Page 50 of Beacon

He’s still making lingering, satisfied sounds as I release him and move my hands up to his abdomen. I rub his belly and then his chest, delighted by how fully his body has softened under my hands. Then I finally crawl higher onto the bed so I can massage his head.

“Thank you, Anna,” he rasps, sounding like he’s about to drift off.

“You’re welcome.”

“Never…” His neck arches slightly in response to the trigger point in his scalp I found, so I soften my pressure. He sighs again. “Never thought I could feel this good again.”

He’s fallen asleep before I can think of any sort of reply. I keep stroking his head, petting him now more than massaging, for a long time until I’m sure he’s sound asleep.

Then I climb off the bed and take the lotion back to the bathroom. I pee again and wash my hands and then my face. I wipe off his ejaculate that got on my gown. As I blot my skin dry with a towel, I stare at myself in the mirror and once again have the surreal disorientation of looking at someone else.

Someone prettier and sexier and deeper and more burdened than me.

The weight of Mack’s need is an intense responsibility, but it doesn’t scare me like it might have in the past. Not that he ever let me carry it before, but even if he had, I never would have believed I was strong enough to bear it.

But I want it now. I wish things were different so I could help him carry it for the rest of our lives.

I’ll take what I can get, however. We’ve got three more weeks together, and I’m going to give him what he needs while I’m allowed.

When I return to his bedroom, I arrange the covers over Mack’s big body and then crawl under them beside him. He’s still sleeping deeply, and that fact fills me with the richest, fullest kind of pride.

I settle beside him, but no matter how tired I am, it’s a while before I can fall asleep myself.

The next morning, we both sleep later than normal. The sun is well up before I even think about stirring, and Mack doesn’t wake up until I get out of bed so I can go to the bathroom.

He starts a fire in the woodstove while I make us a big breakfast since we’re both starving—ham and egg scramble with goat cheese toast.

Mack seems better. Still quieter than he used to be but more relaxed than he’s been since I found him in the cabin. Maybe last night was some sort of turning point for him, or maybe he’s simply been able to push his internal conflict aside. But he’s in a good mood—wanting to chat casually and spend time with me and not pulling back inside himself—as we eat and then decide to tackle the big chore of cleaning out the garage.

It’s packed full of boxes and containers, and in some of them might be items that are useful to us or other people. It’s a good idea to sort them out and take stock of what’s all there.

So we start working after breakfast, and it takes us seven hours before we’ve gotten far enough through the mess to call it quits for the day. We didn’t stop for lunch, but we ate so much for breakfast we didn’t need it.

Despite the hard work, I have a great day. Mack is good company—the way he always used to be—and eventually he starts laughing and teasing me.

When we’re done, we take showers and make quick and easy grilled sandwiches for dinner. I find a box of dehydrated brownies—just add water—so I make those too. They’re not the real thing, but they’re dense and sweet and taste like a decadent treat.

After we clean up, Mack gets interested in a different sort of activity, and I have no objection. So we fuck on the couch with my legs wrapped high around his back until I come twice, and then after he pulls out, I finish him in my mouth.

It’s after that. After a good day and a good meal and good sex with a good man who feels like mine.

It’s then. I’m hit with a deep wave of grief.

Because he’s not mine. Not for real. I might want him now in a way I never have before, but he doesn’t want me anymore.

Not for more than the next three weeks.

The reality hurts so intensely I have to leave Mack in a sated sprawl on the couch with the excuse that I need to go to the bathroom. There, I sit on the toilet and cry into my hands, fighting to will myself back into composure.

Mack can’t know.

He can’t know how much this hurts, how bad I feel. He’s got such a soft heart and such a strong sense of responsibility, he might try to give me what I want even now, even if it’s not the best thing for him.

And I can’t let him do that. He needs to be perfectly free in a way he’s never been before. Free to decide on the life he wants. And telling him the truth about these new feelings and desires would make him less free.

I won’t do it.

“Anna?” Mack is knocking on the bathroom door. “You okay in there?”

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