Chapter 17
CADENCE
Guilt is a bitter pill lodged in my throat. My pulse is frantic.
I realize I never finished explaining the contractions issue.
"My time in Sudan stripped me of my defenses against the world," I murmur.
"There was no me, no judgement, no mockery—there was only the work.
I didn't speak the language, so Duwana was my translator, and time was always our most precious commodity, so learning to shorten my phrases was imperative.
I had to speak more simply, more swiftly.
And also, I think with you, I feel no need to shield myself because I know I am safe with you. I trust you."
"I like how you talk," he whispers. "I don't want you to change a single goddamn thing about yourself."
Desire is a deep, dark pool within me, swirling with currents which threaten to suck me down into the depths. I surrender willingly. I give myself to the desire.
For a moment, I see Duwana in my mind's eye. She stands watching me depart in a cloud of dust. Fatima is beside her. I see Duwana raise a hand in farewell—smiling.
I do not know if I will ever see her again, but I know she would be happy that I am back with Riley once more.
Boldness fills me. I know Riley is concerned for me, and not without reason.
I know that my road to recovery, mentally and emotionally, will be a long one.
I am not suddenly cured of my PTSD merely by spending a few days in a quasi-vegetative state.
Being with Riley will not affect a cure either. But both are a start. A place to begin.
He will be hesitant. Reticent to press me into anything I am not ready for. What I do not know how to verbalize is that I am ready.
For him.
For us.
I will have to show him what I want. I have dreamed of this for so long—every time I closed my eyes, I saw this.
Now it is real.
He is real.
His body is huge and hard beneath me. His eyes are pale, glittering, piercing blue, steel and ice. His big, strong hands rest on my thighs, low, near my knees, as I sit astride him on the couch. There is so much I want, but to start, I need his kisses.
The rest will follow, I know.
"Riley," I whisper, his bearded jawline in my hands. "Will you kiss me?"
He grins. "Fuck yes."
He slides fingertips along my temples and into my hair, over my scalp. This touch is gentle, soft, tender. My heart flutters at the delicacy of his touch, as if I am made of glass. I cast a quiet breath upon his lips as they near mine—one of long-simmering desire and bated need.
And then he is kissing me. His mouth is wet and hot, his lips strong and soft.
He commands my mouth with his, demands and devours, quests and invites.
I part my lips for him and accept his tongue, relishing the taste of him, his breath tangling with mine.
I dreamed of kissing him for so long that the reality is nearly overpowering in its intensity.
I whimper as his tongue sweeps through my mouth, inciting arousal in every fiber of my being.
I feel my skin tingle and tighten as his hands skim up my thighs—I am clad in the T-shirt he wore yesterday and left discarded on the floor—and nothing else.
I do not have any clean clothes, and putting dirty clothes on—panties in particular—after bathing is something I simply cannot do.
Riley's shirt is different—it smells like him, comfortingly so.
I shift closer to him, and the denim of his jeans scrapes roughly against my inner thighs. For some reason, rather than the near-agony I would feel wearing the material myself, in this context it is…arousing. But then, I think in my state of desire, everything would be arousing.
His hands continue their slow, careful journey up my thighs; I pull away from the kiss, panting, as his touch reaches the place where my thighs bend and crease; when I told him I was hungry, he left me in the bed to begin cooking for me.
He did not witness me dressing, so I do not believe him to be aware of my state of undress beneath the shirt.
I did, however, catch the way he looked at me when I entered the kitchen in his shirt: approval, attraction, his gaze stuttering and lingering on my bare legs.
It felt very nice to be looked at with desire. To be seen.
To feel like a woman once more. Not a doctor. Not an American. Not a white person.
Just…me.
His eyes widen as he carves his hands up to my hips, discovering more bare skin rather than the cotton of underwear.
"Cadie, sweetheart," he murmurs, his thumbs roaming the tender, silken skin where my hips crease. "Forgot somethin'."
"No, I did not."
"No?"
I shake my head, smiling down at him, curls bouncing. "For one thing, I have nothing clean to put on."
"That's the reason, is it?" he asks, mischief and teasing on his face.
"No," I say. “That is not the only reason."
"Oh no?"
"No." I slip my hands under his shirt at the neck, biting my lip on a grin as I scour the hot skin of his neck and upper back. "I woke up afflicted with the most potent desire."
