elbow to look at him, she saw the same in his face.
“The day my mom died is one of the worst days of my life.” Her confusion was evident in her tone. “Why would you ever want to go back to that day?”
“Because I might’ve been able to save her.”
Oh, Fisher. Sweet, wonderful, wrong Fisher.
She shook her head. “How? You weren’t even there.”
His Adam’s apple worked over a swallow before he hoarsely admitted, “But I was.”
Now it was her turn to swallow.
He seemed to be holding his breath. She was certainly holding hers. When she finally spoke, she did so carefully, choosing her words deliberately. “If you’d rather not tell me, I understand.”
“Ya showed me yours. It’s only right I show ya mine.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t have to?—”
“Shh.” He pressed a finger over her mouth. She placed a gentle kiss on it that made him smile. “For the first time in my life, I do have to. ’Cause I want to. I want ya to know why I am the way I am.”
She nodded hesitantly. “O-okay.”
He started talking then. Haltingly at first, and then with more certainty. By the time he finished telling her about the afternoon he’d come home from school to find his father beating and raping his mother, more tears had spilled down her cheeks. Inexplicably, she felt her love for him grow.
He’d witnessed the unthinkable. The unspeakable. And yet…somehow…he wasn’t broken by it. Somehow, despite the horror and trauma of that awful, awful day, he was still good and generous and true.
And he’s mine, she thought as she hugged him close, willing him to feel her love for him even if she couldn’t speak of it. For as long as he’ll let me keep him, he’s mine.