A Veil of Glass and Rain (17 page)

strained breaths join and merge.

“I haven't been with anyone since-”

“Eagan, it's fine,” I cut in. “I trust you.” My

voice is fierce.

My body and my heart crave him urgently. I

can't wait any longer. I rain rash kisses all over

his handsome face.

“I'm yours,” I assure him.

“I needed you. After David's death. I needed

you.” His tone is low, but it's as sharp as a

knife.

I freeze. Suddenly the soft glow in my chest

turns into an icy fist.

“I'm sorr-”

“Hush,” he requires. “Listen to me. I was so

mad at you. What was happening was bigger

than us. Death is bigger than a kiss.”

Tears sting my eyes. I try to blink them

away.

“I wanted to run after you. I really did. But I

was so angry,” Eagan continues. “Then the

pain became more bearable. And I just missed

you. I wanted your arms around me. I wanted

your kiss.”

As I stare into his eyes, I see a storm; so

many conflicting emotions fight for supremacy.

Finally, love wins. I wind my arms around his

strong neck and I draw him to me.

Eagan buries his face against my breasts and

nuzzles into my tender skin. His breathing is

ragged.

I caress his hair, the back of his neck, his

shoulders,

eliciting soft sounds of

contentment from him.

I picture him mourning David alone, his

parents working abroad and me, his best

friend, his family, hiding and running away

from him. The icy fist gripping my tender heart

squeezes it, until it shutters into million tiny

pieces that slice my insides. I bleed for my

friend, my lover. I need him to bury his ache

inside me. I can take it.

I cup my breast in my palm and I offer it to

him. I tease his lips with my nipple. For a few,

painful seconds nothing happens. Then Eagan

licks the stiff bud and fastens his mouth on it,

suckling hard.

My hips buck; each tug of his lips and each

flick of his tongue create a delicious tingle

between my legs. I nuzzle his stubbly cheek,

then I press my mouth to his ear, for I want my

whimpers to be his music.

Abruptly, Eagan's lips leave my breast. He

yanks his head up to trail kisses along my neck,

my jaw and lastly my lips. It's a hot and wet

kiss; his tongue prods, plunders, devours.

A jolt of heat melts the ice coursing through

my veins. I moan and fist his hair. I kiss him

back with the same hunger.

Eagan's right hand slides between us. His

fingertips find my clitoris and stroke it gently.

Then he guides his tick shaft to my damp cleft

and drives it inside me with little pushes, that

are in sharp contrast with his greedy kiss, and

are meant to let my tight passage get used to

his invasion. The realization imbues my heart

with joy.

My hips jerk up to meet his shoves. My

senses unfold at the pure bliss surging

throughout my skin. With each thrust, each

touch, each kiss, Eagan melts the frost running

in my veins. As his hard flesh slides in and out

of my core, my inner muscles clench, and I

moan his name over and over again. Finally, I

press my mound against his pubic bone. I groan

and I surrender to the intense waves of

delight.

All around me, the room turns into a blurry

kaleidoscope of yellow, purple, green and

blue.

Eagan holds me and kisses me as the

tremors in my body subside. I wrap my legs

around him, to keep him inside me. I want to

feel his release. I want to hold him as he

shatters and shivers. I want to be his cradle,

his home and his family once again.

“I love you, Eagan. My brave, strong friend.

Come for me,” I whisper.

I sob with pleasure and pain as he moves

inside me. His thrusts grow frantic and

forceful. My sensitive inner walls quiver,

triggering his release.

We cry, we fall, together.

“Brina, promise you'll never run away from

me, again.” Eagan's voice is desperate.

I utter my promise against his lips.

I wake up amid purple sheets and yellow

pillows that smell of cinnamon, lemon and sex.

The late-morning sun bathes the bed and my

sensitive limbs. My muscles are sore and my

skin is dotted with whisker burns.

I open my eyes to a new life and I heave a

contented sigh.

For a while I stare at the sunlight slanting

through the curtains and smudging the walls

with blue and green stains.

From the kitchen come the buzz of the

coffee machine and the clank and clink of

flatware and silverware.

I turn and reach for Eagan's pillow. As I bury

my face in his lingering scent, my nipples

tighten and liquid desire gathers in my core.

I crave him again.

Wearing only my yearning and my long, inky

hair, I ease out of bed and leave the bedroom,

to follow the sounds and the smells of

breakfast.

As I enter the small kitchen, my steps falter

on the cold floor. I hesitate.

Eagan is pouring orange juice into a glass.

He's wearing low-slung black sweatpants and

nothing else. His dark-blond hair is tousled. His

soft lips are curled into a pensive smile. He

looks glorious.

A small and needy sound escapes my throat.

Eagan looks up and, as his eyes rest on my

face and then on my bare body, his relaxed

expression disappears. The reality surrounding

the building, the apartment, the two of us

becomes a muted presence, for all I can

perceive is the pounding of my heart and my

labored breathing. Eagan's blue regard blazes

into me and warms my skin. Then his eyes turn

ardent and hungry, so much so that I perceive

them like a caress across my skin.

He sets the juice onto the counter, then he

moves a few steps in my direction. We

contemplate one another with different eyes.

It's like we've never seen each other before.

