Page 68 of Brash for It
When I lay her back and the light decides to climb up her throat and rest there, I have to close my eyes for a second because there’s only so much a man can look at and keep the primal need to claim at bay.She touches my face, thumb roughing along my cheekbone where Brian’s open palm left a red imprint last week that’s gone now.Her eyes say she remembers and she’s here anyway.My chest hurts in the best way.
Full.
We fit.That’s the simplest way to say it.Not because of bodies—bodies can do all kinds of trickery and call it fit.We fit because my breath finds hers without thinking, because her hands know where to go like they’ve been keeping a map I didn’t see, because every time I start to push, she meets me there with a yes that isn’t hurried, just sure.I ask her things without words—this, here, like that—and she answers with her mouth, with her hips, with her whole damn self.It turns the world into a small bright place that doesn’t ask for anything except the truth of this minute.
When it’s too much to keep quiet, when the heat climbs and the room narrows and my name in her mouth does that thing to my spine that I’m never going to pretend I can fight, I hold her hand.She squeezes back like she’s anchoring me on purpose, like she knew the tide would pull hard right there.It does.We go with it.
Later, when the noise eases and the air cools, I’m on my back with her sprawled half across me, hair everywhere, one leg tangled with mine like she’s improved upon the concept.My heart is still knocking at my ribs, but it’s not trying to get out.It’s trying to settle in.
We don’t rush to fill the quiet.The fan ticks; the house breathes.I reach for the sheet and pull it over her shoulders because I know she runs cold when the sweat’s gone.She hums, lazy, pleased, and burrows closer like she wants to live just like this forever.
“You’re looking at me,” she mutters into my skin.
“Damn right I am.”It comes out the way it always does with her—the edge filed down, the truth bare.
She tilts her head up, studies my face like she’s checking for cracks I didn’t mention.“You’re… softer,” she remarks finally, amused and not.“Not a lot.Like a man who figured out a better pillow.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I deadpan, and she smiles against me.
“You meant it,” she adds, more serious now.“At the water.”
“Yeah.”I don’t even try to duck it.“You?”I ask even though I know it to my soul she loves me.
“More than anything.”Her fingers skate over my chest, writing words I can’t see, spelling something I don’t need to read to understand.“I didn’t know it could feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like relief.”She breathes out.“Like I set down something heavy I thought I had to carry forever and didn’t notice until it was gone.”
I swallow, thumb rubbing absently along her shoulder.“You’re not carrying anything alone.”
“I know.”She says it like a vow.“You either.”
“I love you,” she says, softer now, like a good-night.
“I love you,” I answer, because it feels like a thing that needs echoes to root.
Epilogue
Kristen
Six Months Later
The mapon the wall catches the early light—lines and loops and places we’ve ridden until we memorized their breath.Today we’re drawing a bigger loop because we head out for a very special ride.
Deal’s Gap, North Carolina.
Tail of the Dragon.
Kellum said it last night like a vow and a grin.“Three hundred and eighteen curves, darlin’.You and me.”
I’m already in my base layer of clothes, hair braided tight, my helmet bag by the door next to the small duffel he told me to pack “like you actually trust that roadside motels have towels.”I do now.I trust a lot of things I didn’t six months ago.
Even though, this motel is one the Hellions stay at annually, we have been taking road trips regularly enough I know to pack well for myself.
He’s outside, tightening something that probably doesn’t need tightening, talking fast and low to the bike like it’s a girlfriend that understands English and attitude.
I’m checking the list on the counter—phone charger, gloves, tiny first-aid kit, the gummy bears he pretends he hates, but they keep him from smoking cigarettes even better than the cinnamon gum—when a gentle knock taps the back door.Not the front.The back, like family.
