Before
BEFORE
Michael’s “quick errand” lasts a long time.
In his absence, I savor my homemade breakfast, then shower. When I emerge steamy and dripping to call his name, only my own echo answers.
With a shrug, I blow-dry my hair and do my makeup, adding extra liner around my eyes to make the blue pop. I choose my sexiest underwear—a matching bra and thong in scalloped white lace—then a bright yellow T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts. This late in the game, I don’t feel the need to impress Michael that much.
When another half hour passes, I don’t worry. I find myself, as usual, in front of the tornado photograph. It enthralls me, making me wonder what kind of person can create an image this powerful. My mind conjures a man with emerald eyes, his brown hair flattened against his forehead by the encroaching storm.
What was Grayson thinking about, in that remote Kansas field? Did he read something profound into nature’s destruction, like Michael did with the stars at the observatory that night? Or did the tornado simply remind him of his pain? Of Lily’s loss?
When I finally tear myself away, the microwave clock reads 10:30. Two hours have passed. Frowning, I carry my cell phone to the windows, where I stare at the mist hanging over the ocean and tap Michael’s name.
The call goes straight to voicemail, as if his phone isn’t even powered on.
My heart shivers. For the first time, I wonder if something’s wrong. Then, when two more hours crawl by and Michael still doesn’t return, I know something’s wrong.
Outside, dark clouds spit water that dribbles down the windowpanes. Inside, I pace. I call Michael a dozen more times, always with the same result.
Doubts invade my mind like thorny vines. I envision the man I love lying bloodied and broken, the victim of some senseless act of violence. I imagine the Audi careening off a bridge and dragging him into the black-water depths of the bay. I sense my entire world ending without my permission, and the horror of it nearly chokes me.
If only I’d told him I wanted to stay. If only I’d decided not to get on that stupid airplane, Michael wouldn’t have gone wherever he went.
I will myself not to vomit. I clutch my phone until the casing creaks, begging the screen to light up with a call, anything.
When it finally dings with an incoming text, my knees buckle. But then I see Kate’s name and fight to stay upright.
How’re things in Seattle? I miss you. The new job’s all right, but it would be a ton more fun if you were here to bitch to about the parts that suck. Anyway, I hope you’re having a blast at Patrick’s, and that you’ve got enough for that ticket by now.
The words blur. I realize that, throughout my month-long delirium, I haven’t thought about my best friend but a handful of times. In a haze, I type, I’m not actually at Patrick’s. I moved in with Michael. I’m sorry, I completely forgot to tell you.
When my phone pings—once, twice, many more times—I set it aside and squint through the veil of rain in hopes of catching Michael passing along the waterfront. I would go out and search for him, except I have no idea where he went.
Acid coats my throat. The minutes skulk past, each one like the turn of a screw in one of those medieval torture devices that splinters people’s bones in the slowest and most horrific way possible.
I wander through every room. I fruitlessly call Michael’s phone. I cancel my held ticket to Athens, but even that fails to ease the thousand-pound weight in my chest.
At 5:00 p.m., I finally realize that, if and when he does return, I’m dressed completely inappropriately for the dreariness outside. For some reason, that seems important.
I shuffle into the bedroom and strip to my bra and thong. I stare unseeing at the paltry collection of clothes in the drawer Michael cleared out for me. Then I wonder what I’m doing, why I came in here. I can’t remember.
The front door opens and closes.
All the blood in my body cascades inward. I race out to the main room, not caring that I’m in lingerie. Michael stands by the front door, his shirt clinging to his chest. Water plasters his hair to his face.
My head seems to detach from my body and float upward. He’s safe. Soaked to the skin and jacketless, maybe, but whole .
“Um...” He studies my state of undress with widened eyes. “Hi.”
I careen across the room and launch myself at him, clamping my legs around his waist and burying my face in his neck. “Hey.”
He stiffens, enough to tell me that whatever happened today was not pleasant, and I hug him tighter, my relief powerful enough to overcome his rigidity. To overcome anything.
