“Ah, fuck,” he grated out in a voice she’d never get enough of, “so fucking good. So good.” He thrust a few times, messy movements that showed how far gone he was. Ivan’s words had her pressing her fingers to herself, in search of an elusive second orgasm.
He said, “I wanna come inside you.”
And she wanted that too. She wanted to spread her legs wider, to absorb everything he could possibly give her. “Yeah,” she panted, rubbing herself hard. “Ivan.”
“Yeah,” he echoed, frantic with need, lost. “Ah, fuck yeah.”
His hands, hard as vises on her, the filthy things he said led her straight into it—another climax. Different this time, weaker, more in her head than her body. She was aware of Ivan shouting as he came, thrusting another handful of times, tight and jerky, before collapsing onto her.
Their bodies cooled, and the craziness subsided, but their touches didn’t stop. A gentle squeeze of her hip, a callused thumb to her face, his weight too much but so very perfect as he nuzzled her neck. As their breathing eased, he shifted off a bit and settled at her side, leaving her chilled, her with a shadow of regret for what she’d done.
She’d promised to stay here. Tied to a man. A new relationship?What would Joey do if he found out? What would he do to Ivan?
Who the fuck was this person she’d become? This wasn’t her. Uma was reasonable. Never in a million years would she allow her libido to make decisions for her. Even that first time with Joey had been more about lack of confidence than sex. He’d pushed; she’d pulled; she’d lost.
This morning was nothing like that. Layers of her had been peeled away, pieces of her past flaking off like chips of paint.
Lovely. Remove my shell, and apparently I’m a fucking wildebeest. A complete sex fiend.
Ivan kissed her hard and rolled off, leaving her alone and cold on his bed. She looked away as he got rid of the condom, her mind snaking out to the cold reality of life beyond these four walls: dealing with Ms. Lloyd, her next appointment with the doctor.
“Hey, Uma.” Ivan bent to pick something up, then came around, and it was a strange jolt of surprise to see the camera in his hands.
“What are you doing?”
“Let me take your picture, Uma. You’re beautiful. I want you to see how beautiful you are. No matter what happens.”
That same old fear reared up for a second, along with a moment of shock, but his words sank in, and the look on his face…
“You want a picture of me?”
For a second or two, his face tightened, and he lost the young, sweet look she’d gotten used to. “Want more than that,” he finally said, and the words resonated deep in her chest.
With a big breath in, she capitulated, imagining the photo—more permanent suddenly than the ink on her skin. “Go ahead. Take it.” Eyes screwed shut, she turned and waited for it to be over. Just when she thought he’d never snap the damn thing, she felt it—a shift, a realization. Whatever it was, it felt as real as the metal Ivan pounded with his hands. As real as the photo she was letting him take.
He wanted more.
She turned to him, opened her eyes to the camera and the man on the other side, and let him see all the things she might be willing to give.
With a flash and click, she was immortalized. Uma Crane, baring skin and soul.
She sighed as he kissed her, trembled a bit as he dressed her, slow and sweet, and once he’d thrown on his clothes, they walked down the drive hand in hand before a long kiss good-bye beneath Ms. Lloyd’s kitchen window, heedless of the woman’s squinty stare.
And all the while, it grew on her, a realization, piercing and true: she was okay. The shame was gone. And so was the regret.
But there was something else there instead. What was that? Sadness for the loss of the girl she’d once been—the girl she’d lost that night. But something else.Acceptance, she thought. And as she stood in the kitchen window, watching Ivan’s figure walk away, straight and strong, it felt an awful lot like love.
25
“I, Ivan Shifflett”—smash—“do solemnly swear”—punch, smash—“not to go against”—smash—“the wishes of oneUma R. Crane.”
Panting, Ivan rested his head against the heavy bag, his breath like a damn racehorse rode hard, his fists shaking. All of him shaking. No, not shaking—nothing so controllable as that. More like an earthquake, rolling and vibrating and tearing up the whole fucking world.
The problem was, these were the early tremors. The quake had yet to hit. And when it did…
Pushing off the bag, he went in again, attacking with a tight volley of punches that rocked it right back into his crazy dance. Steam came off his body, visible in the cold, clear light of day, but the rage…that festered deep inside. A tumor, sick and dark, expanding by the second andbeggingto be taken care of. Carved or…ripped out.
Butgoddamn ithe’d promised.
