How much more do you want?he suddenly wrote, his normally meticulous handwriting for once messy and hurried. He needed to make sure, absolutely sure, that they were both on the same page with whatever was about to happen here.
River’s eyes were soft when she read his words and when she looked up again, she gazed at him from over her shoulder, heat in her eyes and a gentle smile on her lips.
Everything.
He didn’t pick the brush up again, deciding to discard it, jealous of any item that wasn’t him upon her skin in that moment. His mouth was suddenly the best paintbrush he could ever think of, and her hands clenched at his shoulders when he bent down to kiss her, softly, unhurried and tenderly.
He drew back, skating a hand over her back, pressing his forehead against hers. For a moment they didn’t move as they stared into one another’s eyes.
Ilove you,he said to her, honesty soaking every word, and she nodded, hearing him even without hearing his words.
I love you,she signed back, and he nodded, understanding her without understanding her signs.
And then together, they lost track of everything but each other.
Cohen forgot himself, the world and everything that came with it. It could have been any universe, any world, any city, any year, any month or any day.
It could be a Sunday, a Monday or even a Tuesday.
But he knew that, from that moment on, it would only ever be River.
Chapter Ten
Cinnamon
Rain woke Cohen from his sleep. There was a steady drumbeat on his window, a gentle sound which told him that – yet again – it was another miserable London day. Outside, people huddled further into coats, their boots navigating sudden puddles, before seeking refuge in shops or cafés, or under awnings. Outside, an icy wind blew rain into damp faces, causing hair to stick to cheeks and foreheads. Outside, people walked quickly from home to tube and then tube to office, all the while berating the English winter.
Outside it was cold.
Outside it was wet.
Outside it was grey.
But here inside it was warm.
Inside it was dry.
Here, inside his home, Cohen was fairly certain he would never feel grey or miserable again. River was in his bed and in his arms and he could hardly believe it. He couldn’t stop himself from looking at her, watching dreams play upon her face. They were naked, cuddled together under his thick duvet, warm and safe. She was still asleep, and he felt a moment of pure joy to see her there, her cheek against his pillow, her brown hair resting on his arm. Her skin still bore a faint trace of ink and glitter, even though they’d showered together the night before. It was, quite frankly, the best shower of his life, and he vowed to never criticise British plumbing again. River had let him wash her skin clean with his soapy hands until she’d cried out under his fingertips, and then they’d fallen into his bed, still damp, still glowing, still blissfully happy, and succumbed to sleep wrapped around each other.
And now ... to wake in his warm bed, next to a warm River, knowing that outside it was wet and cold ... he couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face. There was, he decided, nothing better than the sound of rain pattering on a windowpane when there was no danger of needing to go out in it.
Because he had no plans to leave this room or even this bed today.
If he had his way, they would stay here forever.
When he looked down at River again, she was looking back at him, her hazel eyes drowsy with receding sleep. He smiled at her, bringing his face to hers and kissing her good morning; a slow, luxurious and deep kiss, which he hoped conveyed his deep contentment that she was her and that she was there. It was a kiss which told River that he did not regard their night together as a one-time thing, but as a precursor to the rest of their lives. A kiss to tell her that she was wanted, that she was loved and that she was his, just as he was hers.
He had never belonged to anyone else, he realised suddenly. He’d been waiting for River, and River alone, to offer his heart and soul to.
When they pulled apart, she nestled her head back onto his shoulder, and they lay quietly, locked together. She ran a hand along the hard planes of his stomach, while he tapped his fingers on her arm, mimicking the beat of the rain outside.
Cohen abruptly realised that River would never know the simple pleasure of hearing rain beat upon a windowpane. It was such a simple thing but so cruelly denied to her. Then and there he decided that he would fill her life with other pleasures, so that she would never miss what could never be hers.
He decided he would give her the world, just as she had given him hers.
An alarm sounded, and he sighed, reaching for his phone and dismissing it easily. He glanced briefly at the screen. Three missed calls from his mother. Seven missed calls from Tarquin bloody Fowler. Seven hundred and eighty-seven new emails.
He threw the phone across the room, hearing it land with a thud on the carpet.
