Chapter 15 #2
Our mouths melt together. That awkward hesitation from before is gone. Cary’s tongue explores my mouth, fearless. I tip into the kiss. Grin at the shocked gasp rattling in his throat when I bite gently on his lower lip.
Too quickly, he breaks away.
Wild dark eyes roam my face. Dread sits between my shoulder blades. Was that too much? Is he regretting it?
His thumb sweeps over the corner of my mouth. Breathless, he says, “I need to go. The souls…” His words fall away. But the want pulses like a gilded heartbeat in his eyes.
That same want spreads through me, an eagle stretching out its wings. High on adrenaline, I blurt, “Take me with you.”
His features twist. “August, come on. You know I cannot—”
“Take me with you,” I repeat, stubbornly insistent.
The gold brightens around his irises. A flash, then gone. He grabs my other hand, nodding.
I almost forget to lock the greenhouse on the way out.
Cary’s room isn’t what I expected. In a good way.
Dark wood floors shift into cream walls. Light twinkles from a cluster of small globes that drip from the ceiling like falling stars. Thick bouquets of asphodels spring from clay vases decorated in vibrant blue art.
And there are books all over.
Stacked on rustic furniture. Piled in a high-backed chair. Open on the gray area rug.
Gauzy curtains dance in front of an open window. I breathe in briny sea spray. Underneath, an earthy sugariness from a bowl of fresh pomegranate on the small table nearby.
I try not to stare at his wide—and appealing—platform bed. It’s perfectly made. Dressed in onyx. Not a single dent in any of the pillows. As if he never really sleeps here.
“Because he’s a vampire,” I whisper, amused.
A coffin is probably tucked away somewhere.
“Sorry for the mess.”
I spin around. Cary smiles from the doorway. A blush roses his cheeks. Grains of sand stick to his clothes. The undone buttons of his Henley show off smooth skin and muscle.
Shrugging, I say, “Mine is worse.”
“Are you inviting me to your bedroom again?”
Now it’s my turn to flush. “You like to read?”
“I do. When I can.”
His fingers trail over spine after spine. From here, I can see some of the titles: Giovanni’s Room, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Beloved, I’ll Give You the Sun, Pride and Prejudice. They’re from my world. I wonder how he got them here. Did he steal them? Can Deathless get library cards?
There are other books, thick tomes, with titles in a language I can’t read. The same one from the garden’s maze.
I can imagine him sitting on the shore. His curious face tucked between the pages. Forgetting the world exists. At least a dozen books lie cracked open around the room. I wonder which is his favorite.
“Do you ever finish any of them?” I ask.
“Of course. Time moves slower here,” he reminds me. “One page at a time, August.”
My eyes stray to an oddly shaped guitar on a tufted ottoman. It’s long necked, the round wooden body polished. I almost reach for it.
“My mother loves music,” Cary says.
“What is it?”
“A bouzouki.”
“Do you play?”
Instantly, my skin prickles. I want to launch myself into the sea. It’s a ridiculous question. Why else would it be here?
His mouth stretches. “Sit.”
I look around. The options are sparse. I could knock some books off his chair. Or flop onto the floor. Instead, I gently lower myself onto the very edge of his bed.
He takes the ottoman. Holds the bouzouki like a practiced performer. He plucks a string. The note is like honey. Rich and thick and soothing.
I lean in to watch.
Eyes closed, Cary plays. His fingers move smoothly along the fretboard. I don’t recognize the song, but it’s beautiful. Haunting. The melody buries itself in my bones.
It’s not until Cary lifts his head, threads of hair in his eyes, that I realize my hands have been moving along with his.
My body tightens as I stare at my blue-and-yellow bracelet. A memory springs free: London explaining why he gave it to me. To control my anxious nerves.
So he wouldn’t be embarrassed by my silly composing gestures.
Shame rises feverishly into my cheeks. But Cary doesn’t look at me the way London would. He mouths, Keep going, giving me permission.
And I obey.
When he plays again, my hands follow his melody. Sound for sound. For a second, I picture a piano in front of me. I hum, low but freely. A smile tucks into the corners of his mouth.