“Holy shit, am I glad to see you.” My lips press against his rain-soaked skin. “I was so terrified something had happened. There wasn’t a single thing I wanted more than to see you walk through that door.”
The second I say it, I realize Greece can wait. For now, maybe for always. I don’t care, as long as I have him.
I pull back, cupping his face. He gazes up with rounded eyes, like he didn’t expect me to go halfway out of my head with worry. He unbends some, though. His arms come up, his artist’s fingers cupping my backside.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever been so happy to see me.” He sounds surprised. Awed, even.
“Happy doesn’t even cover it. I’m elated. Ecstatic. Euphoric. Probably a whole bunch of other e-words I can’t think of right now, too.”
“I’m so sorry, but—”
I push a finger against his lips. “I don’t care. Explain later. Right now, I just want you to take my clothes off. Correction. I need you to take my clothes off.”
His gaze drifts over the lacy scraps adorning my body. “You realize you’re not actually wearing any?”
“Well, not technically. And I know you wanted the first time to be special, but I swear to god, if you don’t pin me to something in the next five minutes, I’m going to lose my mind.”
He hesitates. I wonder what on earth went so terrifically wrong today, but right now, I need to join with him, to wash away this frantic afternoon with the purity of his magic. I need to feel him, solid and alive, here in my arms.
“Please,” I say. “I need you.”
Reluctance still crowds his eyes, so I lower my lips to his, channeling all my love and longing into a kiss.
It starts slow, a tentative sampling that takes surprisingly long to deepen. I slip my tongue into his mouth, coaxing, teasing.
Begging.
Pleading.
Finally, something awakens inside him. His fingers clench, pressing into my bare ass. His tongue snakes into my mouth—sampling at first, then devouring.
There , I think. There you are, my love .
When I squeeze my legs tighter around him, his reticence melts away. I feel the moment our unification becomes inevitable. We come spiraling together, two stars that have circled for weeks, finally locking into orbit.
Michael groans as I feast on his mouth. He staggers over to the island and scatters the pile of mail he never gets to, then lays me on the granite and yanks me to the edge. The stone sucks enough warmth from my bare back to make me gasp, but somehow that only heightens the intensity rocketing toward my core.
Our movements turn frantic, electrified. We wrench at each other’s clothes. His sopping shirt slaps onto the concrete, followed by his jeans and boxers, which he shucks in one hurried motion. My bra and thong quickly follow.
Bare and wet and splayed before him, I raise my head. My vision goes soft around the edges. I can’t see anything but him, only him, naked and glorious and so damn beautiful that my heart takes a moment to smash to pieces inside my chest.
His sea-crystal eyes flush as he bends to explore me with his tongue. Rainwater drips from his hair, and I halfway expect the hiss of steam whenever the droplets hit my skin.
I moan. I melt. I burn for him, and when he finally, finally, finally closes his eyes and pushes inside me, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. I’ve been starving for a month, and now he’s filling me up, only he’s somehow ending a thirst of years instead of weeks.
I buck my hips, abandoning myself to the oblivion of sensation. His hands clamp around my waist. He drives into me over and over until bright black heat blossoms behind my eyes and we both spangle apart into wondrous, glittering dust.
I... He...
Just...
Wow.
When I finally manage to remember what planet I’m on, I pry my eyelids open—first one, then the other. Michael lies half-collapsed on top of me. He raises his head, his expression incredulous.
“That was... I’m...” He straightens, clearly dazed. “Holy god. Who are you?”
I giggle. The sound comes out sticky and languid, just like the rest of me. “Mina. Your minx.”
“Mina the minx.” He speaks my name like he’s tasting it. “I’ve never... Well, whatever that was, I’ve never done it before. Not like that.”
My answering smile slips and slides across my face, too inebriated to truly catch hold, like I’m made of nothing but gelatin and satiation. No bones left in this body.
“We should probably talk,” he says, “but the truth is, I really just want to do that again.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What, right now?”
“Right now.”
That rouses me. I trail a finger down his bare chest, and this time, that’s all it takes.
In another moment, he’s scooping me up and carrying me to the bedroom.