Chapter 34 #2
“I was more than fine with it, but things changed.” Voices rise at the table beside us, making it hard to hear. “I can’t really get into it right now.”
She nods slowly, eyes turning glassy in a way mine so desperately want to. The way Holden’s just did.
“I’ll be okay,” I say, and hope I’m not lying. “Hey, where’s Loretta? I haven’t seen her yet.”
“She had an honest-to-God wardrobe malfunction. Our little diva’s backstage with one of the costume people. And stop deflecting.” Her hands close around mine. “Tomorrow, I’m bringing ice cream and that hellfire you love. We’ll talk. Or we won’t. Whatever you need.”
I pull in a deep breath. “Okay.”
Ben returns with my bourbon, and I take a long swallow as the cast trickles in. Artie and Gabi wander over, Artie singing Loretta’s praises to Constance while Gabi teases my brother until he blushes, then makes me swear—swear—that I’ll publish my book.
Holden’s nowhere in sight.
But when the Spur Junkies cover “Bluest Eyes in Texas,” my heart lifts, stupidly hopeful. I scan the room, convinced he’s on his way—until the chorus hits and there’s still no sign of him.
Constance, oblivious to my slow unraveling, grabs my shoulders. “Oh my God, Maggie, it’s our song! Well, your mother’s song, technically, but we used to dance to it all the time.”
“Sing to it,” Ben pipes in. “Horribly.”
She swats his arm, then takes the drink from my hand and sets it beside hers on the table. “Come on, girl. We have to dance.”
I don’t move.
My already broken heart keeps breaking, more of it chipping away, as if Holden himself were there with a chisel.
It’s no one’s song. Not anymore.
Ben meets my eyes, perceptive as always, and adds his beer to the collection. “You ready?”
I nod quickly.
“Maggie?” Constance says, her face pinched with worry. “What’s happening?”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Then my brother takes me home.
“Go on,” Ben says as I climb out of the passenger side of my GTO. “Looks like he left it open for you.”
I glance at the carriage house door. It’s cracked just an inch, dim light and soft music spilling out.
“Thanks for tonight,” I tell him. “For everything.”
He spins my keys on his finger as he heads up the stairs. “I’m here if you need me.”
The night is still. Quiet. I take a moment to steady myself, then cross the gravel drive and knock.
“It’s open,” Holden says, and I step inside, closing the door behind me.
He’s bent forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, in black boxer briefs and a white V-neck, nursing a finger of bourbon.
A bottle of TX sits beside him, and it stirs something in me.
If this were any other night, it’d make me smile that he’s drinking my drink.
But it’s his last night, and he’s cradling that glass like it’s a part of me he can’t bear to put down.
“You promised me a dance,” I say, trailing my fingers over the linen-covered table. It’s untouched from yesterday, still set with dishes, champagne flutes, and the dozen roses I got him.
“I’m sorry, Maggie. I wanted to, but…”
“It’s fine. I get it.”
The silk petals have been gathered into a bowl and the string lights unplugged, but the candles still flicker.
“Next time,” I say, knowing full well there won’t be a next time.
Clothes are strewn across the bed beside an open duffel. A suitcase waits on the floor.
I give him a weak smile. “Were you even going to tell me goodbye?”
“I was hoping you’d come.”
I lift the bourbon from his hand, take a slow sip, and set the glass on the table. “Were you hoping I’d stay, too?”
He doesn’t answer. Just presses his head to my stomach and wraps his arms around me.
“Fade Into You” ends and starts again—and now I remember it playing during our date.
He has it on repeat.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers to the floor. “My whole life I’ve gotten everything I’ve ever wanted, but I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you.”
I swallow, busying my fingers in his hair. “We have tonight. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
“Just you, Maggie,” he says, voice hoarse. Reverent. He slips a hand beneath my dress. “Every inch of you. Slow, patient. Like we’ve got forever.”
Then he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my thong and drags it down my legs, his eyes going dark. “But I also want to bend you over that table, push up this little dress, and fuck you so hard you feel me for days.”
I kick off my heels and step out of my underwear. “What’s stopping you?”
He drains the rest of his bourbon, then strips off his shirt. I take in his taut chest, the way it rises and falls too fast, like his heart’s trying to escape.
This isn’t a game anymore. It’s goodbye.
The room goes very still.
His gaze flicks to the table, but he doesn’t get up. Instead, he pushes his briefs down and pulls me onto his lap, my dress bunching between us.
I grab the hem and lift it over my head.
“Jesus, Maggie.” He eases the clip from my hair, gathering it at the nape of my neck as I lower my mouth to his. His barely-there stubble rasps against my skin, but the kiss is tender—his tongue moving with mine in a rhythm so heartbreakingly familiar it almost undoes me.
“Fade Into You” loops again.
He moves on to my jaw, the column of my throat, my breast. He sucks my nipple between his teeth, tugging gently until I arch into his mouth, a low, broken sound slipping free. His fingers slide between my legs, finding me already wet and aching for him.
“Damn,” he whispers. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”
“You don’t need to.”
You just need to look at me, and I’m gone for you.
My hand closes around him. I stroke him once, twice, then ease him inside me. The way he fills me—the stretch—it’s almost too much. I shut my eyes and breathe deep, giving my body a chance to adjust.
When I open them again, he’s watching me, his face etched with something between hunger and hesitation. He grips my waist, but he doesn’t move.
I lift a little, then sink back down.
Slowly.
Again.
He stirs beneath me, a subtle roll of his hips, and I realize he’s holding back. Is he afraid he’ll hurt me?
I want him to hurt me.
I want to feel him for days.
“Fuck me, Holden,” I whisper, catching his gaze and holding it. “Fuck me like you said.”
He groans, fingers digging into my hips as he thrusts into me. Careful at first, then faster. Rougher. Again and again.
I press my forehead against his, my hair falling around us, the rest of the room slipping out of focus. I don’t want to forget any of it. The sounds he makes, the way he touches me. How he looks at me.
I lean back just a little. His eyes, shining like they were earlier, bore into mine—then he wrenches his gaze away.
“Holden…”
“Don’t, Maggie,” he whispers, and with a low grunt, stands and carries me to the bed.
A single swipe of his arm sends his clothes and duffel to the floor, and then he lays me down and climbs over me.
He hooks a hand under my thigh to lift it and drives into me again. Harder somehow. Impossibly deep.
And just like the first time, it hurts in the best possible way.
Like he’s tearing me apart—only there’s no putting me back together.
We collapse in silence, our bodies spent and humming. Holden gets up for a towel and kills the music. A whippoorwill’s melancholy song fills the quiet.
The water comes on, and he drums his fingers on the counter while he waits for it to warm. I stare up at the still fan—at the blades I forgot to dust, at the gold teardrop pulls, barely moving in the AC.
Then the water cuts off.
He kneels beside me on the floor and drags the washcloth over me, his gentle touch undoing me all over again. “You okay?”
No. Not even close.
But I nod anyway and lift my hand to his face, my thumb brushing the shadow on his jaw.
He leans into my palm. “Tired?”
I shake my head, and he tosses the cloth aside.
We make love for hours. Slow. Patient. As if we have forever.
Even though we don’t.