LOVE

Gabriel was dreaming. Perhaps that is not entirely accurate. It was certainly nothing like the bizarre landscape he’d seen in the mind of the condemned man. Nor was it even what Olivia said dreams were, the mind conjuring up places and people and events that never existed. This was, instead, a swirl of memories, his own interwoven with Gwynn’s.

He started by replaying those hours downstairs in the parlor. Feeling Olivia’s fingertips on his skin. Hearing the sigh of her breath against his cheek. The arch of her body under his hands. The way she said his name. And how he’d felt—that most of all, the indescribable way he’d felt at having won her. Torn between “Why the hell didn’t I make a move sooner?” and knowing that it had proceeded at exactly the pace it had needed to proceed.

Then he realized he was dreaming, and it was like a slap in the face, that cold rush of fear that he really had dreamed it all. He woke with a start, reaching out, certain he’d touch empty space. Then he felt her there, naked and nestled against him, and he lowered his head to the crook of her neck and inhaled, his arms tightening around her before he drifted off again.

When it happened again—the memories and then the fear—Gabriel woke a little more forcefully, a little more afraid, and he tightened his grip too much. Olivia half woke, enough to kiss him and touch him, her fingers running over his chest. They made love again, both still drowsy with sleep, not a word exchanged, as if this too was part of the dream.

After Olivia fell back to sleep, Gabriel lay there, reflecting on his own choice of words. Making love. He’d never thought of sex that way. It wasn’t deliberate avoidance of the term—it just seemed to him that “making love” was a euphemism not unlike “passed away.” A term used when one wanted to avoid acknowledging a biological fact of life by adorning it with a fancy bow. It was simply filling a biological need that was little different from eating or sleeping, but you didn’t call it sex or, worse, fucking, but “making love,” despite the fact that love was rarely involved. In his experience, the act required no emotion at all. It was pleasurable enough, but not unlike the need for food and sleep, something that had to be gotten out of the way lest it interfere with the forward motion of life.

With Olivia, he finally understood why they called it lovemaking, and he used the term automatically. It was the correct one. That was all.

When he slid back into sleep, he found what really did seem like an actual dream. He was kissing Olivia, and despite the darkness, he knew it must be her because he felt all the things he felt when he kissed her. It was a lovely kiss, sweet and deep, and yet while sparks of it reminded him of Olivia, it did not feel exactly the same. That was what made him think he might be having one of those anxiety dreams she’d mentioned.

But even when he mentally hesitated, his body kept kissing her as fervently as it had before, responding as quickly as it had before, that animal part of his brain urging haste before the logical part pushed it back, wanting to enjoy the lead-up. Except here, too, it was different. It felt as if he was struggling to squelch that physical arousal, needing to squelch it rather than enjoy the build.

“I think we should…” he began, his voice ragged. Except it wasn’t his voice at all, but the one he’d come to know as Gwynn’s. He blinked hard, and as the darkness cleared, he found himself lying in a meadow with Matilda looking up at him, her arms around his neck.

“You think we should do what?” she asked with a teasing lilt.

“Go riding,” he blurted. “I think we should go riding.”

Matilda laughed, her eyes dancing with amusement and mischief, and that was when Gabriel saw Olivia in her, her laugh echoing Olivia’s when he’d clumsily told her she was “something.”

“I would very much like to go riding,” she said. “But I suspect it’s not the same sort you’re offering.”

Gabriel felt Gwynn’s cheeks burn. And it was not the only part of him that burned as she said that, a white-hot flame of desire licking through him.

“Whenever you’re ready to go further, Gwynn, so am I. I just don’t want to rush you.”

“Rush me? No. I—”

I’m fine with anything. It’s you I’m taking it slow for.

That was what Gwynn wanted to say. Except it was a lie. They were fae. They did not see sexuality as humans did, as something to avoid until marriage and then do behind closed doors, under the sheets, in the dark.

Gwynn didn’t hold back for Matilda. He held back for himself. Because he was terrified that he’d be less than she expected. That he was not Arawn.

In this regard, as in so many others, Gwynn was outmatched. Arawn’s lovers saw no reason to keep silent, singing his praises loudly enough that Matilda heard and teased Arawn about it. No one talked that way about Gwynn. There was nothing to say. He’d spent his youth pining for Matilda, losing himself in his studies and his duties. Once they got together, he realized his lack of experience might prove problematic. So he proceeded as slowly as possible. Building his skills, he told himself, though he hadn’t progressed much beyond kissing, telling himself he hadn’t fully mastered that yet. Which was a lie. He was just afraid.

As Gwynn fretted and worried, Gabriel saw more of himself than he liked in the fae prince. Gwynn wasn’t more than a few years younger than Gabriel, but listening to his stammering made Gabriel feel like an old man watching a boy and thinking, Was I ever that young? The answer was no—Gabriel had never been that young. And yet it was, in a way, as if he was looking back on a younger version of himself, from a time so distant that he couldn’t quite believe this had been him.

Gabriel might not have fumbled and stammered and blushed with Olivia, but he still understood how Gwynn felt, that terror of losing what he had if he took the next step. While he had not been so acutely anxious about Olivia and Ricky, he had to admit that he found a patch of common ground with Gwynn here, too. Ricky was younger, more charming, better-looking, and much easier to get on with. The only clear advantage Gabriel had was his bank account…which Olivia did not need and would not have wanted even if she did.

