Fracture (25 page)

     I trace patterns over his stomach, watching the muscles twitch under my fingers. Then I give him what we both want and sprawl on top of him. Skin to skin, and our groans are embarrassing. Rubbing against him, I stretch up and attack his mouth, lacing my fingers through his hair and anchoring his head in place.

     Why haven’t we ever taken our time like this? Why was he always in such a hurry to have me limp and pliant beneath him, over him, beside him? Now I have him laid out before me, and all I want is his mouth on mine. Hard and more than a little possessive.

     I nip into his chin and slither down, licking and sucking wherever I feel like, gauging his reaction and going back for seconds, sometimes thirds. A flick of my tongue against a nipple gets me a hiss. A scrape of teeth in the same spot gets a hand, huge and strong, cradling the back of my head. But I’m not done yet. I’m just getting to my favorite part.

     The muscle of his hip running down to his groin is partially obscured by the waistband of his boxers. If my hands tremble a little too much, he doesn’t seem to notice. His hips come up as I tug at his shorts.

     Oh. Yum.
Mine
. I can’t breathe.

     “All right there?” He lifts his head, brow cocked.

     I scratch the inside of his thigh lightly, smiling when he hisses. “Now I am.” I run my hands up his legs, following with my mouth.

     I can’t reach my destination fast enough. I’m greedy. His skin is hot under my tongue, and he jerks as I bite gently, stroking my hand over his cock at the same time. Palming him. Testing him as I move from hip to hip.

     His groan is a harsh, guttural thing as I take his cock in my mouth. I love this, love this power, love how he squirms for more. Love that tantalizing combination of silk and steel, tempered with a salty tang. It’s so completely, uniquely
him
. The thick, heavy weight of him on my tongue, feeling it pulse and twitch, sends a jolt of smug satisfaction through me.

     He tears a squeak from my lungs as he yanks me up and flips me onto my back, tearing my panties off.

     There’s no preamble. He arrows in on the good stuff, taking a nipple into his mouth and laving it until it’s hard almost to the point of pain. Switching his attentions to my neglected breast, his fingers don’t allow all his hard work to go to waste, keeping me on edge.

     He licks his way lower, lower, dipping into my belly button, his fingers blazing a trail for his tongue to follow. Thumb manipulating my clit, it gets harder to breathe as the pressure builds. 

     “Stop,” I gasp, tugging at his shoulders. I’ll be done as soon as he puts his mouth on me, and I want him with me when I fall.

     He’s as eager to get to the main event as I am. Lifting my hips, he plunges forward. His jaw tightens as he stills. “Jesus, lass. You feel too damn good.”

     How could I forgotten how this feels? Full. Satisfied, yet hungry for more. Stroking my hands over his back, I hook them over his shoulders and pull him down to me, tilting my hips and meeting his long, slow thrusts.

     It’s maddening. It’s a relentless, agonizing chase, and I’m quickly dissolving to nothing beneath him. “Declan,” I plead. The heat’s unbearable. I dig my nails into his skin, and he reaches back and grabs my hands, raising them above my head and pinning them with his own. And still his hips rock in that interminable rhythm.

     He broke me before, on the night of the bombing, and again on our wedding night. He’s doing it again, his gaze intent, his hips rolling against mine with purpose. The spring inside coils tighter, tighter, cracking with the pressure, until my legs tighten around his waist and I bow up, fingers clenched in his, the scream of release dying in my throat. He follows me down, grunting out his own release, hips jerking erratically.

     I’m scorched. I am stripped and barren.

     His breathing is harsh in my ear. When he releases my hands I wrap my arms around him. “Cheater,” I murmur.

     “How you figure?” 

     I whimper as he props himself up on his elbows, pulling out of my hold. “You interrupted me.”

     He brushes a kiss over my mouth. “If I’d let you keep going, it would have been over way too soon.” He shifts to the side and rolls off the bed. He scares another squeak from me as he scoops me up. “The edge is off. You can continue in the shower.”

     He keeps his word, and I bruise my knees on the hard porcelain of the tub, loving how he trembles under my hands. We cocoon ourselves in the bed. Night gives way to dawn, and we collapse in a heap, finally too tired to keep going.

