sensual. She’s towing me into her radiant depths of twilight—not light nor dark—but effervescent, securing me and marking me as hers, hers, hers.
Her teeth nip my lips as a tiny moan leaves her throat, forcing my eyes open. I see her, those amber glazed domes reflecting brightly, soaked with delight and warmth. Our kisses split me in half. The half stuck on our bond, and the other thrust into fear of fully accepting it.
We know so little, feel so much, and battle between the challenges each day brings. Neither of us went to that fundraiser out to find whatever this is, but we did. We found each other. Whether it means something or not, she brings contentment and fear and exhilaration.
“Do you want kids, Sous?” Her face falls before she can catch it. One thing she told me that has stuck was how her dad taught her to school her features at all times. It’s where the newspaper got stuck on her title as the ice queen. She’s the youngest person I know who hides her emotions better than someone who feels nothing. Right now, as she gives me the fakest grin, I’m realizing she’s hiding something.
“Yes,” she finally answers. Her eyes gloss, reminding me so much of pain. Pain I know. Pain makes sense. Pain has many faces, and this one is the most common.
“Do you?” I prod a little, seeing that simple grimace barely contained.
“Toby,” she rushes out, her voice so small and scared. The way she utters my name makes a tightness form in my chest. It’s one of years of acceptance and tribulations. But she’s only twenty. How many trials of experiences could bring this kind of knowledge?
“Talk to me,” I offer, hoping it comes off soft and supportive and not demanding. She may be my wife, and we might even be learning what we feel for each other, but I care. Fuck, I care. Seeing her cry for the first time clicked with me. Seeing her agonize over what we did in Vegas... I witnessed and fell before I knew I tripped.
“I-I can’t h-have kids.” Her words are as choppy as the rise and fall of her chest.
Four words.
More damning than a gavel hammering down, more agonizing than letting a murderer free, more heartbreaking than any loss I’ve felt, yet I can’t cry with her. Because what I see in her distraught expression as sorrow leaks free from her eyes is need. Need for me to be okay. Need for me to be strong. Need for me to pick her anyway.
“C’mere, Sous,” I coax as she lets her grief free. Her peachy lips warble a little, the freckle—my favorite one—beneath her bottom lip trembles, but she finally comes into my open arms.
“You’re not mad?” she whispers, her voice smaller than I’ve ever heard it. No. How could I be? She shakes in my arms. My little warrior, who always fights tougher than any person I know, cries silently. If Joey could be described simply, it’d be impossible. She’s calculated and calm, unruly and incredibly sexy, captivating and consuming. She fights for everyone who needs a voice and doesn’t back down when pushed too far. In the year we’ve known each other, she’s only cried twice. This being the second.
The first... a time I wish I could take back. A time when I hurt her without knowing she cared.
“Hey,” I say gently, pulling away to tilt her chin up to me. My eyes catch hers, seeing the redness blotching her soft features. I kiss her, unable to see the torment in her eyes a moment later. She whimpers in a way that squeezes my vital organs, begging to fix it—soothe her—something. Anything. “How can I be mad at you?”
“You just said you wanted kids. That’s something even my twenty-year-old body can’t offer,” she explains, sniffling.
“How do you know?” I try, not meaning she didn’t know for sure, but what if fate decided differently?
Her eyes shut, the motion telling me she doesn’t want to answer. I can tell because her lips are tight and her body is stiff. I shouldn’t have pushed. It’s her body. It’s her choice. Almost as if she’s made a decision, she nods a couple of times, then stares at me. The way she bites her lips and pulls herself away from me strikes me with worry-filled tension.
“When I was seventeen, my dad shipped me off to Paris.” She inhales deeply as though a reminder to breathe is necessary. “He didn’t want to