As for sex…yes, he would be honest there. That was where he feared Ricky had him beat. Gabriel knew Olivia liked sex, and he knew it was not his area of expertise, having never been a skill he’d cared to improve. If he was better at it, women might not be so willing to let him slip out before morning.

And yet, that worrying had been for naught. The key, it seemed, was simply to care. To care that she enjoyed herself, to care enough to pay attention. To watch and listen and feel her responses and use them as a guide, and those responses were their own reward, the satisfaction of knowing he pleased her, and the more he pleased her, the more she responded in kind.

Quid pro quo, he thought with a chuckle.

If Gabriel could give Gwynn any advice, that would be it. You love her. You care about her. You want her to be happy. Keep all that in mind, and you’ll do fine.

Of course, he could say no such thing, not to a memory of events long past, and all that passed in a heartbeat anyway—Gwynn’s anxieties and Gabriel’s reflections. Matilda was still lying there, awaiting a response as Gwynn stammered.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked carefully. “I’d never push…”

“No, I just…I…”

She touched his shirtfront. “May I take this off?”

Gwynn nodded mutely, and Matilda sat up and pushed the shirt over his head, her hands running up his chest as he shivered, desire igniting again.

“You’re so beautiful,” she said, her own voice taking that husky note of Olivia’s. “Can I just…?” She bit her lip and ran her fingertips over his chest, and when he nodded, she said, “Would you lie back? So I can…”

Her cheeks flushed, and she didn’t finish, but Gwynn lay on his back and she straddled him, her fingers running up his stomach, touching and exploring as she leaned down to kiss him, her hair tickling.

That was when Gabriel woke up. Or, more accurately, when he decided it was time to wake up, pushing himself out of the memory until he could feel the cool sheets of Olivia’s bed and smell her shampoo on the pillow and hear the soft exhale of her breathing…

No, that wasn’t her breathing. And there was another smell, one that was oddly comforting, in its way, but not nearly as welcoming as Olivia’s. Gabriel opened one eye to find himself on the edge of the bed, looking down at Lloergan. The hound lifted her shaggy head and gave him what he presumed was a good morning grunt. He returned it and flipped over, reaching for Olivia, to pull her into his arms and bury his face in her hair and replace the smell of dog with—

His hands touched down on empty sheets. He patted them. And then bolted up. He looked in the direction of the hall bathroom, listening for the flush of the toilet or the pad of her feet on the hardwood. When he heard nothing, he patted the bed again, finding her spot cold, and a chill seeped through him.

She left. She woke up in the night and realized she’d made a mistake, and she went to sleep somewhere else.

I’ve lost her.

I always lose her.

Gabriel pressed his palms to his eyelids. Stop that. Just stop that. He knew who he was talking to. Yes, it was partly Gwynn, but it was partly himself, too, that equally endless doubt.

I won’t keep her. Can’t keep her. Never could, and I was a fool to think I could change that.

I was so pleased with myself in that dream, wishing I could give Gwynn some advice. Like the fifteen-year-old boy who has sex for the first time and fancies himself an authority.

Stop. Now.

If Lloergan was here, then Olivia hadn’t gone far. Perhaps the room got too light. Perhaps he’d taken up too much of the bed. Perhaps she’d simply gone downstairs to read. All perfectly rational explanations, but he was still disappointed, as if he’d failed to do something that would have kept her here despite the light or the discomfort or the boredom.

He sat up and looked for his clothing, only to remember they’d shed their clothes in front of the fire. He walked into the hall. The bathroom door stood open, as did the office, both dark inside. He grabbed a pair of shorts from his dresser, pulled them on, and hurried downstairs.

The main level was as silent as the upstairs.

Had Olivia gone for a walk? A jog? He’d have joined her for either, and the fact she’d go alone only bolstered his fear that she needed time to herself. Time to reconsider.

He glanced into the parlor. It was as they’d left it—a tangle of blankets and clothing in front of the now-smoldering fire. He was looking for his shirt when he caught a creak from the kitchen and noticed that the door was closed. He jogged down the hall to throw it open.

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee and sizzling bacon rushed out to greet him. Olivia stood in front of the stove, spatula in hand. Her dark blond hair was tousled, as if she’d just rolled out of bed. Her feet were bare, her long legs equally bare, and he realized where his shirt had gone. She wore it. Unbuttoned. With nothing underneath.

As she turned, he stopped to stare. Olivia, fresh out of bed, naked but for his shirt. There was a moment where he was quite certain he really was dreaming, conjuring up a favorite fantasy image, the memory of the first morning he’d woken in her apartment and seen her like this.

“The smell didn’t disturb you, did it?” she asked. “I shut the door and tried to keep quiet.”

He said nothing.

“So…breakfast?” she said. “Even if it’s the opposite of actual breakfast time.”

He checked the clock on the microwave. Dim light filtered through the window, and he realized the sun was setting, not rising.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, concern creeping in.

He turned and saw her again. Olivia naked, wearing his shirt. She’d said something about breakfast, but he hadn’t quite caught it. He nodded and walked toward her. She set down the spatula with a growing frown.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

He put his hands on her hips and boosted her onto the counter. Then he stepped between her knees, his fingers going to her hair, murmuring, “Everything’s fine,” before showing her how fine it was.