Page 123 of From Air

“Give me your mouth,” he says just before his tongue draws a line from my shoulder to my jaw.

I turn my head as far as I can, and he covers my mouth with his. Our tongues collide, making deep strokes together. I gasp for a breath and drop my chin to my chest, both hands pressed to the glass.

He removes his briefs and slides my panties down my legs. Guiding his warm, wet erection between my legs, he whispers in my ear, “Shh ...”

I grunt, biting my lips together when he drives into me. My knees lock, and my nails scrape along the window. His hands take the weight of my breasts, pulling my back a little straighter as we fall into a rhythm. Each of his breaths grows louder and harsher. And I lose myself in him and the life I want with him.

I fall first.

Muscles spasming. Knees buckling. My jaw slacks in a silent scream while my heart thrashes around in my chest.

“Oh fuckfuckfuck ...” Both of his hands move to my hips as he grinds into me, stills, and collapses forward so his hands are pressed to the window above mine. He pants at my ear, body relaxed and replete.

When we catch our breath, I turn into him, and he wraps me in his arms. His hand ghosts up my back, beneath my hair, and his fingers stroke my neck.

He’s mine.

Fitz says he loves me in silent but humongous, heart-wrenching ways.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Last week, Fitz drove me to the airport and kissed me goodbye. We parted with the promise of spending Thanksgiving together in Missoula, including Edith, while Maren and Will are with their families.

I’ve left two messages with the private investigator, asking him to abort his search, but he hasn’t returned my call.

It’s hard to be around Dwight without feeling different. Whether his ramblings seem coherent or complete gibberish, they are impossible for me to ignore. More than that, it’s difficult not to ask him more questions.

In fact, it’s impossible.

“Did Samantha have children?” I ask.

Today, he’s not well. The last shift reported him vomiting during the night. His skin is paler than usual, and he hasn’t been out of bed today. But he’s trying to eat some fruit for me.

Deep lines spread across his forehead. “No. She couldn’t have kids.”

“No?” I sit on the edge of his bed.

“No.” He sets his partially eaten food aside and scoots down, pulling the blanket over him.

“Do you know why?”

“I . . . I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay. You rest.” I gather his uneaten food. “I’ll check in on you later.”

He closes his eyes and mumbles something.

After work, I heat a can of chili—a chili that doesn’t compare to the Fitzgerald family recipe—and video message Fitz.

“Yes?” he answers. I don’t see him, just an open book hiding his face, but at a weird angle that makes it hard to read the title. He’s at the kitchen counter with his phone, most likely propped against a beer bottle.

“Whatcha reading? Maybe I can tell you how the story ends.”

He eyes me over the top of the book with a single peaked brow.

“Is it a mystery?”

“No.”

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