     It’s only a few hours later that I’m woken by his tongue. When he allows me to stumble out of bed in search of a shower and food, he follows me. We try out the couch and the table in his office. He perches me on the edge of the kitchen counter and chuckles when I bang my head on the cabinets as I’m consumed by pleasure.

     We are starved for each other. We have wasted so much time.

     All too soon he has to pack for Mexico. I’m sitting cross–legged on the bed, ensconced in one of Declan’s sweaters and nothing else. “You’re not going to worry about me, are you?” He stretches across the bed and grabs the jeans next to my knee.

     “Nah.” Of course I will. I’ll worry about him every minute until he’s back home. I can’t tell him, of course. It’ll just launch another “Don’t get attached to me” speech, and I don’t particularly want to hear it. His words and his actions are at war with one another, and in the hours leading up to this, his departure, I’ve made another discovery, one that makes me uncomfortable. I’ve become very attached to him. I don’t know what I want from him, but I do know I don’t want him to go.

     I don’t want him to leave me.

     He keeps tucking items into his damn duffle bag, muttering to himself like he’s got a mental checklist. 

     “Sunscreen. Don’t forget the sunscreen. What?” I protest when he gives me a bland look. “It’s Mexico. They have sun. You’re in the borderlands. It’s desert. Ergo, more sun. You’re Irish. Do you need me to keep going?”

     He doesn’t quite manage to hide his smile, though his next words are sober enough. “You’ll be all right here?”

     “Yes.”
No
. “You’re not going to be gone that long anyway.” A month. A month is forever.

     I could be gone by the time he gets home.

     During one of our respites, Declan handed me the phone and the phone number for the attorney he’d found. The conversation took some time, and he sat by my side, his touch grounding me when panic and fear wanted to drown me. After, he dragged me back to bed and fucked me until I couldn’t remember what I’d been so worried about. It was the call I received this morning that has me in turmoil.

     If I’d stuck around the embassy a few minutes longer, I would have gotten out of the country. They weren’t talking about me. I was never on a watch list. I didn’t have to marry Declan. I could have avoided all of this, been home with my family months ago.

     I never would have met him. Never would have insisted he get out of the street and save himself. Never would have grown to crave those gentle, sweet touches he gave without thought or the enthusiastic arguments over the state of modern literature.

     I know I ought to tell Declan, tell him that I’m free, but that means I’ll have to leave and I have nowhere to go. I have little desire to see my friends, and less to see my parents. I want to see Tim. Eventually I’d like to see Ryan’s parents and his brother. I’d like to find a better resting place for Ryan’s ashes than a battered metal box stuffed in a duffle bag.

     The new life I’d wished for is happening, whether I’m ready for it or not.

     The news brings me a little reprieve. I can’t go anywhere without my passport, and there’s some things to clear up with the Irish government regarding my entry into the country. I’ve got a little time. Time enough to drive Declan to the airport and watch him leave.

     He ignores me as he goes about the rest of his packing, and I slide off the bed, pull on my jeans, and decide to wait for him in the living room.

     The car ride is icy in its silence, Declan slipping away before he even gets on the plane. The words are on the tip of my tongue, begging to be set free. Tell him. Tell him he’ll have his life back. Then we’re pulling onto the airport drive and it’s too late.

     “I’ve been cleared,” I blurt.

     I’m surprised I managed to get that out around the pressure in my chest. The already tense quiet magnifies, becoming a whooshing sound in my ears. There’s no sound. There’s only Declan staring at me with anger flickering in his eyes, cooling to resignation, flattening to nothing. Nothing.

     He nods, climbs out of the car, and retrieves his bags from the trunk. The slam reverberates through the small car, and I wait. I wait and wait and wait, wait for his retreating back to turn around. I get nothing. He disappears through the doors of the airport without a word or glance for me.

     His reaction is the fracture that finally breaks me to the tiny pieces he said it would. Shattered, I sit in the car, staring at the doors, knowing he won’t walk back out of them and hoping he will anyway.

     “You have terrible timing, lass.”

