he can do this.
Sweat beads on my brow, my breathing labored as I attempt to keep pace with him. Finally, a roar slices through the room and he jerks, eyes scrunched closed, his orgasm coming hard and fast. He rides the waves until he physically can’t keep himself propped up any longer and collapses on top of me. His heart hammers against my chest, muscles trembling as he sucks in breath after breath.
I run a light hand up and down his sweaty back, hoping the calming motion will help him regain his faculties, snap him out of whatever trance he was in when he stepped into the hotel room.
Then a cry rips from his chest, tortured and afflicted. It stops me cold, clawing through my soul and shredding my heart.
Tears spill from my eyelids as I search for the words I need to tell him it will be okay. But I’ve come to realize we have two vastly different definitions of okay. His is being normal again. Mine is standing by his side no matter what.
Will that be enough for him?
Will I be enough for him?
In the past few hours, I’ve witnessed him go through nearly all the stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining. There’s no doubt he’s in depression right now.
All I can do is hope he makes an upward turn toward acceptance and doesn’t fall deeper.
Chapter Thirty
Nora
I stare at the Eiffel Tower as the sun heats my skin, the sounds and smells of Paris surrounding me. I hate to leave this place. Not just because I fell in love with this city, but because I fear what awaits us back home.
Since Friday night, Anderson hasn’t been the same. On the surface, he seems like the Anderson I remember from our early days. Flirtatious. Endearing. A bit cocky. But I can tell it’s all a way to make me think everything is the same.
Whenever he gazes at me, turmoil swirls in his blue eyes.
Whenever he kisses me, it’s restrained and lacking.
Whenever he tells me he loves me, the words are laden with reluctance.
As much as I want to bring up the other night, I don’t want to taint our time in Paris any more than it already has been.
Don’t want my memories of this city to be clouded with the fear that we’ve turned down a dark road neither of us will ever come back from.
Don’t want Paris to forever be associated with the beginning of our end.
Then again, I could be overreacting.
But every time I peer into Anderson’s eyes, all I see is that same remorse-filled expression he wore during our final days together on Route 66. He’d known those were our last hours together. Not because we were about to go our separate ways, but because he’d been keeping a secret from me. One that would shatter me into a million pieces.
I can’t help but feel like he’s doing the same here. Like he knows something horrible is about to happen and is protecting himself against the inevitable catastrophe.
“Are you ready?” Anderson peeks his head out of the balcony doors.
I take one last look at the Paris skyline, then nod, turning toward him. “Of course.”
He places his hand on the small of my back as I step into the suite. We don’t make it too far before the door flies open, Creed and Lieutenant Colonel Bridge hurrying inside, eyes wide with panic.
“What’s going on?” Anderson asks, his posture stiffening.
“Your Highness.” Bridge glances in my direction before returning his attention to Anderson. “Something’s happened.”
When he floats his gaze to mine yet again, I sense this has to do with me. But what could it be? I’ve done everything to follow the rules lately. The most risqué thing I’ve done has been stripping and encouraging Anderson to photograph me nude.
Oh god…
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. Did somebody see me? Maybe a photographer at a nearby hotel while he was checking one of his zoom lenses? It’s a long shot, but if I’ve learned anything over the past few months, it’s that nothing is impossible, especially where the paparazzi is concerned.
“I can explain.” I step forward, frantic. “It was purely some innocent fun. It’s not the first time he’s done it, but those photos are just for us. I—”
“This isn’t about any photos, ma’am,” Bridge interrupts, shifting from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable.
“Then what—”
“It’s your mother, ma’am.”
“What about my mother?” I ask, voice shaking slightly. After thirty years of dealing with her, I doubt whatever