"Afflicted, were you?"
"Oh yes. Afflicted."
He tugs at the hem of the shirt I wear, freeing it from between my buttocks and his legs. "If it's an affliction, does that mean there's a cure?"
"Yes, certainly," I murmur, removing my hands so I can lift his shirt up and rip it off, toss it aside to the kitchen floor. "You."
"Me?"
"You are the only cure." I kiss him. “This is the cure.
" I roam his broad, hard shoulders, the bulge of his pectoral muscles, his thick arms. "This is the cure.
" Heat flames in my cheeks, but I feel nothing except need, bold and wild and fierce; I cup the hard wedge behind the cold metal of his zipper. "This is the cure."
"Fuck, baby," he growls, tearing his shirt off of me, leaving me naked. "You're a goddess."
My heart swells to bursting, and I am afire with desire, with need…with love. In this moment, at least, there is nothing but us. Everything else is out there, beyond these walls. Beyond his arms.
"You make me feel like one," I whisper.
"Good. You should feel like one."
He slumps back and gazes at me, letting his eyes roam my naked form. He studies me greedily, taking in my face, my hair, my throat…my breasts, lingering there as if hooked, dipping down to my belly, my thighs, the shadowed space between them.
"So fucking beautiful," he breathes, and I am not certain the words were even meant for my ears, but were torn from his soul by the mere sight of me; my blood sings. "You wet for me, honey?"
"I do not know," I answer, lying through my eager, mischievous smile. "Perhaps you should find out."
"I think I will." He lifts, leans into me.
His hand cups the back of my head and pulls me down into a kiss, and this one is rough with need.
The exquisite delicacy of earlier is gone, replaced by ravenous need.
His mouth is hungry, and he nips my lower lip hard enough that I squeak in surprise—but the squeak becomes a growl so low and feral it startles even me.
I follow it by scraping my nails through the beard along his jaw.
"I like this," I whisper. "Very, very much."
"You do?" he murmurs. "Wasn't sure how it'd go with your sensory issues."
"It is sweet of you to consider that," I answer. "My sensory issues find it delightful." I grip the beard and use it to pull him to me, and I kiss him, scour his mouth with my tongue, giving in to every urge without hesitation. "It makes you look rugged and distinguished."
He chuckles. "Distinguished? That's a new one." The laugh fades, and he cups the back of my head and tilts me backward.
I give him my weight, trusting him to hold me.
He dips me to a forty-five degree angle and leans over me, supporting me with one hand and cupping my breast with the other, offering it to his greedy mouth.
I whimper as his lips brush my erect nipple, and then gasp when he flicks his tongue against it.
His beard is rough and scratchy yet still somehow soft against my flesh, creating a maddening juxtaposition of sensations.
If I were not wet before, I am now. He suckles my nipple, and heat slams through me, tightening behind my belly and swelling into wetness leaking from my folds.
I arch my back, push my breast against his mouth, clinging to his nape with both hands.
He slides his lips to my other breast, worships there with lips and tongue and breath.
Riley lifts me upright and then stands, taking me with him.
I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling my naked sex smearing my desire against his bare, hot belly, and I cling to his shoulders and bury my face in the side of his neck, taste flesh as I kiss him there greedily, and then kiss his throat, rough stubble below the neckline of his beard like sandpaper on my lips.
He groans, tips his head back to offer me access, which I eagerly take, kissing his throat, his jawline, behind his ears, his temples.
He grips my bottom with greedy hands, groaning and growling as I kiss his cheekbones, his eyelids, the side of his nose, the tender strip of skin between sideburn and the tragus of his ear.
"Need to taste you, Cadie," he murmurs.
I feel wild, frenzied with desire—need for Riley is a volcanic heat in my core, spreading like wildfire to my extremities, short-circuiting my brain so my need for his body, his touch, his kisses, his heat and muscles and hardness and intoxicating masculine brawn take over all of my higher functions.
"Please," I whisper, my lips moving against the shell of his ear, hissing against his helix. "Taste me. Take me. I need you, Riley Crowe of Three Rivers."
He pivots on his heel and marches toward his bedroom, kicking it closed with a loud slam that makes me jump in his embrace, giggling as he snarls against my cleavage. And then I am airborne, hurled bodily onto the bed. The mattress greets me, bounces me weightless for an instant.