‘Really?’ I reply, sliding my hand against my hip. ‘Because I heard your sympathy retching.’
‘There are those that pay to be puked on,’ he says, changing the subject.
‘I don’t want to know how you know that,’ I reply, perching myself on the edge of the mattress next to where he sits.
‘Between us, we could’ve made a fortune.’
‘I see you’ve got your sense of humour back.’ I can’t help that this makes me a little sad. Once he’s recovered, we’ll be forced from our little cocoon. It also means it’s time to come clean. Some of the stuff I have to tell him seems like ancient history.
‘Who says I’m kidding? At least about giving you one. I’d’ve risked a lot of things just to be close to you, ill or not.’
‘Rory,’ I say quietly. ‘I need you to be serious.’
‘Oh, I am,’ he says, reaching out for my hand.
‘That’s good,’ I say, taking the opportunity presented and squeezing his fingers back. ‘Because I have something I need to tell you.’ His expression falters, happiness exchanged for confusion, then a wary sort of acceptance. ‘You’ve been honest with me, but I haven’t really had the chance to tell you what I need to.’
His throat moves as he swallow, his gaze falling to our hands. ‘I don’t want to know if you’ve been seeing someone else. I mean, you’ve been here with me—for a week—and you haven’t had any calls, other than from your friends. If you’ve been seeing someone, it can’t be serious. Not yet.’
‘Rory.’
‘And if it’s not serious,’ he says, raising his head, his gaze steel grey and resolute. ‘I don’t need to hear.’
‘Rory,’ I repeat. ‘There’s been no one else, but there are things you don’t know, things the newspapers don’t even know. Wait; does that mean you’ve been seeing other— ’Fuck; does that mean... ‘Have you being seeing—’ I halt. Don’t ask.It’s none of my business what he’s been doing. Or who.
His smile rises quickly. ‘When have I had the time? Between the new hotels and weekends hassling your friends. I only want you. And I don’t give a fuck what the newspapers or anyone says.’
‘But there are things you need to know about before. Stuff from way back. Before I was married.’
He blinks twice as he processes this. ‘And you want to talk about then?’
‘Not want, need.’
Placing the cup of hot liquid on the nightstand, he turns back to me. ‘You’d better get over here, then.’ And then he grabs me, pulling me onto his lap.
‘Hey, no manhandling,’ I complain, even as my chest aches from the thrill of contact. We’ve been so tentative around each other and then, of course, we’ve both been ill.
‘I haven’t held you in months,’ he says gruffly.
‘That’s not true.’
‘Okay, I haven’t held you in months outside the confines of the bathroom.’
‘That sounds kinda kinky.’
He huffs out a small laugh. ‘Sounds much less fun than it was.’
‘I’m aware,’ I reply, dryly.
‘Then don’t complain. Actually,’ he adds, grabbing my hips. ‘I think this would work better face to face.’
He begins to lift me, though I help once it becomes clear what he’s doing, unfolding my legs to straddle him. Once seated, I suck in a sharp breath; we’re so close, face to face, his silver grey eyes watching me so carefully, his hands on my waist. We stare at each other for a long drawn out moment, a moment where my heart begins to race. It has been months since we’ve been this close, but oh, my body remembers him. I ache to sink into him and my fingers burn with the need to touch.
‘This is difficult.’ Because I want to leave my fingerprints all over him. He smells so great—did I already say that? He’s so solid and warm, he feels like home. Or what home could be. I slide my teeth over my bottom lip to prevent myself from telling him these things.
‘The important things usually are,’ he says gruffly, his fingers stroking the sides of my waist. ‘What is it that you need to say?’
Something ridiculous, I don’t answer, because although I need to say this to clear my conscience, it seems so stupidly childish. It makes the decisions I’ve made since leaving home a complete joke.
