‘Thank you for letting me share with you,’ she whispered.
‘Thank you for telling me.’ Softly, he kissed the curve of her neck. Just once. Then he reached for the sides of her dress, which were bunched inside her fists, and gently eased them from her, lowered the skirt so it dropped and covered her exposed skin. When she came back round to him, his expression was soft and serious.
‘Do you want to talk any more?’ he said. ‘Or go to bed?’
She stalled. He must mean going to separate beds, but they could walk upstairs as husband and wife. There was so much unspoken yet spoken in the silence between them. The way he looked at her, like she blew his mind butcompletely broke him. It was almost impossible to bear. She could make it better. They could heal each other.
But she didn’t want grief sex. Or pity sex. And if they did it tonight, that’s what it would be. Sean feeling like he had to treat her with kid gloves, as if she would break were he anything but gentle. Everything was overshadowed by the past, her shame over her body failing her, her fears for the future, and the chance of waking up an emotional shambles, not knowing which way was north anymore.
Keeping her gaze fixed on Sean’s, she said, ‘We should both get some sleep.’
‘Aye, okay.’ He took their beer bottles to the bin. ‘Come on, I’m knackered too.’
Together, they ascended the stairs. Stopping at the top, they faced one another, the landing dim but the atmosphere burning.
‘Night, Cher.’ Through the smoky light, Sean’s voice was deep and protective, and she wondered if he could give her an orgasm just by talking.
Probably, yes, but get a grip, Cherry.
‘Sleep tight, Sean.’
‘Aye, you too.’ His breath was warm, his rough stubble comforting, as he leaned in and kissed her softly on the cheek.
And he might sleep well, but she bloody wouldn’t. How on earth could she do anything but lie in bed, her to-die-for husband in the next room, and think of him?
Chapter 21
Cherry
Ten days later, the squawking of Kinshore seagulls drew Cherry into Monday wakefulness. Last night, the bedroom was too warm, so she’d left the window open, and now a refreshing breeze feathered her skin, her legs tangled in the bedsheets as if her dormant self hadn’t known if she was too hot or too cold and opted for half and half.
The hot half being the part that dreamed of her husband.
Every night, there he was, moving around her subconscious in some form or another, and it took mere moments before he appeared in her waking thoughts, too, making barely noticeable the transition between sleep and consciousness.
Cherry slipped out of bed, tugging down the long white t-shirt that hung barely below her backside. Not that it mattered since Sean was on his way to London. She missed him already. It had been over a week since their ‘almost’ moment after dinner at his mum’s, and she’d done nothing but think of him.
She padded down the hall to the bathroom, splashed her face with cold water and worked her toothbrush around, before making the detour that was becoming something of a very bad habit.
Although Sean’s bedroom remained a constant – the solid oak floorboards, the trusty surfboards leaning on the wall, the sweet, woody scent of his pillow – one thing kept changing.
Cherry’s feelings.
With every day that passed, she hugged his pillow tighter, inhaled deeper, ached harder.
She was pining so hard for the man she lived with. The man she was married to.
As she did every day he wasn’t here, Cherry sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing her hands down the duvet, grasping it in her fist, imagining doing this with Sean buried between her legs. Remembering the time he was.
So good. It was so good. He was as dextrous with his tongue as he was with those cask-crafting hands.
Closing her eyes, Cherry tipped her chin to the ceiling, inhaling hard, her mouth tightening briefly before she let out the breath.
Firmer, she pulled the pillow against her breasts, imagining him yanking her t-shirt off, pushing her back onto the bed, his impressive cock springing free from his underwear.
It was an arresting sight, the image of it soldered into her mind from the cooperage.
‘Fuck, Sean,’ she intoned.
