Chapter 21 #2
There was no safe distance left between our breaths. His lips parted, and I tasted stew, water, and the faint sweetness of the honey lozenge he had taken earlier.
My fingers tightened at his sides.
He made a soft sound.
Then his hips rocked instinctively against me.
Pleasure surged through my body.
I caught his waist and stilled him.
Noah lifted his head.
“Why did you stop me?”
“Because that movement went farther than we agreed.”
His breathing had become uneven.
“I didn’t plan it.”
“I know.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes.”
His gaze dropped between us.
The hard shape of me pressed visibly beneath my jeans.
Noah’s uncertainty shifted into startled amusement.
“That looks uncomfortable.”
“It will pass.”
His mouth twitched.
“Sorry.”
“Do not apologize for my body reacting to you.”
“I’m not apologizing to you.”
“No?”
“I’m apologizing directly to it.”
I laughed.
The sound woke Marlowe, who lifted his head and looked offended by the interruption.
Noah eased from my lap and settled beside me.
His amusement faded.
“You stopped.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted more.”
“Yes.”
“But you still stopped.”
“Of course.”
He stared at our hands.
“I keep expecting you to be angry.”
“At what?”
“At me changing my mind. At not being ready. At wanting something and then becoming frightened.”
“Noah.”
“I know what you say.”
“Then listen to it.”
“You could get tired of waiting.”
“I could become tired. I am already tired. Waiting for consent is not the cause.”
I turned his hand palm-up and kissed the center of it.
“You do not owe me progress.”
His eye shone.
“You make it extremely difficult not to fall in love with you.”
My heart seemed to pause between beats.
Noah went still.
The words had escaped before he could reconsider them.
He looked away.
“Forget I said that.”
“No.”
“Reid.”
“No.”
His cheeks burned.
“I didn’t say I had fallen.”
“You said resisting is difficult.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is enough.”
I touched his chin but waited until he chose to look at me.
“I love you. You know that.”
“Yes.”
“You are not required to catch up.”
“I’m tired of being behind.”
“You are not behind me. We began from different places.”
He released a long breath.
“Do you remember saying it in the black coat?”
The question came without warning.
“What?”
“On the bluff.”
His gaze had turned distant.
“There was a stone house.”
“Alder Cove?”
“Maybe.”
My heartbeat quickened.
Three winters earlier, we had rented a cottage above a northern inlet. Snow had covered the hills while rain battered the coast. The fireplace had failed. My new coat had been too large, and the hood kept blowing over my face until Noah laughed hard enough to lose his balance.
“What do you remember?” I asked.
“The fireplace wouldn’t draw.”
“No.”
“Smoke filled the room.”
“Yes.”
“You opened all the windows and swore at the chimney.”
“That happened.”
His fingers pressed against his temple.
“We went outside.”
“Stop if it begins to hurt.”
“There was a path behind the cottage.”
“Along the cliff.”
“You told me you loved me.”
My throat closed.
“Not for the first time,” he said.
“No.”
“It felt like you’d already said it a thousand times.”
“Probably several hundred.”
His face warmed for another reason.
“There was a green quilt on the bed.”
I stayed still.
“And a bath beneath the window.”
“Yes.”
His breath became ragged.
“I remember your hands.”
I did not ask where.
The answer was written across his face.
His gaze dropped.
“Not all of it. Pieces.”
“That is enough.”
“I remember wanting you.”
The words were nearly soundless.
“I remember it aching. Not pain exactly. I wanted you so much it felt like too much for my body.”
Heat moved through me, but I kept my voice calm.
“Do you feel safe inside the memory?”
“Yes.”
“Any fear?”
“No.”
“Then let it remain what it is. A memory does not obligate you to repeat it.”
His gaze found mine.
“It feels like mine.”
“It is.”
“Not a photograph.”
“No.”
“Not a story you told me.”
“No.”
His palm came to rest against my chest.
“You.”
I covered his hand.
“Me.”
He smiled, but tears filled his eye.
“The feeling came back with it.”
“What feeling?”
“Being loved.”
I pulled him into my arms.
Noah rested against me and held on.
“I don’t know what it means now,” he whispered.
“It does not have to mean anything now.”
“I want it to.”
“Later.”
His breath warmed my throat.
“Later.”
We remained on the couch until his head grew heavy against my shoulder.
At bedtime, he stopped in the doorway.
“Cal?”
“Yes?”
“I think I’m falling in love with you.”
The words were awake this time.
Chosen.
I crossed the room slowly.
“Are you certain you want me to know?”
“Yes.”
I took his face between my hands.
“Then I will keep it safe.”
His eye closed.
“You aren’t going to say it back?”
“I love you.”
“Good.”
“I have loved you through every version of this.”
He leaned into my palms.
