I tangled my fingers in his chest hair and released the pain the only way I could: all at once and with unstoppable force. His hands stroked my back, my hair, but his clutch never loosened. His arms easily engulfed me, and though I was aching, I’d never felt safer than curled into his embrace.
“I’m so sorry,” I said finally, when I’d caught my breath.
He let the words hang for a moment. “Never apologize,” he responded, rocking me against him. “Do you hear me? How can you apologize for that?”
“Oh, David,” I moaned into his skin. He rested his forehead against my sternum, rubbing the still-tingling skin of my back. “What are we going to do?” I asked in a rush of breath. I wasn’t sure if he heard, because he never responded.
Eventually, he rolled us both to set me on my back. He disconnected from me, tossed the condom aside, and propped his head above mine with his hand. His fingers played with my hair, pushing it back onto the pillow as he looked down at me.
“I don’t always cry after sex,” I said, an empty attempt at humor. “Just with you, apparently.”
“You can’t help your reaction.”
I studied the man above me, still in disbelief that he was, in fact, above me. He concentrated on my hair, raking his hands through the tangles as best he could. “I wish I could help it,” I said.
“Why? Just let go. You don’t need to manage yourself with me.”
I sighed and dropped my gaze. “With you, I have no control.”
“I told you before, I like you this way. Unguarded. Undone.” I bathed in his adoration—his fingers in my hair, his sweet but fleeting words. Already, the guilt was building inside of me, demanding my acknowledgment, trying to break the moment. As if he were listening to my thoughts, he said softly, “I want to take all your sadness away.”
My chin quivered, and I pressed my fingertips to my eyes to stem any more tears.
It’s been so hard, David.
“I know,” he said. He encircled my wrists and carefully pulled my hands from my face. “I know.”
I blinked up at him. Had I said it aloud?
He placed a hand on the base of my neck and kissed me, claiming me with that one gesture. “But I can’t fix it if you won’t let me.” His eyes searched mine, and I looked away. “Don’t turn away from me.”
To let him fix it—that could only mean a solution I’d already decided against. “I can’t,” I whispered. I went to sit up, but his hand on my chest pushed me back into the pillow.
“I said don’t turn away. Look at me.”
My jaw clenched. In that moment, I wasn’t strong enough to keep the hurt off my face, and I didn’t want him to see it. But his hand slid up to my chin, and he turned me to him. His concerned eyes softened a stern expression. “I want to make it better.”
With my face locked on his, I said, “You can’t. You can’t fix it. This can never be anything but broken.”
“To hear you say that . . . it kills me.”
“But it’s true. We’re headed for disaster. Even if I walk away right now, too much has happened already.”
His brows dipped. “Are you going to walk away?”
My chin quivered again, and he rubbed it with his thumb. “How can I?” I whispered. “How can I not?”
“These have been the longest months of my life,” he said.
“For me, too,” I said in a breath.
“I don’t think I could give you up again.”
“But youhaveto. We’re all going to get hurt.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes so that you don’t.”
His hand slid away, but I held his gaze. “Even if it means letting me go?” I asked.
