TRUTH #4
The words landed with the particular weight of things that have been held a long time before being set down. Not a performance. Not a pitch. Just the truth, plain and patient, waiting to see what I’d do with it.
“This is fast,” I said.
“I know.”
“We’re in the middle of a war, Amai. I’m carrying twins with two different fathers, one of whom is your brother, who you have been putting belt to ass to relentlessly. We have not had a single uncomplicated week.”
“I know all of that.”
“Then you understand why ‘I want you to be my wife’ requires more than just you saying it.”
“I understand.” He didn’t move. “I’m not asking you right now. I’m not pulling that ring out of a drawer and getting on my knee tonight. I’m showing you what I made. I’m telling you what I want.” He tilted his head slightly. “When you know, you know, Truth. I’ve known for a long time.”
“How can you know? We’ve barely—we’ve had so much chaos between us. How can you separate what you feel from everything that happened?”
“Because I designed that ring in this office at two in the morning on a Wednesday when there was nothing dramatic happening. No crisis. Nobody threatening anybody. Just me, alone, thinking about you and what I wanted to put on your hand.” He finally looked back at the screen, at the ring rotating slowly on its dark background, the vivid stone catching the rendered light and throwing it back warmer than it came in. “That’s how I know.”
I looked at the ring for a long moment. The split shank with its two colors of gold—the way they wound around each other without quite becoming the same thing.
I thought about what that meant, or what he’d meant it to mean, and then I thought about how he could be the man who designed something like that at two in the morning and also the man who shot his brother in the spleen in the middle of the afternoon on a random day.
Both of those things were true. I’d made my peace with that a long time ago, or I was in the process of making it.
“I’m not saying yes tonight,” I said.
“I know.”
“I’m not saying no, either.”
He looked at me then, and something behind his eyes went very still, the way deep water goes still.
“I see you,” he said quietly. “All of it. The good, stubborn, terrifying whole of you. That’s what I see when I look at you.” He reached out and touched my jaw, just the tips of his fingers, barely contact at all. “I see forever.”
Panic swelled inside me. I straightened my dress with long, nervous strokes.
“Don’t rush me,” I said.
“I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
I looked at him for another moment, and then—I’m not entirely sure who moved first, which is maybe how it’s supposed to work when something is genuinely mutual—I was standing, and he was closer, and his hand had moved from my jaw to the back of my neck, and I kissed him.
Not gently. Not tentatively. Like I’d been holding it in the whole drive over, and his office was the first place I’d felt safe enough to let it out.
He made a low sound against my mouth—surprised, or grateful, or both—and his other hand found my waist, gathering the fabric of my dress, not pulling, just holding.
“Truth,” he said, pulling back just enough to see my face.
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t ask me if I’m sure.”
His mouth curved. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.” I reached past him and turned the laptop screen to face the wall.
He cleared the desk with the unhurried efficiency of someone who had thought about this, or something like this, more than once—laptop closed and pushed aside, the tray of sample stones moved carefully to the bookshelf, nothing dropped or rushed.
Then he turned back to me and just looked, letting me set the pace, which I appreciated more than I was going to say out loud.
“Come here,” I said, and I held my hand out the same way he’d held his out in the parking lot.
He took it.
I pulled him forward until he was standing between my knees where I’d perched on the edge of the desk, and I took my time.
I reached up and started on his shirt buttons, slow and deliberate, and he didn’t rush me.
His jaw was tight, his breathing already ragged in that way he got when he was working hard to stay still—holding himself back, letting me have the wheel for once.
I undid the third button and spread the shirt open across his chest, then just looked at him.
I imagined myself melting, just sliding onto the floor in a puddle of hormones and liquid lust.
“You’re going to make me wait,” he said.
“I’m going to take my time,” I corrected. “Those are different things.”
“Are they?”
“Mm-hmm.” I pressed both palms flat against his chest, felt the heat of him, felt his heartbeat moving faster than his face was willing to admit. “Your heart’s racing.”
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Little bit.”
He exhaled through his nose—a short sound that was a laugh and something more—and his hands settled on my thighs, thumbs drawing small circles against the inside of my knees through the fabric of my dress. Not moving higher. Asking.
“Take it off,” I said, meaning the shirt.
He shrugged it off his shoulders and let it drop onto the chair behind him without looking away from me. I took a moment to appreciate that—the deliberateness of it, the way he stood there and let himself be seen without making it a performance.
“Your turn,” he said.
I reached up and pulled the tie loose on my wrap dress.
The fabric fell open, and I slid it off my shoulders, then set it on the desk beside me.
He didn’t move. He looked at me the way he’d looked at the alexandrite bracelet in the case—like he was cataloging something he intended to come back to—and that expression did more damage than any touch could have.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I said.
“No.” He stepped forward and pressed his mouth to the curve of my shoulder, then dragged it slowly up the side of my neck, his hands finally moving from my thighs to my hips, thumbs hooking into the edge of my underwear. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to keep going,” I said. “And I want you to stop being so careful with me.”
He pulled back to look at my face. “I’m not being careful with you.”
“You’re performing patience.”
His expression shifted—the mask coming down an inch. “You want to see what’s underneath the patience.”
“I want you to stop deciding what I can handle.” I held his gaze. “I know what I’m dealing with. I’ve always known. Stop protecting me from it.”
He was quiet for a second. Then his hands tightened on my hips, just slightly, and he said, low and even, “Lie back.”
I did.
The surface of the desk was cool against my bare back as he stood over me.
For a moment, he just looked—that long, reading look—and then he lowered himself over me and kissed me in a way that made it clear the patience was gone.
I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck and pulled him deeper into it. Felt him groan against my mouth.
“Other side of the desk,” I said, pulling back.
He blinked. “What?”
“Move me to the other side. I want my back to the door.”
He didn’t question it. He just hooked his hands under my thighs and shifted me across the desk in one smooth motion, repositioning himself between my legs. I felt the shift in leverage immediately—better angle, more control on my end—and from the way his eyes changed, I could tell he felt it too.
“There,” I said.
“There,” he agreed.
He worked his way down my throat, my collarbone, his mouth moving with a focus that felt less like seduction and more like documentation—like he was learning something he planned to use later.
He unclasped my bra, set it aside, and pressed his lips to the center of my chest, directly over my heartbeat.
“Yours is racing too,” he said against my skin.
“Shut up,” I said, and I felt him smile.
His hands were deliberate and sure—no fumbling, no overcorrection, just direct and unhurried attention to what I responded to, adjusting each time I shifted or went still. When he pressed his mouth to my stomach, I put my hand in his hair, and he paused.
“Not there,” I said. “Not tonight. Come back up.”
He came back up without argument, his forearms bracketing my head, his weight balanced so I wasn’t bearing it. I pulled him down by the back of his neck until his forehead was against mine, and we were just breathing the same air for a second.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That I don’t know what we’re doing.”