Confessions from the Quilting Circle - Maisey Yates Page 0,116

for a picture. But he was big on experiencing life. Especially as things went on, and his health deteriorated and it became clear that his life would be short. He was so good at that. At taking in those moments.”

“I’m not very even-tempered,” Adam said.

No. She could sense that. Even though she’d never really seen his temper, there was a sharpness to his personality, beneath the affability. A firmness about him. That authority that she’d been thinking about earlier.

It was very different than Jacob.

She wondered if that was why they generated so much heat.

A sharp kick hit her chest. She felt guilty having those thoughts. It was just...very different. Things were new between them, but sex wasn’t new. You couldn’t compare that to two fumbling virgins who had all the excitement and enthusiasm of new lovers, but absolutely no methodology.

Or maybe it was because they’d both lost before. So when they came together they held on a little tighter.

Whatever the reasoning. The sex with Adam was...

Something else.

He’d also made her dessert, which he promised was good, because it was cake and not pie, and therefore not overly complicated.

He was right. It was delicious. And the whole meal, she didn’t have to get up.

And for a moment she wondered.

If her life could be like this. A life with a man like this. Who took care of her. Who was passionate, who wanted her.

Panic twisted in her gut, and she kissed him. Because when she kissed him she couldn’t think. And when he stripped off her clothes, she couldn’t second-guess anything.

Because whatever else was happening between them, this was easy. Or natural. And it didn’t require thought.

And when they were through, she curled up against him, exhausted. Sated. He took care of her in bed, too. Made it all about her. About her pleasure. Time after time. He was never satisfied with just once. As if somehow it made his own pleasure less, and she hadn’t known men like that existed.

She should leave. But she looked up at him, and his blue eyes, and she didn’t want to go.

She wanted to stay in the strange moment. Where she felt like she was someone different.

Where she felt like she could have what she didn’t think she really could.

This man who touched her and held her in ways she’d been starving for.

Who created a fire within her that she hadn’t known could exist.

She ached for that. For the intensity.

She and Jacob had settled into soft and beautiful, and moments. Just moments. Those moments that he had appreciated so much had been such hard work for her to love. The whole time her mind was just racing ahead to what would happen when that moment was over.

She was glad he hadn’t lived that way.

Losing him by inches had altered the fabric of who she was. Her mind had always been on the moments after. The time she’d have to live in on her own. Alone.

And who she was in the aftermath...

She had been gentle hands. Soothing voice.

And now she wanted rough, calloused hands and gruff words. A meal cooked for her, and the kind of sex that made heat ignite inside of her whenever she remembered it.

She shut her eyes, and she let exhaustion roll over her. And just for a moment, she let all the guilt drain away.

She let herself admit that she wanted this.

That it was what she needed.

Adam wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, curling her against him, wrapping his body around hers.

She just wanted to stay. Wanted to lie there and smell his skin, his sweat. Such a strange and primal thing that desire brought out in people. She wanted to enjoy it. Living. Being a human. Being a woman. Stripped back to these basic parts.

The beauty of sleeping against a solid male body.

So she closed her eyes, and she let herself have it. Defiantly.

But when she woke up it was morning.

And she knew that she had made a mistake.

31

I can’t come home yet. But I will. You’ll keep my secret, right?

—FROM A LETTER WRITTEN BY SUSAN BRIGHT TO HER SISTER, FEBRUARY 1962

EMMA

Emma touched her necklace, then let it drop. She was nervous. To the point of shaking, which was silly. It was all silly.

She’d thought about calling Catherine before she’d come. Catherine wasn’t a virgin, and her friend could’ve at least walked her through the basic mechanics. Not that Emma didn’t know the basic mechanics. But there was something to be said for hearing a narrative account