Chapter 34
Sharks, whales and other tales
“Not about sharks? Whales then?” Logan asks. He knows about my rage at whalers, my dream to thwart them. “Wait! That reminds me — I got you a gift. Two gifts!”
He ambles over to fetch something from the bedside table, then strolls back, grinning widely, with both hands behind his back. For a moment, he looks so young and carefree — like an impish schoolboy about to surprise his teacher with a shiny apple, or perhaps a white mouse — that my heart contracts in a sudden spasm at what I have to tell him.
“Here!” He hands me a plain white rectangle of plastic, with a magnetic strip on the back. It looks like a blank credit card.
“Um, it’s lovely. Just what I always wanted.”
“You! Always joshing me. It’s a key card for my room, for this room. I got it especially for you, Miss Morgan.”
I just stare at him, my mouth slightly open.
“So you can come and go as you please. Now you can have easy access to me anytime you like.” He winks and tosses the card into my handbag. “Just don’t let Cilla catch you coming or going, or she’ll hand me my ass.”
“And me my marching orders,” I say softly.
If he’s giving me access to his room, anytime, even when he isn’t in it, that must mean he trusts me. A lot. I’m touched and in danger of tearing up.
“Thank you, Mr Rush, but I believe you said there were two presents?”
Without a word, he pulls me to my feet and hands me a small black velvet box.
“Logan?”
“Open it,” he says, as excited as someone about to receive a gift.
I do. I lift the trickle of silver nestled inside and examine it. It’s a delicate charm bracelet — made of platinum, I think — with tiny, dangling charms of sea creatures: a turtle, a whale, a conch shell, a dolphin and, of course, a shark.
“You like it?”
“I love it! It’s beautiful.” My eyes are moist now.
He fastens the bracelet around my right wrist. “There, I knew it would be a perfect match for my sea-girl. And there’s a necklace, too, see?”
He draws a matching chain of the finest links from the box and holds it up.
“Thank you, Logan,” I say, looking deeply into his ocean eyes.
And we stand that way for a long moment, holding each other’s gaze, saying so much in the silence.
Then Logan clears his throat. “Here, let me help you.”
I turn around, lifting my hair up onto the top of my head so that he can fasten the chain. His warm fingers falter against my neck.
“Are you trembling?” My voice sounds breathy.
“Uh-huh. You make me tremble.”
“Are you afraid you’ll break it?”
“I’m afraid I’ll break you.”
Then he touches burning lips to the back of my neck, and I turn in his arms so that he can kiss the hollow under my collar bone, the pulse in my throat, the sea and sunshine on my lips. We cling to each other, mouths locked, hands running through hair, over hips, under shirts. When his lips tug gently at the lobe of my ear, my knees cave.
He slips his hands beneath my knees and scoops me up, lays me gently on the cool white linen of the bed. His hot eyes fixed on mine, he shrugs off his shirt.
I’m suddenly aware that Logan is a man while I’m something more than a girl but not quite a woman. He’s twenty to my eighteen, he knows so much of the world I haven’t even begun to explore. He’s experienced and I’m a beginner.
I’ll need to trust him. Really trust him. And be worthy of his trust.
“Logan, I need to tell you what I —”
“Later.”
He silences me with a deep kiss and when his hands move lower, all thought leaves my mind. His hands pause on the top button of my dress, his eyes looking a question. In answer, I open the button and lie back on the pillows. Slowly, he opens my dress, one button at a time. Slowly, he kisses every inch of revealed flesh, murmuring against my skin.
“So soft. So beautiful. Ah, Romy, I’ve wanted to do this since the first time I saw you.” His voice is deep and rough with emotion.
When his lips reach my navel, I begin trembling. Then his mouth is back on mine and we’re kissing again. Deeper. Longer. My head is spinning. I can’t catch my breath. I cling to him as though I might be washed away.
Then his weight is on top of me, the bare skin of his chest burning against mine, his hands loosening the catch of my bra, exploring and caressing. My body rises up towards him. My hands pull him tight against me, his hardness against my softness. I’m hot as fire, liquid as water, light as foam on an ocean wave. And aching with a hollowness that begs to be filled.
Logan pulls his lips off mine, and I whimper, trying to reclaim their heat.
