19. Blair #2
He drove into me in one long stroke, no patience left in either of us, seating himself so deep I felt it in my teeth.
Three months, and my body had forgotten this.
The fullness. The stretch. The exact way he fit.
He held there a moment, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard, so deep I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.
“Move,” I said.
He obliged.
There was nothing slow about it. This was rawer than the careful lovemaking of two people finding their way back.
Every thrust carried everything we’d survived, every fight, every silence, every night spent reaching across an empty bed.
I locked my ankles behind his back and dragged him deeper, dug my heels in, greedy for all of it.
“God.” His voice was wrecked. “You’re so tight. You feel.”
“Harder. Fuck me harder.”
He gave me harder. His hips snapped against mine, driving into me deep enough to shove me up the mattress, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. I could feel him everywhere, could feel myself unraveling, could feel three months of carefully built walls crumbling with every brutal stroke.
“That’s it.” His hand slid between us, his thumb finding my clit, pressing and circling in time with his hips. “Let go. I’ve got you. Come all over me. Let me feel it.”
“Will.”
“Give it to me. Let go. I need to know I can still take you apart like this.”
The tension that had been building shattered.
I arched off the bed, his name torn out of me, seizing around him so hard he choked out a curse.
I felt him lose his rhythm, felt him drive in deep and hold, felt him come apart inside me on a broken sound, his whole body shaking, his mouth open against my hair.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
We lay there tangled together, breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin.
His face was pressed into my neck, and I could feel his heart pounding against my chest, could feel the tremors still running through him.
The evidence of what we’d done was everywhere, in the ruined sheets, in the marks on his shoulders, in the ache between my thighs.
I should speak. Should clarify what this meant, what it didn’t mean, where we went from here. Should put the walls back up before I got used to this feeling, before I started hoping for things I wasn’t sure I could have.
“That wasn’t forgiveness,” I said finally.
He lifted his head. His eyes were wet. Tears tracking down his face, mixing with the sweat, and he didn’t try to hide them. Didn’t try to put his composure back on.
“I know.” His voice was steady, despite the tears. “I’m earning that separately.”
He rolled off me, and the loss of his weight felt like grief. We lay side by side, not touching anymore, staring at the ceiling. The morning light had shifted, grown stronger, the day announcing itself with cheerful indifference to the complicated things happening in this hotel room.
“The therapy,” I said. “Keep going.”
“I will.”
“Whatever Dr. Reyes is doing. Whatever work she’s making you do. Keep doing it.”
“I will. I promise.”
“The earning. Keep doing that too.”
“I will.”
He turned on his side, facing me. I could feel his gaze, warm and wanting, but he didn’t reach for me. He was learning. Learning to wait, to let me set the pace, to take what I offered without pushing for more than I was ready to give.
“I’m going to shower,” I said.
“Okay.”
I started to get up, pulling the sheet with me, suddenly aware of my nakedness in a way I hadn’t been moments ago. His hand caught my wrist, gentle, not restraining. Just touching. Just connection.
“Blair.”
I looked at him.
He let go of my wrist. Got out of bed, not bothering to cover himself, and came around to my side. I watched him, unsure what he was doing, and then he knelt on the floor, putting himself at eye level with where I sat on the edge of the mattress.
“I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you.” His voice was raw, stripped of everything but honesty. “Whether you take me back or not. Whether you ever forgive me or not. Whether we end up together or apart. You need to know that.”
“Will.”
“I’m not asking for anything. I’m not trying to pressure you or rush you or make you feel like you owe me anything.
I just need you to know. So you can factor it into whatever you decide.
So you know that whatever happens next, I’m not going anywhere.
I’m not giving up. I’m going to be right here, doing the work, becoming better, waiting for you to decide if I’m worth the risk. ”
I looked at him. At this man kneeling in front of me, tear tracks on his face, marks from my nails on his shoulders, completely exposed in every possible way.
At the husband I’d loved for fifteen years, who had broken my heart so thoroughly I’d thought I might never recover, who was now offering himself up without conditions or demands.
He wasn’t the man who had asked if our baby was his. That man had been drowning in fear, acting out patterns he’d learned from his father, destroying everything he touched because he was too scared to trust it. This man was different. Cracked open. Rebuilt into a new shape.
I didn’t know yet if I could trust the new version. Didn’t know if the changes would stick, if the therapy would work, if he could really become the man he was promising to be. There were no guarantees. No certainties. Just this moment, this offer, this choice.
“The next doctor’s appointment is Tuesday,” I said. “Ten o’clock.”
His whole body changed. Hope flooding his expression, brightening his eyes, transforming his face. He tried to control it, tried to stay measured, but I could see it breaking through.
“I’ll be there.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.” He took my hand, pressed a kiss to my palm, his lips warm against my skin. “I swear I won’t.”
He stood. Backed away. Gave me space to get up, to go to the bathroom, to have whatever time I needed alone. He was learning that too. Learning when to push and when to retreat, when to hold on and when to let go.
I made it to the doorway before I stopped.
“Will.”
“Yeah?”
I didn’t turn around. Couldn’t look at him and say this at the same time.
“I’m giving you a chance. That’s what this is. A chance. Don’t waste it.”
“I won’t.” His voice was fierce, certain, the voice of a man who had finally figured out what he was fighting for. “I swear to you, Blair. I won’t waste it. I won’t waste a single moment.”
I went into the bathroom. Closed the door. Leaned against it and pressed my hands to my face.
My body was still humming with the aftermath of what we’d done.
I could still feel him everywhere, could still smell him on my skin, could still taste him on my lips.
The physical evidence of our collision was written all over me, marks and aches and the particular soreness that came from being thoroughly loved.
Or thoroughly wanted, at least. Love was more complicated. Love required trust, and trust required time, and time required patience I wasn’t sure I had.
But I was giving him a chance. That’s what you’re doing.
I turned on the shower. Stepped under the spray. Let the water wash over me while I tried to figure out what came next.
God help me.