Page 61 of Savage Blooms
“You’re a sweetness I don’t want to run from, Miss Fairweather.”
Nicola took a deep swig of coffee, grinning at him mischievously, and then sat down at the kitchen table. Finley sat down beside her, easy and comfortable, like they did this all the time, like they were more to each other than strangers bonded by shared emotional entanglements.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, gathering up her courage. “About sex?”
“You’re very direct,” Finley said.
“We can talk about something else, if you want.”
“No, I like it. I’m just not used to it. Eileen is a bit more… roundabout when it comes to talking about how she feels. Yes, ask me anything.”
“The way you are with Eileen… Is that the way you are with everybody?”
“You mean, do I want to hurt all my partners?”
“Yes.” She leaned in close to study his face. He was so lovely, in a melancholy way. Like a spurned prince from a Shakespeare play usurping his older brother’s throne.
Finley took his time thinking, running his thumb along the handle of his mug. Then, finally, he said: “It’s hard to say what’s me and what’s how I’ve learned to be when I’m with Eileen. But yes, I think this predilection has been with me since the start, and yes, that wanting – to bruise or to bite or to restrain – is always there. But it’s not theonly thing I like. And I would never do that to someone who didn’t like it too. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense,” Nicola said with a big smile. “And you seemed to like it when I pinned you down last night.”
“I did, very much.”
“Has anybody ever done that to you before?”
“Never,” Finley said, fixing her with a look of longing that felt like pure power coursing through her veins.
“We should do that again sometime too, then.”
“I’d like that.”
“You’d better be careful getting close to me,” Nicola said, with a brittle laugh. For a few moments things had felt so good, so cozy, but now those old insecurities were creeping in like a thief in the night. “I can be a handful.”
“I don’t think you’re a handful.”
Nicola could have brushed him off, or smiled and accepted the shallow compliment. If he was just someone she was trying to get with at a bar, or be pleasant enough to to get invited on a second date with, she might have. But Nicola really liked Finley, maybe even as much as she liked Adam, and that was freaking her out so bad she couldn’t breathe. It seemed easier, at this point, to confess rather than to disappoint him later.
“My mother surrendered me to the state when I was ten days old. I bounced between foster care and group homes for most of my childhood. Some of the families were better than others, but none of them ever stuck around for long. I was a really difficult kid. I would getjealous of other children and I had horrible separation anxiety and I would have these… meltdowns. I still do, if I’m being honest. You only think I’m easy to get along with because you haven’t seen me get upset yet.”
She punctuated this admission with a laugh, trying to take some of the sting out of the somber topic. But Finley just looked at her with that level gaze that made her feel like she was the only woman on earth.
“That sounds very lonely, and it sounds like you blame yourself for the actions of the adults who were supposed to keep you safe. That’s not how family is supposed to treat each other. You’re a bright, sweet-natured person, Nicola. I don’t doubt that for a moment.”
“Thank you. But you don’t actually know me that well yet.”
Finley laced his fingers between hers under the table.
“No, not yet. But I’d like to. Is that enough, for a start?”
Nicola blinked the sting of water from her eyes.
“Yes,” she said. “Definitely.”
Finley leaned forward and kissed her, really kissed her, like he might never see her again. Nicola kissed him back, sweet and deep, until she was breathless.
“I appreciate how gentle you are with me,” she said, because it was easier than voicing any of the other sentiments that were bubbling up inside her, the ones dangerously close to fondness, or even love. She was moving too fast, hurtling from person to person at thespeed of light. It was her damaged attachment style, she reminded herself, or a disordered love map, or whatever other defect inside her soul that therapists had clinical language for.
A shadow passed across Finley’s face, and his grip on her hand slackened.
