Eighth Day of Christmas #5
With her other hand she was tracing her fingers down his arms, across his chest. She slid her hand down his abdomen and up under his white shirt, and she smiled to remember it was the same kind of shirt that Mr. Darcy had worn in the pond.
But this was Hank, and he meant so much more to her than a fictional character.
Hank in Mr. Darcy’s shirt, Hank warm beside her. Hank was fantasy, and Hank was real.
His question still lingered unanswered, and he added, “I don’t want to go.”
She pressed her hand against his bare stomach, feeling his abdominal muscles like the ripples in seafloor sand.
“Stay,” she finally said.
His arm slid between her waist and the mattress. His other arm opened on her back, and he pressed her close to him, nothing between them—no light, no air, no wall. No past. Her leg rested between his. Their faces were close, foreheads touching. She closed her eyes.
“Kes,” he said. “I’ m—”
She put her mouth on his to stop the talking. And it felt perfect.
They kissed long and slow, no rush, no urgency.
She seemed to experience the confusion and elation of a thousand Regency maidens as they received their first passionate kisses, the unexpected joy, the growing hunger.
His arm beneath her scooped her closer, and as he lay on his back, she rolled on top of him.
His body was long and strong beneath her, and her legs spanned his middle.
This was feeling very familiar, and parts of her were wide-awake and doing a joyful jig.
“We shouldn’t,” she said against his mouth.
“No, we definitely shouldn’t,” he said, voice raspy.
But, oh, how she wanted to. The want was bigger than the bed, bigger than a house. She stretched to encompass that want, expanding her sense of herself till she felt she must burn like a star.
His hand smoothed over her lower back and then up her side, his thumb exploring the curve of her breast through her chemise. His other hand rested lightly on the side of her face as he kissed her like a starving man.
Why had she been resisting this? Thoughts were slippery fish sliding out of her hands. All she wanted was him, her best friend and best lover. Every part of her body yearned with the memories of what they could do together.
Avoid physical intimacy at all costs! The words darted through her dimming mind, bright as a goldfish in a deep pond. How had Mrs. Wattlesbrook dug her way into Kestrel’s consciousness? What a killjoy.
Kestrel violently ejected thoughts of Mrs. Wattlesbrook from her mind and focused again on Hank.
His hand sliding up the inside of her chemise.
His lips exploring hers. She was actually kissing him again.
Hank, who had rejected her. Had nearly broken her.
But did that matter right now? Her body certainly didn’t think so.
His breath was rapid, his mouth on her neck, his hand in her hair.
Her body felt soft as clay, but a school of worries had begun swimming through her consciousness.
Wait, don’t, be careful, this is dangerous, slow down . . .
Kestrel hesitated. Into that pause rose a surety that she had to protect her own wounded heart.
If she indulged in loving Hank again when what he offered was short-term reprieve, she wouldn’t survive the inevitable ending.
Still, her skin was warm and buzzing with his touch, her whole body blood-deep aching for more, and she yelled back at those thoughts Shut up, I want this!
But Hank must have noticed her brief hesitation, because he stopped kissing.
His hand that had been on her back smoothed down the length of her arm, stopping to hold her fingers.
He pressed the backs of them to his lips before gently holding on to her hips and sliding her off of him.
He took a few deep breaths as if trying to calm down the rapid pumping of his heart.
And then, he looked at her, in that way of his—no expectations, just enjoying the sight of her.
She wanted to yell, “Wait, I didn’t mean to hesitate, we don’t have to stop!” But he already had. And she knew it was wisdom. It was a kind of self-cruelty to engage with him again, to open her heart for future stomping.
He sighed, and it was both pleased and mournful. “Thanks for kissing me. That felt really nice.”
He used to say things like that after they had sex, as if he was giving a review, and she smiled, remembering how she’d teased him. Now in a newscaster voice, she said, “A strong beginning, but the ending fizzled out. Two stars.”
He laughed and then moaned, obviously feeling both amused and regretful. He covered his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I can go,” he said.
“Or you can stay,” she said. Despite everything, she sincerely wanted him beside her.
He nodded. They didn’t talk again, and she watched as he eventually felt the fatigue of the day settle over him, his eyelids drunkenly lowered and lifted till they closed for the night.
She’d often said he slept as soundly as an enchanted princess, but on her hard nights he knew to stay alert, keeping watch for her nightmares.
He must have sensed peace in her to sleep so readily now.
She felt that peace, too, like a landscape softened by snow, a stream chilled to stillness.
Except she didn’t feel cold and dead. She felt sort of new actually.
Kind of springy. Her heart was a flower slowly opening.
That scared her, but she could no sooner tell a flower not to bloom than tell her heart to shut itself up.
The blooming was painful, the stretch of a muscle long unused, and even deeper down lurked fear.
But she let herself accept the poetry of the moment, both the excitement and the fear. And the peace remained.
She laid her hand on Hank’s chest to feel the soft fall and swell of his breast, and long into the night, she lay awake in sweet unrest, listening to his tender-taken breath.