I startle awake in the muted gray hours just before dawn, noticeably cooler than I was when I fell asleep. My hand searches the sheets before my fatigued mind can figure out what I’m looking for. Dane’s gone. I jolt upright, eyes scanning the room. It’s empty. My head feels like it weighs five thousand pounds on my shoulders, and though I’m still foggy from sleep, a rising sense of panic propels me out of bed.
I descend the stairs cautiously, on alert for any strange noises that don’t belong. There’s nothing aside from the yellow glow of the work light. The opacity of the plastic sheeting distorts my view of the kitchen, but I can tell one shape doesn’t belong among the rest. I sweep the plastic aside and see him.
Dane is sitting on an overturned bucket, leaned over with his elbows on his knees, absentmindedly picking at his knuckles. It looked like he was staring off at nothing before I disturbed him, but now he focuses on me. This is the first time I’ve seen his eyes look so troubled. They’re red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and his shoulders seem to sag beneath the weight of the last eight hours. It’s unsettling seeing such a capable man in such distress.
I don’t see the blood until I’m only a few feet from him. It’s rusty-red, dried in the valleys between his knuckles. A quick scan of the room reveals the source: a fist-sized hole in the drywall, right in the spot where a refrigerator will go one day. Dragging my eyes from the evidence of some private outburst, I ignore the hole and what caused it and place a tentative hand on his cheek, trusting that even someone his size needs comfort.
“I’m sorry. I was restless. I didn’t mean to wake you.” His voice is gravelly from disuse.
I squat down in front of him so we’re eye-level. “You didn’t. And I feel the same way.” I look around at the patchy, bare walls. Already, they feel like they’re closing in. “I don’t do the damsel-in-distress thing well,” I say with a self-deprecating snort.
He flexes his knuckles and drops his hands. “It’s not such a bad thing, needing help.”
“I guess not. I just wanted to build something on my own.” My mind drifts to the recent past, remembering how determined I was to make something of myself when I moved here. To soar without needing anyone to give me a boost.
“I know how that feels. But sometimes it takes more strength to admit you need help than to deny it.”
I’m not sure why the words that come out of his mouth still have the power to surprise me. “You are not at all what I expected, Dane Cross.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean I’m a disappointment,” he says with just a trace of a grin.
“Definitely not. You’ve lived in the same place for thirty years but somehow know more about life than the rest of us.”
He shakes his head, his weary eyes cast downward. “I guess I’m talking the talk before walking the walk. Soaking up what I can from the outside because I can’t be there myself.”
Coming from the mouth of someone who’s proven himself to be misunderstood, and good down to his bones, that statement is heart-wrenching. I can’t comprehend how much he longs for a life outside of Heronwood after all these years of dreaming and working for it. And now, seeing it all put at risk because of his feelings for a woman—me—makes me sick to my stomach.
I have to do something. I should leave. Remove myself from the equation. I don’t know if that thought terrifies me more than the prospect of staying.
“I’ve been thinking . . . the best thing for you to do is to get out. Go stay with your parents, or your sister. Let me handle this. Give everything some time to burn out.”
My head jerks back, and even though I was just thinking it, I can’t force the concept of leaving to make sense in my brain. Making my decision that much harder, Dane’s strength seems to stagger with each word he uses to convince me to go. It punches holes in my gut.
“We don’t have to think about that now.” I reach up and place a hand on his shoulder, running it up his neck and into his hair. “Whatever you’re worried about, stop.”
Dane turns his head just the slightest bit, kissing me on the soft part of my forearm. And although the days ahead are shrouded in uncertainty, his lips are warm. His eyes skim my bare legs up and up until they finally meet mine.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever stop worrying about you. Not until this is finished.”
“Well, that won’t be today. Or even tomorrow,” I say softly. I wish it was enough to smooth the creases of worry from his forehead. To distract him so he won’t look so heartbreakingly regretful. When I stand up, I step closer, between his knees. His hands slide up the backs of my thighs, drawing me in, and his mouth is hot when he touches his lips to my stomach, over my t-shirt. Then his hands continue their trip north, catching the fabric of my shirt and lifting the hem enough to kiss bare skin just above the waistband of my panties. His proximity, the heat of his breath on my abdomen, it’s intoxicating.
As he rises, he draws my shirt up and over my head, kissing his way up to my sternum before he lets the shirt drop to the floor. Taking my face in his hands, he subjects me to the full potential of those lips. They coax mine open with the barest suggestion, taking my bottom one in his teeth before sliding his tongue between and grazing it along mine. My hands land on his waist, and I can’t fight the undeniable pull of my body and my heart toward the one place I never thought they’d go. I tug him closer by his shirt while his fingers thread through my hair, tangling and sending spikes of sensation through my scalp.
“You shouldn’t be down here in bare feet,” he murmurs against my lips. I don’t have time to respond before his hands are on my backside, lifting me as easily as he’d lift a backpack.
I lock my legs around him, clinging to him while we travel together back the way I just came. Then he’s laying me atop the mussed sheets on the bed, poised on one knee to keep his weight off me. When I fist my hands in his shirt and tug him closer, he gives, but not completely. His forehead comes to rest on mine, keeping a maddening space between our lips, far enough to drive me wild with want. Every inch of my skin seems to hum with coiled energy, just waiting to be released against him.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
My hands stop tugging. “You won’t hurt me. You can’t.”
I can see his resolve shrinking, but not enough. “I feel like shit, still wanting you after all that’s happened tonight. I should tell you again to leave town and never come back.”
“I hope you don’t.”
That’s all it takes for the final piece of his defense to crumble, and our lips clash together again, hasty and impatient, every ounce of restraint dissipated. Our skin meets like it was meant to; like our story has been written in the stars for centuries, and we’re just now surrendering to our fates.
I could agonize about the extra layer of cushion I’ve acquired around my middle, the faint stretch marks on my hips, or a thousand other things. But I don’t. I can’t. Not while Dane is worshiping me with his mouth like I’ve never been worshiped before. Normal kisses don’t feel like this; like a hello and a goodbye. These are that, and everything in between.
He alternates sucks and laps of my skin, traveling between my breasts, then over them when he can’t hold back any longer. Running my hands along his abdomen, I free him from his shorts and boxer briefs in one swift move, and he stands just long enough to shake them off onto the floor before he returns to me, both silky and rough, all hard edges where I’m soft. There’s no time to appreciate him with my eyes, so I do it with my hands instead, feeling him grow beneath my fingers.
And when he’s finally sunken into me, every burst of sensation and color his body is drawing from mine is somehow enough to block out the ugly things I’ve seen.