Our eye contact doesn’t break until the song fades.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s not accusatory. It’s just that…Cary keeps surprising me.
“Like you told me you play piano?” he retorts.
I scratch the back of my head. It’s a fair point.
He grins wryly at me. “Is it my fault you are as bad as Henri when it comes to secrets?”
I lean back on my hands, lips pursed. “Since when did you get a sense of humor?”
“A very, very, very long time ago.” He smirks. “Since, you know, I am so old.”
“Ancient,” I agree. “Prehistoric. I didn’t even think I was into older men until—”
I stop short. Cary’s mouth widens. “No, please. Continue. Until…?”
Glaring half-heartedly, I mumble, “Never mind.”
Cary rests the bouzouki delicately on the rug. He sits next to me on the bed. This close, his lashes are fine and feathery. His eyebrows thick, lips full. He takes my hand.
“Wanting things is dangerous,” he says, finally answering my question from earlier.
I inhale.
His thumb presses to the pulse point on my wrist. “Especially when it is something I cannot have.”
Heat races underneath my skin. “You can’t?”
He sighs. His fingers skim up my arm. Light and warm against my collarbone. Every nerve in me chases the touch.
“But I want you, August,” he confesses. “I have wanted you for longer than you know.” The urgency in his voice trembles through my spine. “And I fear I will never stop.”
Silence wraps around us. Everything but the sea outside. I can’t think of what to say. How to tell him I want him too. Constantly.
In ways that are terrifying and thrilling.
I settle for leaning forward. Kissing him, slow and purposeful. My lips tell him what my voice can’t. He listens, then complies. His soft mouth opens against mine.
Strong, confident hands find my waist, the back of my neck, pulling. I go, like being dragged by the tide.
We fall to our sides. Impatient fingers slide beneath my shirt. I tug at his Henley, at anything between us. Our inexperience is exposed in tremoring hands. In jerky, uncoordinated movements.
But then we’re free of barriers.
He crushes me to him, skin hot and aching. I kiss his neck, the muscles of his chest. He smells like salty shores and ripe fruit. He swells against my bare belly.
I’m hard against his thigh.
His strength overwhelms me. Soon, I’m on my back. His teeth are against my throat. He presses my name to my skin. Over and over.
I look up at him. The globes of light form a crown of stars around his head. He’s panting, wide-eyed. Simultaneously nervous and starved.
“This all right? Can we—”
I snuff out his hesitation before it can spark a flame. My hands clasp around the back of his neck. “Yes.”
He’s everywhere. Gasps under my jaw. Fingers strumming my ribs. Hands along my thighs. My hard-on flush against his stomach.
A newness washes over me. Like this is the first time.
Cary stares into my eyes. He moves to the tempo of my inhales, exhales. When I slip away, he brings me back with a gentle kiss. When I tense, he pauses and waits. Then begins again.
My fingers tangle in his hair. He lets me guide us to a place we both want.
And I can’t stop wanting more.
He is the earth, solid and grounding. He is air, filling and necessary. He is fire, hot against my skin and melting my anxiousness. He is water, refreshing and I drink him in.
I’m overwhelmed. He is too. It twists us until everything and nothing meet.
Until we’re still and breathless and here, together.
After, Cary kisses my naked shoulder. I feel hazy. Those long seconds when waking from a dream. But it’s not one. This happened.
I turn my head to admire his soft expression. Sunrise gold splashing through his black eyes. With swollen lips, he smiles.
“Are you still scared to want?” I ask him.
“Yes.” Before my body tightens, retreats, he brushes a hand over my cheek. “But life without fear is pointless. Fear is what gives flight to risks. To the moments we remember most.”
A smirk pushes at my cheeks. “Where’d you steal that from? Jane Austen? Another one of your boo—”
He quiets me with a deep, hungry kiss.
“I need to go soon,” he whispers.
“When can I see you again?”
His face stills, then relaxes. He closes the gap between us to kiss me again. “Too many questions,” he says against my grinning mouth.