“I think I love you too. But I’m not ready for it to be a promise about forever.”
“It does not need to be.”
“It’s still real.”
“Yes.”
I kissed him softly.
He slept in my arms.
In the morning, Noah woke me by moving against my body.
Not in panic.
Not trapped in a nightmare.
Curious.
His back rested against my chest. My arm lay around his waist. At some point during the night, his shirt had ridden up, leaving my palm against the warm skin of his stomach.
My body was hard behind him.
Noah became still.
I opened my eyes.
“Morning.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“You are very awake.”
“So are you.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.”
I began to move away.
His hand closed around my wrist.
“Stay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He turned carefully until he faced me.
The blankets remained between our hips.
His gaze lowered, following the line of my body beneath the bedding, then returned to my face.
“Does that happen every morning?”
“Most mornings.”
“And you usually leave before I wake.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want you to feel observed. Or pressured.”
He considered.
“Can I touch you?”
My breath caught.
“Where?”
“Over your clothes.”
“Yes.”
Noah slid his right hand down my chest.
He paused at my stomach, giving himself time to decide.
Then his palm settled over the hard shape of me through my sleep pants.
Pleasure tightened low in my body.
I breathed slowly through it.
His eye widened.
“You’re watching my face,” I said.
“I want to know what you feel.”
“A great deal.”
His fingers shifted.
My hips reacted before I could stop them.
Noah inhaled sharply.
“Too much?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you want me to touch you?”
He looked down at his own body.
He was aroused, though not fully.
“No.”
“All right.”
“You’re not disappointed.”
“No.”
His hand moved again, testing my response.
His fingers traced the length of me through the soft fabric.
My breath deepened.
He applied firmer pressure.
The pleasure sharpened.
I caught his wrist gently.
“Pause.”
“Why?”
“Because I am approaching the point where I will want more than you offered.”
His expression sharpened with interest.
“You could finish.”
“Not with your hand unless you are certain you want to participate.”
“What if I only want to watch?”
The question carried courage and uncertainty in equal measure.
“We can discuss that.”
“Now?”
“You are not required to turn curiosity into an event.”
His mouth tightened.
“I dislike when you make sense.”
“I know.”
Noah removed his hand.
I rolled onto my back and let space return between us.
He watched my breathing settle.
“Did I disappoint you?”
“No.”
“I stopped.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re fine.”
“I am uncomfortable. That is not the same as being harmed.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
The awkwardness eased.
“I need coffee.”
“I need a shower.”
“Cold?”
“Extremely.”
His smile followed me into the bathroom.
When I came into the kitchen twenty minutes later, Noah had made coffee and toast.
He avoided my eyes while pouring cream into my mug.
I accepted it.
“Thank you.”
“I thought we were going to the market.”
“We can stay home.”
“No. I want to go.”
The Sunday market occupied two covered sheds beside the old railway pier. Vendors sold produce, bread, flowers, soap, smoked fish, and expensive pieces of driftwood to tourists who believed anything became art if displayed on linen.
Noah had not been there since the accident.
We brought the powered chair because the outing required more walking than he could manage.
The market was louder than I remembered.
Children ran between stalls. Vendors called across the aisles. A violinist played beside the entrance. Coffee, wet wool, grilled sausage, onions, soap, and sea air gathered beneath the roof.
Noah stopped just inside.
“Too much?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“We can leave.”
“Not yet.”
I positioned myself beside him, blocking some of the traffic without making the gesture obvious.
He breathed through the first wave of noise.
Then guided the chair forward.
We took the market one aisle at a time.
He recognized the bakery stall but not its new owner. He remembered buying pears from an elderly farmer who had retired two years earlier. He stopped in front of a display of oat milk and regarded it with personal offense.
“They make milk from everything now.”
“Apparently.”
“Does almond milk taste like almonds?”
“Not enough.”
At the spice stall, he picked up a small jar and frowned at the price.
“Did we become wealthy while I forgot?”
“No.”
“Then put that back.”
I did.
He chose potatoes, spinach, apples, bread, and blackberry preserves.
Every decision took time.
I gave him all of it.
At the fish stall, he studied a platter of smoked trout.
“Do we like this?”
“Yes.”
“Do I like it?”
“You bought it every other week.”
“That is evidence of habit. Not taste.”
He was right.
The vendor handed him a sample.
Noah tasted it.
His expression brightened.
“Still good.”
We bought some.
By the time we reached the final aisle, his words had begun to slow.
“We should go,” I said.
“I want cheese.”
“We have cheese.”
“Not that cheese.”
He pointed to a wheel coated in herbs.
“You have never eaten it.”
“Then it can become a new memory.”
We bought the cheese.
In the parking lot, he struggled to lift his right foot onto the car step.
I moved beside him.
“I can do it.”
“I know.”