CHAPTER 18 |

Fumbling Hands & Light Bulbs

 

 

“What did I tell ya, Kins?” His nose brushed against mine, nuzzling.

“What did you tell me?”

“I told ya things would be perfect again when you were back for good.”

I laughed lightly, sliding my hand over his chest, onto his shoulder. “Things are far from perfect, Patrick.”

“Ah, but I disagree. There are things that need to be ironed out, sure, but you’re here, with me. That’s a lot better than it was a few years ago.” He laughed, resting his forehead against mine. “Hell, a day ago, I never thought I’d be given two minutes alone with you, and look at us. So, if ya ask me, I’d say we have a pretty solid foundation to work with, and that, to me, is perfect.”

His body remained hovering over mine, arms on either side of my shoulders, locking me in place. I could have pushed him away, could have scrambled out from underneath him, but the kiss on the couch had more than solidified that wouldn’t be happening. My body tingled with electrifying anticipation, nervous of disappointing him, of disappointing myself, and my thoughts were snubbed out with the brushing of his nose against mine. The light grazing of his prickly upper lip against mine. The delicate embrace of his bottom lip tracing a line against mine.

“Kinsey.” My name was his breath, heating my lips.

My eyes fluttered shut, my lips parted with a verbal sigh in response. My hand, resting on his shoulder, felt the contractions of muscle as he lowered himself onto his forearms, outstretching his legs against mine. Chest pressed against chest, breath in sync with breath.

“Open your eyes.”

They were so heavy, my eyelids, but I complied. The corner of his mouth curled. One dimple. “Good. Now, if I wanted to kiss ya again, you’d be okay with that?”

I nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”

He nodded, biting his lower lip. “That’s good. Now, what if I wanted to, I don’t know, feel ya up again? You’d be okay with that too?” I arched my back, pressing my chest firmly against his, and that was all the response he needed to smile, his tongue running over his upper teeth. “That’s good. So, uh, one more question—”

“God, Patrick,” I groaned, “come on.”

He leaned forward, snagging my bottom lip between his teeth. I gasped, and he released. “One more question. If I wanted to take off your clothes, and show ya that I still remember all those places you loved havin’ touched, all those things that made you feel good, would that be okay?”

Feel good. God, the thought was so foreign to me. When was the last time I had truly felt good? When was the last time I had stopped fighting myself and succumbed to my wants, my needs? Fixating my gaze on his, I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember the last time I had laid underneath a man, gotten lost in the fiery labyrinth of desire, and much like those lightening-bug-lit nights in the backyard, it frustrated me to no end that I had allowed myself to go that long without it. That I had denied myself the pursuits of other men. That I had allowed my crippling regret and sadness to control my life for so long, I could scarcely recognize the quickening of my pulse that told my legs to move just a little further apart.

Or maybe it wasn’t all of that at all. Maybe it wasn’t about my anger or my guilt, but about a love that I could never control; a love I never had a choice in. Maybe it was simply that I only ever wanted him. Nobody else would have been good enough, nobody else would have been right enough. Nobody else would have been him.

My eyes met his, hope and lust melding together, holding hands with the niggling fact that I was going to crave him and his peanut butter name forever.

“I think you’ve asked enough questions for one night, Kinney. Just do what you’re gonna do.”

My voice said indifference, but then he smiled against my lips, and my hands found the scruffy sides of his face. I kissed him with parted lips, tongues slipping beyond all the boundaries I had set, and that said I needed him. That said I was going to need him forever.

His shaking hands fumbled with my shirt, with the button at my waistband, and with the clasp at the back of my bra.

“Jesus Christ,” he said with an embarrassed laugh, as I assisted him in the removal of our last bits of clothing.

He was nervous. Patrick “Cool as a Cucumber” Kinney was nervous, and as I pulled his body down to press his bare chest against mine, to feel our hearts speaking to each other in the language only we knew, I asked what was wrong.

“I’ve imagined you like this almost every night for over a decade, Kins, and if I was lucky, I’d dream about it. I had to. Just to remember what ya felt like. I never thought I’d see you again, let alone like this.”

