been, through this whole thing. The cabin is his love letter to me. Each item was his voice and his hands, caressing me. Reminding me that he loved me that I was his and he was mine and he knows me. But the cabin was also him telling me that I still have to remember to live.
That I have to go on without him.
That I can go on without him.
He chose Nathan for me. God, only Adrian could do that. Would do that.
“Lost you,” Nathan murmurs, and I realize I’ve pulled away.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You can share it, if you want.”
I shake my head. Smile at him. “No, I was just…talking to him.” I sigh. “Hearing him. Hearing what he’s been saying all this time, and finally understanding it.”
He lets me sink back down and cradles me against his chest again. Doesn’t pressure me to talk. Doesn’t try to get me to kiss him again.
“You’re too patient,” I say.
“This is what we make of it. There’s no rush for anything.”
“So if I say I’m probably going to have to keep taking it slow…?”
“Didn’t I already tell you no apologizing or explaining is necessary?”
“Sometimes it is, though.” I take his hand where it rests heavily on my shoulders, and press mine to it, palm to palm, fingers to fingers. “I still don’t know how we do this. What it looks like. I’m still scared. But I want to try.”
He curls his fingers between mine. Brushes a thumb over my lips. “One step at a time.” He gently pinches my chin, tipping my lips to his, kisses me again, lightly, quickly. “It’s okay to be scared.”
“Are you?”
“Hell yeah.” He rests his forehead on mine. “I’ve got you, Nadia.”
It’s a comfort, hearing him say that.
I kiss him again, testing the feel of it, the taste of him. It’s as natural and easy as breathing, but still somehow unfamiliar. His lips are his own, unique and different and I have no memories of the feel and taste of his mouth. His hands on my shoulders and arms and back and cheek are new, different, rough, strong, intentionally gentle. His body and bulk are big, and that’s foreign, too. It’s all new. I have to learn him. I have to let him learn me.
The fire crackles, and its light is dull and orange and casts long shadows on the ceiling and walls.
I kiss him, and then we pull away and just sit together and breathe. And then he kisses me, and this time I let desire pull at me a little.
I twist in place, throw my leg over his hips and sit straddling him, facing him, and he lets the blanket drop and his bare broad anvil-hard chest is under my hands and his dinner-plate palms and thick strong fingers toy with my hair and trace the arch of my cheekbones and the curve of my spine, and I feel my shirt-dress riding up my thighs and the belt digging into my diaphragm and the undersides of my breasts.
I’m fully in my body. A weird thing to feel, as if I’m reinhabiting myself, reanimating my skin and muscles and nerve endings and hormones, as if until now I was a fading spark of consciousness riding along in a clockwork robot of me.
I feel his lips on mine, feel his tongue beginning to think about questing out, and I meet him halfway, and now his tongue and mine tangle, dance. This kiss isn’t so slow, isn’t so soft. His hands span my back, low.
I pull away, breathing hard. “Wow. That was…”
“Intense?”
“Yeah.” I drape against him, press my nose into his neck and breathe, wrap my arms around him; I’m trying these things on to see how they feel, and I like them. “I’m the one who said I had to take it slow, but that didn’t feel slow to me.”
“It can be what we want it to be.”
“Could we just…kiss? For now?”
He stands up with me, effortlessly, and I have to cling with arms and legs as he moves to the couch. Leans back against it, still holding me. “The floor was hurting my butt.” He grins. “Now we can just kiss as long as you want.”
He knows what I’m asking, and doesn’t need me to ask it any more explicitly. I don’t trust myself, given the sudden rush of heat within me, the way I delved into the expanses of his kiss.
Safeguard me, I’m asking.
I will, he’s answering.
33: If I Kiss You
Taking it slow