Page 43 of Dancing in the Dark

“We can start fresh tomorrow,” I rasp. “I could text and see what you guys are up to. If you get caught up on a case and you’re still working, I could come over and spend a couple of hours with Mia.”

Fight for me, Charlie. Or leave so I can cry.

Promise that tiny slice of your soul and honor your promises.

Or go, so I can mourn something that could have—should have—been great.

“I’m not angry.” Too weak to stop myself, I press my face to the ball of his shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t hate you. I don’t want you out of my life. I’m just trying to save us before we reach that point.”

Drawing a fortifying breath and straightening out once more, I stand on my own and release his arm.

Tears spill onto my cheeks as he steps through my doorway. Acid burns my throat as the heat pulsing from his body no longer warms mine. My head pounds with a furious ache as the scent of his aftershave wears thin. And, as I peel my eyes open and find where he stood a moment ago, empty, my heart shatters and bleeds. It wrenches cruelly in my chest, like rusty cogs in an old machine.

Sobbing, I close my door, not with a slam, not even with an audible snick. I carefully, silently release the handle, and pressing my back to the solid wood, I stare out at my living space the way war-torn soldiers survey a bloodied battlefield.

I spy Charlie’s folded jacket still draped over my dining chair, and weep at the inhumanity of its presence. I consider sprinting to it, scooping it up and running into the hall to give it back. To see him again, if only for a moment. But I don’t have the strength to withstand another goodbye.

I have nothing left to give.

A knock at the door startles me forward. A terrified yelp bursts from my tortured throat. Fresh tears fill my eyes, but I furiously swipe them away, fruitlessly clearing the streams of moisture so I can open my door and lie to the little old lady who lives upstairs.

No doubt she heard our row through her floor.

If I don’t answer, she’ll probably call the police.

If I shout through the door and beg her to leave me alone, she’ll assume that’s a confession, not a desperate plea for mercy.

I drag my shirt up and wipe my face. Drawing a deep breath, I try to slow the chaotic sprint of my heart. “I’m okay, Mrs. Henderson.” Dropping my shirt, I swing my door wide and swallow my feeble explanations. “Ch-Charlie? What are you⁠—”

“I love you.” He braces his arms on the frame of my door and stares. Breathes. Searches my eyes. “I love you, Sera, and I’m not ready for us to be at ‘the end’ yet.”

“Oh, thank God.” I throw myself forward and crash against his muscular chest, wrapping my arms over his broad shoulders and crying out as his powerful grip bruises my thighs. I sob as he lifts me, and whimper as his lips clash against mine.

He hitches me up and carries me inside, kicking my door shut until the walls rattle and my heart gives a painful thump. Shadows of exhaustion bruise the undersides of his eyes, and the salty tang of my tears sparks on my tongue. Still, he holds me tight and crosses into my kitchen, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip. My chin. The trembling line of my jaw. “Fuck.” He exhales a groan that tweaks something painful in the base of my stomach, but like a starving man finally able to eat, he brings his lips back to mine and feasts.

It’s desperation and desire. It’s fury and relief.

It’s everything I could want, and yet, horrifyingly terrifying.

“Charlie—”

“I love you.” He lays me out on my long stone counter and tears my shirt along my torso, revealing my bare stomach, my entire frame lifting and falling with each frantic breath I suck into my lungs. “Fuck, Sera, I love you so much it hurts.”

“It’s not supposed to hurt.” How can I be so needy for his touch, but emotionally devastated at the same time? Dying to feel him, but scared that if he does, my heart might simply shatter? I surge forward and slam my lips against his. “Loving someone isn’t supposed to hurt like this. It’s supposed to be easy.” I drag my tongue along his bottom lip and whimper. “It’s supposed to bring us peace. Not take it away.”

“I’m only ever at peace when I have you right here in front of me.” He slides his hand beneath my shirt and around to stroke my spine. “The rest of the time, I’m terrified you’ll never come back to me.” He yanks me to the very edge of the counter, growling as my legs wrap around his hips and my core clashes with his steely hard length.

I cry out at what I know we could have. I wiggle impossibly closer, because even when I’m scared, I’m desperate for him, too. Even while I grieve the happiness we both deserve, I willingly hurtle myself toward chaos.

“I want to be with you.” I tip my head back and make room for his teeth. His tongue. His hunger. “God, Charlie. I want to be with you so much, I have no clue how I find the strength each day to tell you no.”

“Good. Because I honestly think I’ve already gone mad waiting.” He bites my neck hard enough to make it sting. Brutal enough to ensure I’ll remember this tomorrow. Then he pulls back, shoves my shirt up, and latches onto my nipple.

“Argh!” I grind forward and ride the thick promise hidden behind the zipper of his black slacks. I arch my spine and give all of myself to him, forcing my breast into his mouth and feeling, for the first time, the way he wields magic with his teeth and tongue. Sparks of desire erupt within my blood, like tiny fireworks hot enough to steal my breath. Moisture spills along my thigh, surprising me as it dribbles down and creates a damp spot on my sweatpants. Desperate, I tangle my fingers in his hair and pin him close.

If he leaves me now, wet and wanting, I might simply curl up and die.

“Tell me you’ll keep fighting for us.” He breaks the suction on my breast long enough to drag my shirt over my head. “I swear to God, I’ll work every day to be what you need. I’ll try, Sera. I promise I will. But I need to know you haven’t written me off yet.”