Chapter 24 #2
“Still green?”
“Very.”
I kissed the back of his neck.
He shivered.
We moved again.
There was no undressing.
No attempt to turn the moment into something it was not.
Only the pressure of our bodies aligned through thin cloth, Noah touching himself beneath the blanket while I moved against the heat between his thighs.
The intimacy nearly overwhelmed me.
He had chosen every part.
He controlled the angle with small shifts of his hips.
I followed.
“Harder,” he whispered.
I pressed more firmly.
His breath caught.
My hand spread over his stomach.
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Head?”
“Clear.”
“Fear?”
“Gone.”
The answer released something fierce inside me.
I kissed his shoulder.
Noah rolled his hips back.
Pleasure spiked through me.
A groan escaped into his skin.
He repeated the movement, encouraged by the sound.
“Cal.”
“Yes.”
“Talk to me.”
“What do you need to hear?”
“Tell me you want me.”
“I want you.”
“Now.”
“Now.”
“Not the man I was before.”
“I want the man in my arms.”
His body trembled.
“The man choosing this. The man who can make me forget every useful thought I have ever had.”
Noah’s hand moved faster beneath the blanket.
I matched his rhythm.
My control thinned.
“Tell me if anything changes.”
“It won’t.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I will.”
He turned his face enough for me to reach his mouth.
The angle made the kiss awkward.
Hungry.
Breathless.
His lips opened beneath mine. I tasted sleep and coffee from the night before and the warmth of him. His fingers tightened over my wrist where my hand lay on his stomach.
His body grew taut.
“I’m close.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
“Keep going?”
“Yes.”
I held him firmly and moved against him.
Noah cried out softly into the pillow.
His body went rigid, then shuddered as release took him. His hand stilled beneath the blanket.
Feeling him tremble in my arms destroyed what remained of my control.
I pressed my face to his neck and followed with a rough sound, my hips losing their careful rhythm.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Our breathing filled the room.
Then Noah began to laugh.
Not loudly.
A warm, startled sound.
I kissed his shoulder.
“What?”
“We are still almost completely dressed.”
“Yes.”
“That felt…”
He searched for the word.
“Safe?” I offered.
“Yes.”
“Good?”
“Very.”
“Complicated?”
“Not while it was happening.”
I held him closer.
“That matters.”
He turned carefully in my arms.
Our sleep clothes were rumpled.
So were the sheets.
Noah studied my face.
“You stopped asking questions near the end.”
“You were answering me with words and with your body.”
“Did you feel in control?”
“Of myself?”
“Yes.”
“Barely.”
He smiled.
“I liked that.”
“I know.”
“Did I like it before?”
“Yes.”
His fingertips traced my beard.
“I like it now.”
The distinction left the bedroom filled with quiet warmth.
Not a recovered preference.
Not a borrowed history.
His.
Now.
We showered, stripped the bed, and made breakfast.
Noah was hungry again.
He poured an unreasonable amount of maple syrup over his pancakes and claimed it was essential to neurological rehabilitation.
I told him no doctor would support that.
He said I lacked imagination.
Over the next few days, the headaches eased.
His work settled into a rhythm.
Two hours each morning.
Lunch upstairs.
Rest.
Sometimes, if he woke clear-headed, another hour in the loft late in the afternoon.
He no longer waited for one of us to assign him every task. He checked the project board and selected tasks Joel and Maeve had approved as safe.
On Wednesday, he repaired a damaged gauge from Ferry Four.
On Thursday, he found an error in Owen’s load calculation and became unbearable for the remainder of the day.
On Friday, the first insurance payment arrived.
The figure in the account looked unreal.
I stared at it for several minutes before I trusted that it would remain there.
Then I paid the supplier balance.
Cleared the temporary line of credit.
Set aside payroll.
Ordered the safety equipment.
And went to the bank to arrange bonuses for Caleb and Owen.
I told myself the amounts were practical.
They were not.
They were gratitude expressed in numbers because words still felt inadequate.
On the drive back, I stopped at a kitchen-supply shop.
I bought a commercial grinder and an espresso machine for the break room.
The machine cost less than the old generator I no longer needed to sell.
It still felt extravagant.
I added pastries and savory pies from the harbor bakery and returned before noon.
Caleb smelled the food before I opened the break-room door.
“What did you do?”
“I brought lunch.”
“That is not an answer.”
Owen came in behind Noah.
Noah used the cane. Graphite darkened his fingers, and a narrow smear of sealant marked one wrist.
He looked at the boxes covering the table.
“Are we celebrating?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“The payment arrived.”
His face brightened.
“Today?”
“This morning.”
I opened the boxes and set out vegetable tarts, meat pies, and pastries.
Then I pointed toward the machine concealed beneath a cloth at the end of the counter.
Caleb pulled the cloth away.
Silence.
Owen placed one hand reverently on the stainless-steel casing.
“This is not sensible.”
“It is morale.”
“It has a pressure gauge.”
“Yes.”
“Do any of us know how to use it?”
“No.”
Noah leaned on his cane.
“We repair marine electronics.”
Caleb looked at him.
“That means no.”