Not yet. But I knew I had to tread carefully. I couldn’t just come out and say that he should trust me. He’d see right through that; Tom had always been more perceptive than he let on.
I had to figure out how to bring the intimacy to another level. How to make him believe that something fundamental had shifted, that I was starting to accept this twisted reality he’d constructed.
I just wasn’t sure how far I was willing to go for it.
Tom had brought dinner again—pasta with that cream sauce I’d always liked—and was setting it down when I spoke.
“Come here.”
He looked up, surprised. “What?”
“Just come here. Sit with me.”
Tom lowered himself slowly onto the mattress, maintaining a careful distance, like I might strike at any moment. His eyes were wary but eager, like a dog that had been kicked too many times but still desperately wanted affection.
I reached out and took his hand.
He went very still. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I said softly, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue.
I ran my thumb over his knuckles, feeling the warmth of his skin. His hands had always been beautiful—long fingers, neat nails, the hands of someone who did delicate work with them. I’d loved these hands once. Loved the way they made me feel, tracing patterns across my body in the dark.
I brought his palm to my cheek and pressed it there, letting out a small sigh.
The effect was immediate. I felt him tense, felt his breathing change ever so slightly.
He’d always been easy that way, always so responsive to touch, to the mere suggestion of closeness, even.
I remembered mornings when I’d be standing at the kitchen sink in an old t-shirt and sleep shorts, hair in a lopsided ponytail, doing dishes from the night before. I’d feel him come up behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, his mouth finding the curve of my neck.
He had a surprising appetite for sex. There were rarely days we didn’t end up tangled in bed together, even when we were both tired from work or when we’d argued about something stupid hours earlier.
I wondered if that would work now. If this particular weakness could be exploited.
“How about we forget about everything,” I murmured, nuzzling my face against his palm. “Just for tonight.”
“Shay—” His voice was rough, uncertain.
I leaned forward and kissed him.
For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then he made a small, desperate sound and kissed me back, his free hand coming up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair.
It was hungry and familiar in a way that made my stomach turn. His mouth moved against mine with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times before, who knew exactly how I liked to be kissed, what made me respond.
I forced myself not to pull away. Forced myself to kiss him back, to part my lips when his tongue sought entrance, to make the small sounds he would expect.
His hands moved to my waist, pulling me closer. I could feel his heart hammering against my chest, could feel howdesperately he wanted this, wanted me.
I let him push me back against the mattress, his weight settling over me, his hands sliding under the hem of my shirt.
I was playing with fire. And I knew it.
I kissed him back anyway, telling myself it was all part of the plan.
“God, I’ve missed this,” he breathed against my mouth, the words spilling out like a confession. “Missed you.”
He shifted his weight, pressing his hips against mine, and I could feel just how much he missed me.
