Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The upstairs is small. A neat guest bedroom. A linen closet. A bathroom.
A bedroom with a queen-size bed. I enter that one.
It smells like him. There’s a shirt hanging over the back of a chair. An old-fashioned washbasin. A window that looks out over the garden to the sea. The window faces west, so the closest land isn’t home, but the islands further out. Beyond that, the open ocean.
It’s stunning.
When I turn around, Clint stands in the doorway, filling it completely.
His posture is stiff. He doesn’t know what the right thing to do is, I realize. He’s not sure what I want.
His eyes drop to my dress, and he moves to the closet, opening the door and pulling a wooden hanger from the rows of neat clothes hanging there. I spot plaid and denim. A working man’s clothes.
He comes over to me, taking the dress from my arms. He fumbles a bit, unsure of what to put on the hanger, and I smile, helping him. We get the dress smoothed out, and he turns, making room for it in the closet.
While his back is turned, I set my rose down on the washbasin.
Then I slip my fingers under the shoulder straps of my slip, letting it fall to the floor.
When he turns around, his expression seems to flare with fire.
I’m standing before him in ridiculous wedding lingerie. Pale blue lacy bra and underwear. Garters. Pantyhose.
His eyes graze down the length of me, then back up. His fingers flex and unflex at his sides.
When I know his eyes are back on my face, I say, “I’ve been doing what I’m supposed to—what people have told me I should do—for a long time.”
Clint swallows as I draw my fingers down the straps of my bra, over the lace cups.
He follows my hands.
I can see his arousal tenting through the fabric of his pants. The sight has my breath going shallow.
When Clint looks up, he can see where I’m looking. His face flames again.
He turns, clearly mortified.
But I walk over to him, my stockinged feet padding across the wood. I turn his face so he’s looking at me.
“What’s the word for stop?” I ask. “In sign language.”
He shows me.
I practice with my hands. “Okay. So if you want me to stop, tell me.”
Clint pulls out his notepad.
I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re feeling…sad.
I smile, touched by his kindness once again. But I shake my head. “I need this, Clint. If you’re okay with it. I’m not confused.”
He swallows. Studies me.
“I mean it,” I say.
He holds his pen over his notepad again. Okay then…
He makes another sign, different from stop.
“What does that mean?”
He writes in his notebook, then holds it up for me.
Keep going.
My stomach flips. When my eyes meet his, I feel unable to speak. But I focus, bringing my words to my lips with great effort.
I practice both signs.
“Stop. Keep going. Stop. Keep going.”
He signs, “Keep going.”
I smile. I lift my hands and bring them to his collar. And I unbutton the top button on his suit.
Clint sucks in a breath when my fingertips graze his throat. But he doesn’t sign stop. He doesn’t sign keep going either, so I do, as a question.
He nods.
I continue my work on his coveralls—coveralls. That’s what they’re called.
I unbutton the next, then then next, until I reach the spot just above where he’s bulging.
I look up. So does he. He’s mortified.
“It’s a good thing,” I say.
His lips curl on one side, then drop.
Suddenly I’m hit with a thought. “Clint…how old are you?”
He makes numbers with his hand. Twenty-nine.
He’s a year younger than me.
I feel almost embarrassed to ask him this, like I’ll be insulting him. But I have a feeling.
“Have you ever done this before?”
His Adam’s Apple bobs. Then he shakes his head.
Shit. “I meant sex. Have you ever had sex?”
Once again, Clint shakes his head. Then he writes in his notepad.
I’ve never kissed anyone before.
Oh God. I can’t take advantage of him. I move to back away, but he wraps his hand around my wrist. Not holding me there, but to get my attention.
But I know how it works, he writes.
“I don’t think I should be your first time,” I whisper.
His jaw works. Then he writes, I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. I know you’re in pain. But don’t worry about protecting me. I’m a grown man.
He’s right. I’m infantilizing him. He’s intelligent.
He’s receptive. He understands what I mean just through a few lip-read words and my expressions.
He maintains this whole island and takes care of delicate things.
He’s got books on his nightstand table—modern novels.
He just doesn’t get out much. I’d have seen him on the mainland more if he did. He’s a recluse, not slow.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know you can make your own decisions.”
Yes. He looks relieved. Not that he might get some, but that I understand him and respect him as a human being.
After a moment, he writes, What do you want, Maggie?
I consider that. How good it feels to be asked. Knowing, in my heart, that he’ll listen.
“I want to forget everything but this.”
He nods. Then he puts the notebook back in his pocket and tentatively lifts his hands, cupping my cheeks.
And this silent, strong man presses his lips to mine.