gone from that space. Then it will be a food pantry, a proper one. With finished walls and it will be a bright color. I’ll start an account at the store, and pay it back. Oh…”
She bounced off his lap, bolted down the stairs and disappeared around the corner of the house.
“What the hell—”
“I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder. She sounded excited.
He blinked, his lips curled ruefully. Then he pivoted, regarded the house. It was the last place he figured she’d ever want to live again, but she’d sounded determined, so he gave it a more critical look. Yeah, a lot of work, but the bones were good. And through her eyes, he imagined it transformed.
She was back. He vaguely remembered she’d had a folded blanket in her bike basket. It was the lap quilt that his mother had made for Daralyn, a housewarming gift when she moved into Marcus and Thomas’s guest house. She kept it folded at the foot of her bed.
She clutched it as she came back up the stairs. “When I said I want you…”
The words stopped, and she stared at him. When her eyes lowered, he realized what had happened. Her wants were starting to move into a realm she felt crossed the line into telling him what to do. She wouldn’t make decisions her natural submission wanted to give to him.
He’d learned how to respond to that. No, not learned. He’d always known, and she opened it up wide in him, an ocean of possibilities and need.
“Tell me what you want, Daralyn. I’ll tell you if you can have it.” Like he’d ever deny her any fucking thing she wanted.
“I want…you to be with me on my bed. Here.”
The idea of doing anything so intimate and sacred in a place where she’d been treated so abominably initially repelled him. But he had to look at things like this through her eyes, not his own.
Which made him understand. This was the beginning, the way they would make the house theirs.
He brought her to him, put his hands on her hips, caressing. “Go spread the quilt out on the bed. Make it ready for us. I’ll join you shortly. You wait for me.”
She met his gaze, nodded. Biting her lip, she reached out, touched the front of his shirt. “Can I have this?”
He pulled it over his head, handed it to her. She held the balled-up fabric against her chest, eyes closed, nose buried in the shirt. Reaching out blind, she trailed her fingers against his flesh, and he covered her hand with his, let her palm rest against his heart, where she seemed to want it. Then she lifted her head, met his gaze and nodded, before hurrying inside to do as he’d ordered.
He found the bathroom functioning and clean, if dusty, and thanked whoever his mother was paying to maintain the house for keeping the basics running. He imagined what Daralyn would do with it, how she’d transform it. He’d help her. Two bedrooms and a bath were plenty of room for one couple, bigger than her guest house, and they could build an addition when and if it was needed. Or strip it down, keep the bones, and build a whole new floor plan.
He’d made the transition from being a man defined by his wheelchair to a man who used a wheelchair. Today he thought she’d hit that fork in the road for herself and made a definite decision of which way to go. She’d discarded the label of victim, tossed it into the wind by confronting her uncle, and by the fierce declaration she’d just made in the backyard.
I want.
She was a woman whose childhood had included horrific abuse, but her life, who she was, was so much more than that, too.
He went to her room. The quilt was on the bed and she was on it. Kneeling, her bare legs folded up beneath her, because all she wore was his shirt, the neckline exposing the delicate line of her collarbone. Her hair was loose.
Would she ever understand what it did to him, looking at her like that, waiting for him, wanting his care, attention and love?
He could show her. It was time to do what he’d wanted to do with her for so long. In the weeks since his hospital stay, he’d built up his strength again, and he was glad he hadn’t shirked on that, so he could act on it now, at this very important moment.