15

AFTER LOSING

DOC

IT’S ALMOST ONE IN the afternoon when I wake up. Nora’s still asleep, curled onto her side with her back pressed up against my ribs and her cheek resting on my bicep. The best part? She’s almost completely uncovered apart from the sheet over my waist that then runs down the warm line of skin where we touch. I do my best not to move too much while angling my head to look over her. She takes a sudden inhale of breath and hums in exhale, her top hand sliding across the sheet up into my hand. Her fingers lace through mine and squeeze.

“Declan,” she murmurs, barely audible. “Declan?” The repeat of my name is tense, higher-pitched, albeit muffled with sleep.

Her body trembles slightly as her grip on my fingers tightens. I turn myself to wrap around her, holding her from behind.

“Beauty,” I whisper into her ear. “It’s okay, baby.”

Nora exhales a tiny moan, her cheek rubbing into its spot on my arm. Her body shudders, shaking off slumber like a cat as she stretches out and relaxes into me.

“You awake?” I ask quietly.

“Mmm.”

“Were you having a nightmare?”

She’s silent for a beat too long before she twists over her shoulder to throw a question at me with her eyebrow. “What? No.”

Maybe she’s still half asleep, because that wasn’t even a remotely convincing lie. “You said my name in your sleep.”

“I said Doc?” she asks, turning back and resting her head.

I kiss her shoulder and rest my chin there. “You said Declan. Twice.”

She makes a chuffing sound, sounding like an amused tiger. “Clearly I was having a sex dream. Good onya, mate.”

I groan. “Your Aussie accent is worse than my Irish impression.”

She giggles. “At least you admit your weaknesses.”

I’m almost drawn into the mindlessly enjoyable banter we have, but I remember the way her body shook.

“What was the dream really?” I ask her. “You were trembling. When you said my name the second time, you sounded afraid.”

She reaches up to rub her eyes, moving immediately to run fingers through her long, black hair. That inky silk draws my hand to stroke it. Then she speaks, and the spell breaks.

“Ugh, I don’t know. Honestly, Doc, I don’t even remember. I think we were in a haunted house or something.”

I release a forceful exhale. “Love, I know bullshit when I smell it. But if you’re that determined to keep it a secret, I won’t beg you.”

I fall onto my back, pull the sheet up my chest and maneuver my arm out from under her head. As a result, she’s forced to roll onto her stomach, where she flips her hair out of her face and glares at me.

“Doc, I don’t remember,” she says, but I don’t buy it. “I’m not keeping… secrets.”

The way she says this is odd, but I’m not playing into it. “Okay.”

Silently, I struggle with the astonishment over how drastically and hastily the mood between us can shift. When she arrived early this morning, everything felt somehow perfect. Waking up to her warm skin on mine was just what I wanted—the feeling, the warmth… all that shit. Then one question and a lie shove me into war mode.

I don’t realize how tense my muscles have gone until she places her hand on my chest, nails scratching lightly through my chest hair. Then I manually relax every muscle I can feel before pulling my gaze away from the ceiling and resettling it on Nora’s face.

“I can’t possibly believe you’re going to be pissed at me because I can’t remember a dream,” she says, matter-of-factly and—if my aggravation isn’t coloring the tone I’m hearing—condescendingly.

When I launch out of bed, pushing off her hands and pitiful contempt, it feels more like an explosion. “If you think that’s it, Bennett,” I say, tempering my anger as best I can, “you’re not paying attention.”

She sighs, but it’s not one of resignation. It’s a signal that she’s pissed and going to match me hit for hit.

“Ya know what, Wellesley?” she asks. “I have Christmas shopping and a bunch of errands to run today, so maybe I should just go get my shit done.”

I pull on my jeans and laugh bitterly. “You just can’t do it, can you?”

“What?” she yells. I turn to see her wide-eyed and rigid, sitting up on the bed.

“Let me in.” I feel like I’ve pled guilty to something heinous—admitted to murder or something.

