She didn’t like that. “You seemed like a man of action.”
He was, in fact, a man of action, so he got up. “Thanks for the whiskey.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
He walked to the hallway, and he could hear her following. He grabbed his coat off the hook, and she said, “Scott.”
He turned to her.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t.” She looked up at him with her big brown eyes. She appeared open; vulnerable in a way he hadn’t seen.
“I’m not your answer, Anna.”
“I don’t expect answers.”
Well, this was wrong for about half a dozen reasons. But he already knew he wasn’t leaving.
He dropped his coat on the floor, took her in his arms, and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer. They fumbled their way into the darkened bedroom.
The faint glow of the streetlight through the bedroom windows cast shadows from the rain onto her white blouse. Brodie kissed her again and began undoing the buttons.
Anna closed her eyes. Was she thinking about Harry? Were they both just two lonely, fucked-up people using each other? Did it matter?
He kissed her neck and down along her collarbone, finishing the last of the buttons and pulling away her blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her creamy skin seemed to glow in the dimly lit room. He brushed across one of her nipples and she sucked in a quick breath.
Anna threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him back up intoanother deep kiss. She let go of his hair and grabbed the fabric of his shirt and pulled him down onto the bed.
Brodie kissed her breasts and stomach. His fingers worked their way down her body and made it to the button on her pants. She nodded, and he undid the zipper and pulled her pants off while she played with her own breasts. Then he undid his belt and removed his pants and threw off his shirt. Anna pulled him back on top of her. Brodie buried his head in the crook of her neck as he pressed himself in between her soft thighs. She gasped out choppy, throaty breaths. He worked his way back up her neck in between thrusts. They tried to kiss at the same time and traded small smiles and gasps for breath.
Outside, the thunder rolled, and the wind picked up. In the distance a faint ambulance siren wailed as it sped through the rain.
Brodie sensed Anna’s energy changing. He could see her retreating into herself. He changed positions and his pace. She moaned, then looked at him with those open, glassy brown eyes and kissed him deeply. Then she dug her nails into his back and made enough noise to compete with the thunderstorm raging outside.
Suddenly she arched her back and tensed up, her head barely touching the bed, crying out something unintelligible. Then she collapsed in a messy, breathy pile, and he joined her in release.
Afterward, they lay naked next to each other in the dark, listening to the rain and thunder. Anna sat up against a pillow and pulled a comforter over her lap, then reached for a pack of cigarettes on the end table. “Want one?”
Brodie sat up. The postcoital cigarette felt like a ritual lost to time in America, but in Germany apparently not so. “Sure.”
She passed him a cigarette and lit him up, then herself. She blew out a long trail of smoke.
Brodie turned to her. She looked sad. He asked, “Would you like me to leave now?”
“I just gave you a cigarette.”
“After the cigarette.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.” She added, “You sense my pain. It makes you uncomfortable.”
