Читать книгу Tidal Flats - Cynthia Newberry Martin - Страница 16

6

In the light of day, Cass would be able to think straight, she knew that, but it didn’t help. In bed now, in the dark, she had only one thought, and it wouldn’t let her go. She turned toward Ethan, scooting closer, reaching her arm around him. As he turned toward her, moonlight fell through the windows.

They faced each other on separate pillows.

“You shine, did you know that?” Ethan said, draping an arm across her hip.

She needed more air but wanted to keep his arm where it was. Like a clock hand with a fixed center, she scooted her upper body a little away from him, out of the moonlight, without moving the part of her where his hand rested. But even with several ticks of distance, her heart continued to beat too fast. She was less comfortable, not more, and pulled herself away from him to stand. At the window, she looked past the giant moon to the vast darkness where the lights were minuscule and inconstant. “Someone’s going to have to give up too much,” she said. “I don’t know what we were thinking.”

He came up behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder, not leaning against her, not touching her anywhere else, just the bony part of his chin to the bony part of her shoulder. “We were thinking we were worth fighting for.”

“I’m afraid,” she said.

“Of what, babe?” His words brushed her ear. “Tell me.”

She wasn’t sure she could say it. Through the top corner of the window, she looked straight at the moon. “I don’t want to be the woman who stopped you from going.”

He lifted his chin. “You’re not stopping me. It’s my choice. I choose you.” And he kissed her neck and trailed his mouth along her skin.

She turned to him. “I’m afraid the agreement kills the clearest, strongest part of you.”

He took a step away, then turned back to her, as she knew he would.

“Without you, this me disappears. Besides,” he said, opening his hands, “we may not have even gotten to the clearest, strongest parts yet … of either of us.”

“We want different things.”

“We want each other.”

She was still unsettled and turned back to the window.

But he turned her back to him. “This is middle-of-the-night talk. You need something else to think about.” And with one arm, he tightened his grip around her waist and held her close. With his other hand, he began to tuck strands of her hair behind her ear.

When his fingers came close to her face again for what she thought would be another strand, instead, with one finger, he started at her middle part and traced a line down her forehead, her nose, landing above her lips, parting her lips, backtracking to her tongue, and pausing before he continued the same slow motion down her chin, her neck, her chest, stopping between her breasts. Cracking her open.

Then he moved his whole hand sideways.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Searching for your heart,” he said, surprising her.

“Love is not the answer to everything.” But her knees gave way, gave her away.

He held her tighter, supported her. “Yes,” he said. “It is.”