He stares down at me, his breath coming as rapidly as mine.
“Romy, I love you. I want you, I want to be a part of you. But … are you sure?”
“I want you, too. Now. Please,” I beg.
I tug at him, trying to pull him down again, trying to keep cold, rational thought from invading my mindless bliss.
“You’re sure, Romy, about doing this — here, now?”
My body is sure, and even my mind wants to grab this moment — for us to be fully together, to create a golden moment of ecstasy. I don’t know what the future holds, and I want something I can hang on to. There’ll be bad times ahead, I can sense it. Doubt and confusion, and maybe even heartbreak. He’ll be gone in a week. And maybe I’ll follow and maybe I won’t. But even with the tide of uncertainty that pulls at our relationship, even though I’ve never imagined having sex with someone I’ve known for so short a time and may soon never see again, I want to do this with him.
Already I can feel the secrets of his past slinking into this moment, widening a space between us. I want Logan to close that space with his hands, his lips, his body. I want him to kiss away my insecurities and fears for the future, and make a memory I can keep forever. I want this moment of special. I might not get to have him, but I can have this at least, can’t I?
But I’ve paused just a moment too long. Logan groans a sigh and rolls off me.
“Nooo.” I reach for him again, my eyes prickling.
“Come here.” He pulls me against the length of his side and into the crook of his arm, cradling my head on his shoulder.
“There’s no rush, sugar, I can be patient.” He kisses my forehead, the top of my head.
“But —” I feel panicky.
“When you’re ready, when you’re sure. This” — he points from himself to me and back again — “isn’t over. And it’s not going to be over in a week’s time. One way or another, we are going to be together.”
I want to cry at the tenderness in his voice.
“You’re worth waiting for, Romy, don’t you know that?”
He strokes my hair with a gentle hand, trails a finger over my shoulder and down the inside of my arm.
“But maybe,” he says, clearing a husky rasp from his voice, “maybe you should button up, so I’m not tempted beyond my better nature.”
I follow his gaze with my own and see that my breasts are pressed up against the side of his chest.
My face flames. I fasten my bra and the buttons of my dress, amazed that I can still blush after what we’ve just done. And very nearly just done.
I lie back down with my head on his shoulder, so close and comfortable. But I can’t keep my hands off him.
“Would it strain your better nature if I do this?” I ask, trailing light caresses over his chest.
“I can just about keep myself in check,” he says, smiling. “But don’t let your fingers do the walking below the Mason-Dixon Line.” He takes my hand and traces a line with my fingers along the skin below the edge of his waistband. “Wild beasts lie in wait there.”
“Wild beasts?” I giggle.
“Of monstrous proportions.” He holds his hands up, about a foot away from each other, to demonstrate the size.
“Yeah, right!”
We both laugh, and in that moment, the rising and falling waves of love inside me shift and solidify, anchoring themselves firmly in place somewhere in my core. Suddenly I’m sure: I cannot let him go.
Everything is clear to me now. I cannot — will not — let this end. No matter the risk and the uncertainties, I’m going to L.A. with Logan. We’ll give us our best shot. Somehow, we’ll make it work. So what if I have to keep our relationship secret and make his life the main focus of my own? So what if I have to leave my home and family and friends? My parents will have a conniption of tsunamic proportions, but they’ll come around eventually — they love me, they want me to be happy. And this will make me happy.
I feel a pang at the thought of the Syrenka sailing south to do battle against the whalers without me, but I tell myself it’s just too bad. I can’t have everything. Sometimes you have to sacrifice your personal dreams for love. Women do it all the time. Logan — this wonderful, loving, funny, tender man — is worth sacrificing anything for.
But first I’d better confess. I take a deep breath and push myself up on one elbow so I can look him in the eyes. “I need to tell you two things — one is good, and one is bad.”
“Give me the good news first.”
“No, I think I’d better start with the bad. You might not care about the other news once you hear that.”
“Okayyy,” he says slowly.
There’s a loud bang at the door. We sit up and look from the door to each other. A series of sharp raps sounds through the room.
“Logan? Logan, let me in — we need to talk!”
The voice is loud, flat, nasal, and female. Unmistakably Cilla.