Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Thank God for this, thank God.
The fire had warmed the house, in that blissful way that a real fire does. He lit candles in the dining room while I kicked my shoes off, then grabbed me a glass and poured me a healthy measure of red wine.
He clinked my glass.
“To us. To tenacity. We’ll get through this. Wait and see.”
“I hope so, Mark.”
“Less hoping and more believing, please.”
I took a seat at the dining table, and he did, too. I reached out, tiny fingers stretching across the table for him, and he took them and held them. “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
“Things are shitty this week.”
“They aren’t shitty now.” He squeezed my hand.
I took a sip of wine. “I was stupid, to think I could pull off a lie like that one. Dad knows everyone, he knows everything…”
“You did what you thought would be for the best. Things happen, it’s just life, Helen.”
“I’m sorry, Mark.”
He smiled, and the beauty in it ripped my heart open. His quiet resignation, his calm, his strength. “There is nothing to be sorry for. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
But it felt like I had. I felt guilty, and scared, and out of my depth. Not scared for me. Scared for us. But that wasn’t it, either. I was really scared for him.
“Can I at least get a smile, Helen? I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
I took a breath and I smiled. And then I moved, because I didn’t want wine anymore. I didn’t want to be sitting at this table with all this space, all this air between us. I dropped onto his lap, and wrapped my arms around him tight, and breathed. Just breathed. And he held me back, so warm and so tight.
“It’ll be alright,” he said. “Forget about it now.”
“But you… your job…”
“Nothing’s even happened yet.”
I didn’t have a response for that, because it wasn’t my head that knew what was brewing. My head could rationalise it away, say I’d make up something, anything, keep a low profile and work this thing through, and it would all be fine. Just like we planned. Just like we wanted. But my heart knew. That horrible knowing, the pang of dread, the shadow on the horizon. My heart knew Dad, too.
I wanted to stay there forever, just breathing, my body next to his, his fingers in my hair, tickling my scalp, but he moved us. Stood up and took me with him, walking us through to the living room where he dropped me to my feet. My toes landed on fabric, and I turned to find the floor covered with sheets. He had paint laid out, lots of it. Paint and brushes all ready to go, but no canvas.
“What’s this?”
His eyes sparkled. “The pull of the muse. Will you indulge me?”
It made me laugh, but it was breathy and disappeared into nothing. “Always.” I watched him as he lit more candles, so many of them, all over the mantelpiece, twinkling and glittering and lighting up our sculpture like little beacons of hope above the fire.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just breathe. I’ll do the rest.”
“Sounds good.”
“I hope so.” He came to me, kissed me so gently before he slipped off my cardigan. “You have far too many clothes on, Miss Palmer.” He pulled my top over my head. “Far too many.”
Fingers traced my collarbone, slipped my bra strap down and dipped inside. His mouth was hot against my ear, lips soft, and I was fluttery and weightless, floating away. He took me out of my bra, then out of everything else, until my clothes were a just a pile of useless unwanted fabric. I wished I’d never need them again, wished that I could stay here like this forever.
“This is going to be messy,” he said, and there was amusement in his voice. “Quite messy.”
“I like messy,” I said, and his smile was infectious.
He left me naked in the firelight while he grabbed some cushions and arranged them on the floor. He patted the sheet. “Come here, please.”
I dropped to my knees and he coaxed me onto my back, propped my head so gently onto one of the cushions and then lifted me up by my legs to prop another couple under my ass. My thighs fell open naturally and he ran a thumb over my clit. I closed my eyes to his touch, relaxed onto it, but he pulled away.
“Please don’t stop. Please, I really need this.”
“Patience,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
I heard him in the kitchen, footsteps and clattering, and when he came back it was with a towel over his shoulder and a bowl in his hands. He positioned himself on his knees between my legs, and I didn’t get chance to ask any questions before he held up a razor.