The thought both scares and thrills me.

“Come here,” he drawls.

I go to him.

I link my arms around his waist and I bury

my face against his broad chest. His arms loop

around my shoulders and hold me close. We

both moan with pleasure as our bodies come

together.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, even as he bends

down to kiss my hair.

“Yes, but it's not food I crave,” I answer.

A deep growl vibrates throughout his entire

being. He backs away from me a little and he

scoops me up in his arms. Then he carries me

in our bedroom.

He torments me with bliss.

The first wave of ecstasy subsides, even so

Eagan keeps lapping and nibbling at my

swollen bundle of nerves. Still gasping for

breath, I push myself up on my elbows and I

stare at his dark-blond head buried between

my parted legs.

He's kneeling in front of the bed. My legs

dangle over the edge. He strokes his strong

hands over my trembling thighs. His soft hair

and the light rasp of his beard tickle my

sensitive skin.

All these small sensations mingle with the

feeling of his wet tongue delving within my

delicate folds and brushing over my little nub.

It all contributes to create a second rush of

pleasure that washes over me with such force,

that my body arches off the bed. Strength

deserts me and I fall back onto the mattress,

writhing, panting and sobbing his name.

I close my eyes and reach down blindly for

him. I grasp his hair and I press his face to my

groin, as I rub shamelessly against his mouth

and his tongue to prolong my release.

Eagan's growl reverberates throughout my

skin. Then, as the spasms begin to abate, I feel

one of his fingers delve between my buttocks

and graze my small opening. A fresh surge of

lust flows over me, and for a long moment I

drift away.

I've never let anyone pleasure me in this

manner, or touch me the way he did yesterday

night in the bathroom, for I consider those acts

too intimate; but I trust Eagan with everything

in me, therefore I'm willing to surrender to him

completely.

“Kitty-cat?”

My eyes flutter open. The bed dips, as

Eagan eases up my body. He braces his weight

on his arms and he beams down at me.

I reach up for him and I trail my fingertips

over his beard stubble. He turns his head, first

left then right, to place soft kisses on my

palms.

His erection jerks against my belly, and heat

pools between my legs once more.

“I want you inside me,” I tell him.

“I don't know if I can be gentle,” he admits.

I shrug. “Gentle is overrated.”

He chuckles. Then he nuzzles his way down

my body.

He slides off the bed, then he stands by the

end, gazing down at me for a while with

shadowy eyes full of raw need..

My hips buck, inviting him and seeking his

desire. Our ragged breathing is the only sound

in the world.

Eagan lifts my legs and drapes them over his

forearms. I brace for his hard thrust, but he

presses inside me carefully.

The feeling of fullness makes me whine.

“Brina?” His voice is strained and husky.

“I'm fine,” I breathe.

My insides clench and ripple around his

invasion. My neck bows backward and my lips

part in a silent moan.

Heaving a deep groan, Eagan lets go and

claims my body. He pushes in and out of me,

until he finds his own release.

Afterward, he gathers me in his protective

embrace, and I snuggle into him, while he

soothes his hands over my shivery limbs.

“I hurt you,” he mumbles against my hair.

“A bit. But I liked it.” I brush a kiss across

his chest.

Eagan cups my cheek and tilts my head

upward, so that he can kiss me.

It's an adoring kiss. It brings tears to my

eyes, but this time I don't blink them away, for

they're an emblem of joy. As they fall,

however, Eagan mouths them all away.

Then my stomach growls. It takes me by

surprise, because I'm never hungry.

“Breakfast?” Eagan demands.

I grin. “Yes, please.”

16.

Time is my enemy.

Our week of bliss is over. It's been three

days now. And we've already established a

hateful routine: While I'm still asleep, he

leaves for work; I stay home trying to write my

paper; then it's late afternoon, and I go to

work; when I return home, late at night, I find

him asleep.

We rest wrapped around each other, but it's

not enough.

I try to write, but words fail me.

I try to play my blue guitar, but my fingers

don't move.

I can't call the twins, because I'm afraid

they will ask me about the paper; the answer

will certainly disappoint them.

I can't call Clémentine, for she's very good

at detecting distress and sadness in my voice.

And, apparently, I'm a bad actress. I'm unable

to hide my feelings from her.

I don't want to trouble Eagan with needy

text messages; he's not writing me either,

which means he's quiet busy. Besides, his

colleagues consider me a burden, and I'm not

willing to prove them right.

My appetite is absent, but I open the fridge

anyway, to give my hands something to do.

There are still some leftovers from the dinner

we had with Enrico, the twins and Clém, after

they'd helped me with the moving out and

moving in.
Mozzarella di bufala
, fresh

tomatoes and
gelato alla stracciatella
; it all

tasted delicious only a few days ago. Now my

stomach churns.

I move away from the fridge.

How I will survive Berlin, I do not know.

The mirrors show me an image I recognize

too well; eyes as dark as empty wells, dry lips

and pale skin.

My mother, Margherita, used to look exactly

like this when my father, Jean, was working

abroad and she had to remain at home with

me, for I was still too small to be left alone, or

to be brought along. My parents working trips

led them often to very dangerous places.

I am exactly like Margherita.

I crave Eagan in the same way I need air for