Amanda

 

I know we shouldn’t have. But I’m so glad we did.

 

I’ve never felt like this before. I didn’t think I was capable of feeling so much pleasure. There were times when I didn’t think I could handle any more, but I’m glad he pushed me further. I feel sorry for any man who comes into my life after tonight. They’ll never measure up.

 

We stay in bed together for a little while. I sense hesitation on his part at first, but there’s no way I’m going back to that solitary bed and sleeping alone after what just happened. I’m feeling vulnerable, more so than I ever have, and I need a little contact right now. I’m guessing this isn’t his usual routine.

 

It doesn’t take long for him to warm up, though. I’m dozing gently, sort of in and out of consciousness, in that beautiful place between sleep and wakefulness. My head is on his shoulder, and I can hear the way his heart beats slow and strong in his chest. Everything about him is strong.

 

I hear his breathing change, too. It slows, deepens. I glance up at his face without moving my head, wanting to avoid disturbing him. He’s so beautiful, if a man can be beautiful. The moonlight against the snow fills the room with an almost supernatural white glow, lighting his face. He’s angelic, just like the ink across his chest. Though I don’t think he was in an angelic mood when he got that done. I bite my lip to stifle a giggle.

 

Then I remember something. “Oh, shit!” He stirs at my voice. “The fire! You lit the fire!”

 

“Good call.” He hurries out of bed, not bothering to put on his boxers, and heads downstairs. I hear him putting out the flames, speaking to Scout in low, soothing tones. Poor dog. We probably scared the hell out of him.

 

I giggle again, remembering how wild it was. He’s officially ruined me for all other men. How can I go back to plain, boring sex again after what just happened? Nothing else will come close, I’m sure.

 

I look around the room, really seeing it for the first time. The dresser and bed are antiques, I can tell, the curtains that same pretty lacy fabric as the ones in the guest room. I wonder why he still has everything decorated this way. It doesn’t seem to suit his personality at all. He’s so masculine, hardly able to roll out a basic dough on the counter earlier tonight. This whole “farmhouse shabby chic” aesthetic clashes with what I know about him.

 

I don’t think I would change a thing, though. Maybe get a nicer TV with a better picture. Maybe switch out his old computer with my newer one. The stove and oven are amazing, but the fridge is a little small. Maybe a second one in the garage?

 

Wait a minute. What the hell am I thinking? I’m going through this in my head as though I plan to move in. This is exactly the sort of complication I don’t need in my life right now, damn it. I can’t go from one fucked up relationship to another, no matter how good the sex is. And the sex was very, very good.

 

Besides, Christopher doesn’t exactly seem like the type who would want to settle down with me. He strikes me as a loner, through and through. I can only imagine the way he’d react if I showed up one day, bags in hand. He might act like he didn’t know me, or regret ever finding me in the snow.

 

The idea is entirely too screwed up to consider.

 

And yet…

 

When he’s not being an ass, and I’m not flying off the handle at him, he’s sweet. Thoughtful. Tender. I’ll never forget how he took care of me when I was half-frozen. There’s a good heart in there, even if he doesn’t want to admit to it. Can I see us continuing this way on a permanent basis? I’m surprised to realize the idea appeals to me. I wouldn’t mind staying here with him for longer than tonight. As long as he wants me, and I want him. Why not? Many successful relationships have been based on little more than great sex, right?

 

Besides, there is more between us, as much as I didn’t want to admit it at first. There’s much more. The fact that he triggers me only means we’re alike. We’re too alike in some ways. And our differences, well, they make for some explosive fun, that’s for sure. I could live with sex even half as good as this for the rest of my life.

 

I don’t even know anything about him. He could be a murderer, a deviant. I’ve been here for less than two days. We could get to know each other, though. Does any couple know everything about each other when they first get together? Of course not. It comes in time.

 

Just like I didn’t know everything about Lucas. I shiver now. I can’t stop taking chances, no matter how terrible things were with him. I’ll be smarter this time. If I see warning signs, I won’t ignore them. Not like I did for years with that bastard.

 

My eyes fall on the dresser, specifically on a framed picture on top of the dresser. It’s of a woman, petite, blonde. Pretty. She’s laughing. I wonder who she is. Not a sister, not with that tiny frame or blonde hair. Christopher is dark, almost swarthy, and huge. A girlfriend? Shit. Does he have a girlfriend? I wouldn’t know, would I? I slap my forehead.

 

He returns just as I do. “You okay?” he asks, hesitating.

 

I just nod and smile, my eyes unable to leave his body. He’s impressive, no doubt about it.

 

He gets back into bed with me, his back against the headboard. I don’t cuddle up to him as quickly this time, now wary.

 

“I hope it’s okay for me to stay here…I mean, in bed with you.”

 

“Oh, yeah. No problem.”

 

I roll onto my side, facing him. “How long have you lived in this house?”

 

He shrugs, staring at the ceiling as he thinks. “It’s been, oh, maybe seven years? Eight?”

 

“It’s so cozy. Perfect at this time of year, too. Makes me feel all warm inside.”

 

He smiles, and I know he feels exactly the same way. I know there’s a good, sweet man in there. I wouldn’t care so much if there wasn’t.

 

“Did you grow up around here? What made you move into this house specifically?”

 

He shrugs again, the smile disappearing now. “I grew up not far from here, outside of town. Close enough to almost feel like a part of things, but I never really was. There was always a wall between me and the people who live there.”

 

“How come?”

 

“Ask them. I always guessed it was because I was sort of, well, white trash. Poor. You know those people, you see them. I bet they come in every Sunday after church, don’t they?” I nod. “Of course they do. But they’re the least Christian bunch of hypocrites in the world. Unaccepting of anybody not just like them.” He looks at me, his eyes narrowing. “You probably don’t see it, because you’re the sort of person they like. Sweet, pretty, friendly. You fit in…except you’re a good person. When I walked into your shop, you didn’t judge me or turn me away. You treated me like a person. Tattoos, dirty work clothes and all.”

 

“Well, I have to admit you were a little intimidating. But you’re a big guy, too.”

 

“True enough. But I wasn’t always. Not when I was a kid.”

 

I mull this over. Maybe this is why he’s so cut off, because he feels rejected. I don’t blame him. My heart goes out to him now. He’s so wounded. I want to end that loneliness for him.

 

Damn. One good round of sex and I’m feeling all types of things. What the hell happened to me?

 

“Can I ask you another question?”

 

He hesitates. I can tell he already feels like he’s revealed too much. He can’t be used to talking about himself like this. He shifts beneath the blankets, his lips pursed. “Sure. Go ahead.”

 

I point to the dresser, indicating the framed photo. “Who’s that?”

 

His face drops. I’ve seen that look before, I realize. It’s the same look he had on his face when I referenced the way he lives alone. Shit. What did I just step in? I wish I could take it back.

 

I especially wish it when he replies, “That’s my wife. My late wife.”