She stills. I keep thinking I’ll take whatever she offers as it comes, but Nora Bennett is more than an addiction. There is no fix that would leave me completely sated. I’m only more eager and anxious for the next one—at least that’s what’s been happening the past month or so. I’ve been trying to calm the fuck down, but it’s proving impossible.

I step toward her, hissing, “You think I give a shit if you can’t remember a dream?”

Nora looks taken aback, like I had the balls the call her out on a lie. Her eyes track side to side. “Yes?” she squeaks.

I laugh at the silly-ass sound her response produced, but it’s more of a release of my frustration. My hands grip sections of my hair and my eyes pinch shut as I let out a groan that sounds somewhere between injured seal and excited donkey. I laugh more and feel the fight drain out of me. My body slumps and crumbles toward the bed. I land face down, on my stomach. I can’t really breathe, but I don’t care.

Then I feel her hand, hot on my lower back.

“Declan?” Her voice is soft and pleading. It kills me. “I’m sorry.”

I turn my face to her and find her expression childlike, scared. I push up to my knees to be chest to chest with her. She takes my hands and lifts them to her face. With her cheeks in my palms, I can feel her breath on my face, filtering through my beard to my skin. I am a freak, a junkie—I absorb her, all of her that I can reach, touch, feel…

“I don’t care about the dream,” I tell her. “I don’t. I just can’t stand the idea that you would hide something so stupid from me. It felt like you were lying,” I say, suddenly tired after the meteoric up and down of this brief and strange fit.

Nora’s hands slide from their spot at my sides up to the middle of my back, pulling her flush against me. My senses sink into a stupor as our skin heats between us.

“It was a stupid nightmare, okay?” she whispers. “Someone was trying to hurt me, kidnap me or something, and I was trying to find you. That’s it.”

Her eyes shut halfway through her confession, which make it—in my mind—an invitation to kiss her. So I do. Hard. Insistent. Hungry for her as I always am.

“I’m sorry,” I say with only breath. My fuse is short, and I hate it. “I…”

“I’m sorry,” she says against my lips. She rests her forehead against mine to continue. “I-I don’t like needing to be saved or protected. I didn’t like how the dream made me feel. I save myself.”

“There’s nothing wrong with needing someone, baby.”

I see her eyes, wide and ashamed, and I don’t understand it. I try to pull her closer to me, but we’re already skin to skin. When she exhales next, her patience goes with it. I’m overwhelmed by her lips, her fingertips digging into my back. An exciting push-and-pull ensues, dragging us in different directions as we try to get the other on their back. It’s like an arm-wrestling match, but with our whole selves battling to get closer.

Eventually she grips my jeans and rids me of them. I land backwards on the bed, which is her invitation to crawl over me and smile wickedly.

“I’m taking you this time.”

Her voice is thick with need, and God, do I need her right now.

“God, yes.”

Finally, she straddles me to slowly take me inside. Our voices warp and blend as we vocalize the pleasure of connecting. She writhes above me, lifting, twisting, grinding, feeling me. Our rhythm syncs, and I let my hands roam, exploring her, claiming her. I find myself watching her face as she moves, mesmerized by her changing expressions.

“Declan,” she says, strong and low, panting as her head falls back. “Oh, Declan, yes.”

I growl, following her as she leans away. I suck a nipple into my mouth as her back arches, pushing her breasts out toward me. The new angle gives me leverage to pull her to me, on me. My teeth scrape her nipple as I release it to speed up the pace, my own need frantic for her. Somehow, it’s just not enough. I’m chasing more, but she’s right there with me.

The physical conversation is the resolution of the argument. Each move, each moan is an apology and a deeper connection than I’ve ever felt to her.

When Nora hurls herself toward me, curling around my shoulders as she comes, shivering and moaning, I am floored. What and who I see is disjointed and raw, and quite possibly the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever witnessed.

The only thing I can utter as I follow her is, “Beauty.”

Several minutes, a few breathless kisses, and a dual collapse later, I ask, “So you’re staying?”

Her ear-to-ear grin is her only response before her lips are on mine.