“You wouldn’t be just taking,” I reminded him. “You’d be accepting pleasure I wish to give. You’d be giving me pleasure in return.” When his gaze fell from mine, I climbed on his lap and cupped him in my hand before drawling, “If you want, I can beg for it.”
Capitulation came pretty quickly after that.
When he’d pushed his way inside me the first time, it had been the most intense sexual encounter of my life. The way he moved. Slowly. Reverently. But with a focused thoroughness that drove me completely out of my mind. We came simultaneously, our cries of release mingling in the darkness. Something between us shifted that night, strengthened. We were forever changed.
The mood is lazier this morning, but the intensity is still there. “I love you, Tris,” I say on a sigh. My head is thrown back, my limbs spread wide as he lays into me with long, rhythmic strokes. I want this feeling to last forever, but already my body is racing ahead, chasing the peak. I work a hand between us and stroke myself in time with his thrusts. “Almost there.”
“Fuck.” His mouth is open against my neck, his tongue laving the sweat from my skin. “So fucking good.”
My orgasm slams into me and I cry out, my hips jerking as I clench hard around him. Tristan groans, his grip tightening as he thrusts through his climax before collapsing on top of me.
We lie there for a long time. Our breathing returns to normal and the sweat on our bodies begins to dry. A contented smile tugs at my lips as I enjoy the closeness.
Tristan finds peace in my arms. I find my courage in his. We’re stronger when we’re together and we catch each other when we fall.
Eventually, Tristan sits up and climbs off the bed. “Enough lazing about,” he says, his smile wide and free from the shadows that haunted him for so long. “Let’s go do something fun.”
When he pulls me upright, I go willingly. This man has made my world bigger than I ever could have imagined. Now, we get to go out and explore it—together.
THIRTY-TWO
______
TRISTAN
Five years later
I bring Claire gerberas for her birthday. The large arrangement contains every colour the florist had available—red, orange, yellow, pink. Unashamedly bold, the flowers are bright and cheerful beneath the Autumn sun.
I’d been helping Mum in the garden one day last year when she mentioned how much Claire loved gerberas.
“She did?” Surprised, I looked around the yard at the many gerbera daisies growing in clumps amongst the other plants.
“Yes, they were her favourite,” she told me, her smile no longer as sad as it used to be. “That’s why I grow so many of them out here. They remind me of her.”
For a moment, my chest had ached with regret. All those years, Mum knew the answer to a question I’d never thought to ask. But then, as I thought back across the years and the multitude of flowers I’d taken to Claire’s grave, I realised plenty of gerberas were in the mix. I had taken Claire her favourite flower, many times, as I’d hoped. I let that be enough.
We talk about her more often now. Mum, Dad, and me. We share our memories, and sometimes tears. It still hurts, it will always hurt, but the pain is different now. Once we stopped reopening the wounds, they finally started to heal.
It’s been five years since I last visited my sister’s grave. It turned out the psychologist I started seeing soon after Sam and I moved in together agreed with Mum. This wasn’t a good place for me to be while I learned new ways to live.
Now, though, it feels like the right time to return. Claire isn’t here, but this is a place I can come to remember her and talk to her if I feel the need. Also, there’s someone I want her to meet.
After arranging the flowers in their holder and adding some water, I take a seat on the grass. It’s sparse due to a lack of rain over the last few months. I brush the leaves and dirt away from Claire’s headstone, the way I used to. It’s looking a little more worn than the last time I saw it, but her name is clear, and the words ‘Beloved daughter and sister’ are there for any who care to read them. She may not have been with us for as long as we would have liked, but she changed everything. She is as much a part of me as my own heartbeat, and despite the pain and the years of sorrow, I wouldn’t give her up for the world.
I spend some time telling her about my life. About Sam. About our wedding and the life we’ve built together. I tell her about Mum and Dad. They’re happier now than they used to be. Seeing my happiness makes them happier. It took me far too long to understand that, but I get it now. In a way, I suppose, I’m still living my life for them, but that’s okay with me. On days when I struggle to embrace life for myself, I remember to embrace it for the people who love me.
I even tell Claire about our friends. George and Alice have recently welcomed their third child into the world. Yolanda is getting married later this year. Sam was thrilled when she asked him to be the Chief Bridesman. I tell her about the other friends we’ve made over the years and the adventures Sam and I have had together. I’m not sure why I tell her all these things. I suppose, after so many years cut off from the idea of love and friendship, I want her to know I’m not alone anymore.
Footsteps behind me announce Sam’s approach. “Someone wants her daddy.”
Standing, I turn and take our daughter in my arms. Her arms go around my neck and she hugs me tight. ‘Daddy, can we go to Grandma’s now?’ she asks. ‘I want cake.’
“Soon, Hope,” I say with a laugh as I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. She has my dark hair. Her pale skin comes from her surrogate mother. But her eyes, those she got from Claire. As well as the way she sings along to the radio at the top of her lungs, even though she doesn’t know the words. That’s my sister all over.
Holding her close, I gesture to Claire’s grave with a nod. “I’m saying hello to your Aunty Claire.”
“She’s an angel,” Hope tells me with an all-knowing expression.
