Chapter 22 #2
When I turn back, my eyes are wide open.
I lie there staring at the bathroom and listening to the quiet, which is notably different from the silence in my room.
Here, comfort is found not only in his arms but also in the air.
It’s not thick with tension permeating every inch of the house by people who don’t seem to care about me, only what I can do for them.
Here, I’m free from the regret I so often feel when I lay my head on my pillow at night.
With Keats, I’m me, and that’s good enough.
“Sweet dreams, Poet.”
“Sweet dreams, Spark.” I hear the smile in his voice, loving that he feels the same way.
I fell asleep without warning.
The bed is so comfortable, like a pillow in heaven, floating on a cloud, and hearing the breathing of the man behind me has me feeling peaceful inside.
But I need to pee, so I slip out of bed and use the bathroom.
After washing my hands, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
There’s only enough light from the little tree in the other room stretching in here, but my eyes adjust quickly.
I had washed my face, but the usual dark circles aren’t as noticeable.
We’ve only gotten a few hours of rest, but I almost look refreshed.
The makeshift ribbon wrapped around my hair has slipped to the ends.
As I refasten it, I drag my hands over the blond hair.
I don’t even recognize myself anymore. Not because I’m wearing a ponytail, which is something I rarely do.
It’s because this color isn’t for me. It was for Gregory, just like growing my hair long was for my mother.
I was told I looked prettier with long hair, a lighter color, and less makeup, but apparently, more makeup was needed to appear more natural.
It doesn’t matter what I do or how I contort into the box they want me to dive into. I will never win their approval.
Releasing the exasperation that had clustered in my throat, I stare at myself, realizing they only think I’m pretty when I don’t resemble myself. It’s such a mind-twister to live for everyone else and still always come up short.
“Short . . .” I look at the ponytail hanging over my shoulder, knowing what needs to happen next.
Can it wait until morning? Sure. But why wait when I’ve never felt surer about something I want?
I pad back into the bedroom and crawl into bed to hover over Keats, who is still soundly sleeping and still gorgeous as ever, even sleeping.
“Keats?” I whisper and kiss his cheek. When he doesn’t move, I touch his shoulder, prodding him not as gently as I should. “Keats, wake up.”
My hand is caught like he’s a ninja with incredible reflexes, and his eyes lock on me. His grip instantly eases, folding his fingers with mine, and the easiest smile relaxes on his face. I grin. “Guess I’m safe with you around.”
“I might be a little out of sorts. As I said, I don’t have guests over. Until you.” He scrubs his hand over his face, then props up on his elbow. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, keeping my voice low out of respect for the hour. Just after three in the morning. “But I need you to do something for me.”
A yawn takes hold of him briefly before he nods. “Okay. What is it?”
I sweep my ponytail to the front in a presentation. “Will you cut my hair?”
“What? Why?” He sits and leans over to check the clock on the nightstand behind me. “What’s going on, Sosie?”
“I don’t want to be a Stansbury anymore.”
The sigh isn’t loud, but I recognize the reaction. He understands me. Reaching up to massage my shoulder, he says, “You don’t have to cut your hair or erase your name. You can just take ownership of it.”
“This is taking ownership. I want my hair the way I like it, not how they want it. Please, Keats. For me?”
It’s not like I’m leaving him any room to react differently, but it means everything to me that he doesn’t hesitate. “If that will make you happy—”
“It will.”
He rolls over to get out of bed. “Then I’ll get the scissors.”
Not five minutes later, Keats is behind me, our gazes connecting in the reflection of the mirror under unforgiving bright lights, blinding us.
When he sees me blinking, he moves to the switch and dims the light.
I laugh out loud. “I thought you were some bathroom psycho killer with lights so bright.”
He chuckles. “Glad I put your mind at ease.” He tries to hand me the handle end of the scissors, but I don’t accept.
“I want you to do it.” Our eyes stay fixed.
The glint in his eye is one of understanding and curiosity.
I don’t know why I’m asking this of him.
It’s not that big of a deal. I can just cut it off myself.
But I don’t want to. I want him to cut my hair so I can transition back to myself. “I trust you.”
The confusion disappears, and only empathy colors his eyes. Stroking the length of my hair, he wraps his fingers around the ponytail. “Where do you want me to cut?”
I could let him decide, but this isn’t about him. It’s about me, and what I want, so I reply, “Right above the shoelace.”
“That’s short.”
“Like when we met.”
He smiles, and without any apprehension, he starts cutting.
My breath lodges in my throat until the last strands are freed from the thick string.