     I roll my eyes and remind myself I’m relieved he called in the first place. “I just found out myself, okay? Cut me some slack, it’s a lot to process.” I push through the small pile of mail on the kitchen table and find my notes from my most recent call to the attorney. “There’s still red tape to cut through. I’m waiting on checks and shit. Once I get them, I can pay you back.”

     Static crackles in my ear, and Declan’s response cuts out. “The phone’s breaking up. What did you say?”

     “You don’t owe me any money. Just forget that right now. Anything else I need to know?” More static, but at least this time I heard the question.

     “Not really. I can’t do anything until my new passport arrives, and there’s a few things Mr. O’Rourke is handling. Once that’s done, I’m cleared to enter the US. Given that we’re dealing with the government, it’ll probably take a while. And I do too owe you money. I didn’t ask you to buy me anything.” Ask me to stay. Tell me to stay. Don’t let me leave. Tell me I have a place. Anywhere. Tell me where I’m supposed to belong.

     “You were complaining about not having enough sweaters. I bought them. Deal with it. You’ll tell me when you’re leaving?” Static, followed by shouts. A car rumbles by.

     “Yes.” I might. I might not. I may end up on my knees, begging him to let me stay, for some indication of what I’m supposed to do now. I might run as fast as I can, especially if he doesn’t give me an explanation for why he left the way he did. “How’s everything over there? You drink the water yet?”

     He snorts. “It would have added some excitement. Nothing much happening. Locals say things have been quiet lately, which doesn’t bode well.”

     If ‘boding well’ means he’ll be safe because the violence has died down, I’m going to have a hard time agreeing with him. “They think something’s going to happen?”

     “They aren’t sure.” A flash of static. “I…” White noise
.
“…opportunity…” Hissing
.

      “Declan?” The line’s dead. I pull the phone away from my ear, as though staring at it will make him call back.

     He doesn’t.

     A week goes by before I hear from him again, and the same thing happens. The static is worse than before, competing with road noise. I’m able to understand he’s moved farther out into the desert before the call drops.

     It’s nothing but radio silence after that. He left his cell number, and I’m tempted to use it but decide against it. He hasn’t apologized for how he left and as the days bleed into weeks, I realize he won’t. Once I do, the last thread tying me to him snaps.

     I miss him. I miss him and worry about him and wish he was here far more than I’d expected. It pisses me off, considering how he left, walking away and not bothering to apologize for it. The shrink asks me to examine those feelings. Every time I do, the irrational part of me feels guilty and disloyal to Ryan. The rational part says to tell him to fuck off and walk away.

     I choose to ignore it instead. Hence the reason I’m not calling him, no matter how many times I start to punch in the number, no matter how itchy my fingers get.

     The end of week three comes and goes without any word from Declan. I can’t call him. I won’t. If I call him, I’ll be acknowledging how worried and panicked I’m getting. I’ll spend hours on the couch in a ball, picturing him on his knees with a gun pointed at the back of his head, or tied up and gagged in a dimly lit hut, some guy with gold teeth smiling broadly as he taunts him.

     The longer the silence stretches, the more I realize I
care
. I want him home. I want his arms around me, the gesture so automatic I’m not sure he even realizes it. I want him muttering over his laptop or pointing his damn camera at me or sitting on the couch, trying to convince me to read
Helter Skelter
instead of
House of the Seven Gables
.

     I want
him
, charming, casually cruel Declan, the man who’d rather walk away than admit he has feelings for me. It disgusts me.

     It also scares me to the point I break down and call my brother to prevent me from breaking down and calling Declan. Once I do, a wave of homesickness hits. We talk for a few hours, and I find myself promising I'll see him in a week. The small college he’s attending in upstate New York is an easy bus ride from the city. I book my ticket for two days from now and hope Declan doesn’t come home unexpectedly.

     Because I won’t be coming back.

     This is not my place; this is what I’ve learned in the three weeks Declan’s been gone. I do not belong here, waiting for a man I’m not even sure wants me around. I do not belong where I know no one and can’t work to support myself. I do not belong in this mostly empty but somehow charming little house. I’ll never find my new life holed up here. The starkness of the walls is starting to get to me anyway.