His fingertips traced the underside of my jaw, down my neck, over the swell of my breast, and the soft indent of my hip. I watched, as his eyes followed his hand with beautiful awe, and I caught the glistening of moisture collect along his lower lashes.

My throat constricted. “God, you really are a little bitch, you know that?”

“I’ve missed ya, Kins. I’ve missed you so goddamn much, and if that makes me a little bitch, then fine, as long as I can be yours.”

And with that, we closed the door on estranged ex-lovers, allowing our feet to dangle over the threshold of rekindled passion, testing the waters with eager tongues and trembling fingers. It was only when his forehead met mine, his fingers intertwined with mine, and his body joined with mine that we jumped in. Shudders passed through him, resonating through me, and I knew it was the violent resettling of our souls, coming home and slamming the door on the brutal past. Goodbye silly mistakes. Farewell twists of fate. It was the locking of the door, throwing away the key, and collapsing in a room to make our own.

His forehead had nestled into the crook of my sweaty neck, speckling my chest with cherished kisses, humming “Sweet Thing” by Van Morrison, and I felt it—everything was perfect again.

My fingers stroked lazy circles over the muscled ridges of his back and shoulders, my eyes staring through a euphoric haze at the single bulb hanging in the middle of the otherwise bare room.

It was a metaphor, that little bulb. Or maybe I was just exhausted, physically and emotionally drained. But no, that bulb … I just knew it was symbolic. It was our love. The light against a blank canvas that had never burnt out. The canvas needed paint, but we could always buy some. Hell, we could buy sequins and glitter if we wanted, but as long as that light still shined, we could do anything.

We could survive anything.

“Tell me you love me, Kinsey.” He interrupted his humming, and his words speared my heart, sealing those last pinpricked holes.

“I have some conditions.”

“Anything.”

I cleared my throat. “I want you to stay in River Canyon.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“And I can’t live in this apartment, you know. It’s way too small for us and Meghan.”

His smile prickled against my chest. “We’ll get a bigger place.”

“And your truck sounds like shit.”

“I’ll get a new one.”

I bit back the giddiness that threatened to consume me. “A new one, Patrick. None of these pieces of crap you buy.”

He nodded. “Yep. Brand spankin’ new.”

My heart felt too big for my chest, pounding against my ribs, desperate for release. To fill the room, to expand to its full potential.

“And then, there’s your underwear.”

His chuckle thundered in time with my restricted heart. “Oh, now ya don’t like my underwear?”

“Boxers make you look like a kid. I don’t like it.”

“Boxer briefs, it is.”

“And I know I told you I wasn’t sure if I wanted kids, but over the years, I changed my mind.”

“Meghan would love a brother or sister.”

“And one more thing.”

He laughed, kissing my neck. “Christ, remember when I said I loved that you never wanted to change anything about me?”

I shook my head. “Shut up. Just one more thing.”

“Fine, shoot.”

“Kinsey Kinney sounds really freakin’ stupid.”

He laughed again, wrapping an arm around my waist and held tight. He wasn’t letting go. “We’ll see about that.”

Patrickinney. That goddamn peanut butter.

“Say it,” he said.

I opened my mouth to sigh and surprised myself by how uncontrolled my breathing was. I shuddered, and a tear trickled over my cheek and onto the pillow beneath my head.

“I’m not falling in love with you.”

Patrick lifted his head. That smile. Those dimples. Those goddamn eyes.

I swallowed at all the love bubbling in my throat.

That Irish bastard.

We never had a choice, we never stood a chance. Our fates were determined the moment I stepped over the invisible line between his front lawn and mine. No amount of time and screwing up was going to keep the inevitable from happening, and I was done running away.

It only took one night. One night to stop fighting, one night to ditch my stubborn ways. One night to hold on and never let go.

“Oh no?” He raised his eyebrows with an amused smirk.

I shook my head. “No.”

I held Patrick Kinney’s face in my hands, found that little boy hidden in those eyes. The little boy that fell in love with my stupid pigtails and wrapped his pudgy arms around my neck.

“No,” I said, brushing my nose against his. “You can’t fall back in, if you never got out.”