Holding the pony, he looks back at me in the mirror and asks, “What do you think?” His voice holds the same confidence as if he just made a brilliant stock market trade.
As I stare at my hair in the mirror, not one strand comes close to grazing my shoulders, and none falls beneath them.
Shaking my head back and forth, I watch as the hair taps my neck, no longer than chin length, and then reach back to rattle my fingers through it.
My smile is swift, and the giggle that follows is effervescent as it tickles my throat.
“It’s been so long since I had it like this.
” I dart my eyes to his, and say, “I love it.”
He slides his arms around my waist and dips his smiling face to my shoulder, planting a kiss on my neck just below the freshly cut hair. “Good. That’s all that matters.”
Reaching my arms around his neck, I hold him there. “Not to me. What do you think?”
“I love it, too. It suits you.”
I turn in his arms and reestablish mine around his neck. “I should have done it years ago. Sometime in the past six years, I lost myself. It feels good to be back.”
“Have I mentioned how good it is to see you again?”
“Must have slipped your mind,” I tease in a whisper.
His hands lower to my hips, then slide to my ass. “I’ve been distracted.” Lifting me, he sets me on the counter with my back against the mirror. “I’ve also been wondering—”
“What have you been wondering?” The sly smile that’s taking up space on his face has me asking.
The width of his palms covers the tops of my thighs, and when one starts sliding the hem of my shirt up, the other moves between my legs. He wedges them apart and takes possession of the available space. “What’s under this T-shirt?” Coming in closer, he kisses me gently and then like he means it.
Spreading my legs, I want to feel him against me, his hands all over my body, and his breath panting against my skin.
Our lips part and our tongues meet in a sensuous kiss that is both needy and raw, like our emotions have been.
His groan vibrates in my throat, and I cling to him even more, wanting to taste his hunger for me.
“There’s only one way to find out.” My breathing is already off kilter, my yearning for him growing at a rapid pace.
He slides me to the edge of the counter against his hardness. I wrap my legs around him just as our bodies weigh backward until my head hits the mirror. He feels so good between my legs, but this strip of fabric and his cotton boxer briefs are going to be the death of me.
Grinding against me, his forehead rests against the mirror. His eyes are closed and his breathing ragged, fogging the glass with each exhale. “Why do you feel so fucking good?” he growls against my neck. He moves to nibble the edge of my jaw, then kisses the corner of my mouth.
I’m pretty sure the question is rhetorical, but since I feel the same about him, I manage to utter, “We’re so good together.
” The words were released like a dove from the cage where it had been trapped, free to fly and exist in the universe.
We were never meant to be a one-night stand. We were meant to be forever.
“Keats,” I say, unable to hold my desire in any longer. “Touch me.”
He slips a hand under the shirt, his warm hand grazing over my thigh and then between my legs again.
This time, a finger slides under the strip of fabric, igniting goose bumps across my skin.
The tip of his finger glides through my slit and presses right where I need him.
My hips buck in response, as if I don’t control them, he does.
Small circles tease before he goes lower to my entrance.
Kissing my neck and then my lips, he steals my breath when he pushes in as I exhale.
“Mmm,” I hum with our mouths still connected.
He dips inside me and pulls back to watch my reaction. His chocolatey eyes are glazed with goodness, as if the view has drawn his emotions to the surface. Anchored to the counter, I sink lower on his finger, letting my head drop back, and my lips fall apart from each other.
One of his hands tugs the collar to the side to seek more exposure while the other adds another finger and thrusts in again. “It feels so good, too good. Don’t stop.” He doesn’t, giving me what I ache for over again until my body moves of its own accord while pushing toward the precipice of relief.
His own moans mingle with mine as my body, slick with need, is heard.
He pumps harder, a grit to his breath in my ear.
I beg, “Please. So close. God, Keats. So—ahhh.” I fall to pieces beneath him.
His lips heated against my skin, the pad of his palm pressed to my clit, and the feel of him inside me is all-consuming, leaving my body tremoring to completion.
And when I’m left drifting among the stars, my body goes limp under him.
I release a long breath and slowly regain myself in this realm.
His eyes are set on mine, but you would have thought he’d come by how the corners are lackadaisical, like the corners of my eyes feel.
I caress his cheek and sigh with all the swoons of being utterly satisfied in the tone of it. “Hi,” I whisper, grinning.
He drops his head to my shoulder and says, “I fucking came.”
Laughter is the best medicine as it ripples through me. I wrap my arms around him and stroke the back of his head. “I’ll take the compliment.”
Looking up at me, he’s now grinning, too. “You should.” Kissing me gently, he confesses, “I was always weak to you, Spark.”