Page 57 of Dual
So I'll do whatever it takes to make sure the malignant part of my brain calledMadsnever gets the chance to take him away from me again.
EIGHTEEN
DOMHNALL
My fingertips tracethe curve of Anna's spine as morning light spills across our bed, painting her skin golden. She's finally fallen into a deep sleep after days of restlessness, not that she'll talk to me about what's bothering her, and her breathing is soft and even against my chest. I should be getting up, heading to the office, but I can't bear to break this moment of peace, this fragile intimacy.
I'm trying to take care of her the best I can, but I'm worried. I can't help it. I feel like I'm failing her, but I don't know how. I can't know anything when she won'ttalkto me. Only in sleep does she look at peace, lips parting slightly with each breath. In these quiet moments, she looks unburdened,untouched by the shadows that seem to haunt her waking hours lately.
Reluctantly, I slide from beneath her, careful not to wake her. She murmurs something unintelligible, her hand reaching reflexively for the space I've just vacated, and my heart constricts. Even in sleep, she seeks me out, as if some part of her is afraid I'll disappear if she lets go. I press a kiss to her temple, breathing in the sweet honeysuckle scent of her hair, before forcing myself to leave the warmth of our bed.
She's still sleeping when I finish showering, her body curled into a tight ball beneath the blankets. I sit on the edge of the bed, unable to resist touching her, my fingers gently brushing a stray curl from her forehead. I want to crawl back into bed, to wrap myself around her and shut out the world, but duty calls.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, she's up, swaying barefoot at the stove as she flips pancakes, humming under her breath. The morning sunlight catches in her hair, turning it to liquid fire, and my breath hitches. She's wearing one of my T-shirts, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, and even after all this time, the sight of her in my clothes undoes me completely.
I move behind her, sliding my arms around her waist, burying my face in the curve where her shoulder meets her neck. She jumps slightly—she's been jumpy these past few days, strung tight as a bow—but then melts back against me.
"Morning, love," I murmur against her skin, pressing a lingering kiss to that sensitive spot just below her ear.
"Morning," she breathes, tilting her head to give me better access. "You're gonna make me burn the pancakes."
"Worth it," I growl playfully, nipping gently at her earlobe.
She laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. God, I've missed that laugh. She's been so tense lately, carrying some invisible weight I can't quite see or understand. But now, as she turns in my arms, spatula still in hand, her eyes meet mine with a spark of the old mischief.
"Behave yourself, Mr. Callaghan," she scolds, but there's no heat in it. Just that sweet, teasing lilt that makes me want to sweep everything off the counter and take her right here in our sun-drenched kitchen. It's been too long since our bodies connected.
But I know it's just an animal impulse that has me wanting to fuck to clear away the last of her distant mood. As if my reptile brain won't be sure everything's really all right until I've got her pussy clenching around me in welcome, milking me free of every last drop of cum.
I steal a quick, hard kiss instead, savoring the way she sighs against my mouth and the way her free hand curls into the fabric of my shirt like she's anchoring herself to me.
Patience, I order myself, pulling back.
"Sleep well?" I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my thumb lingering to trace the curve of her cheekbone.
Something flickers in her eyes—uncertainty, perhaps. "Like a dream," she says, but her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.
She's lying, and we both know it. I heard her pacing the bedroom last night after she thought I was asleep. And the night before, I woke at three in the morning to find her side of the bed empty, only to discover her in the living room, staring out the window with a can of Red Bull clutched in her hand.
But I don't press or ask all the questions burning on my tongue. We've developed a careful dance over the months, each of us knowing when to push and when to give space. This feels like space time. So instead, I just hold her a moment longer, trying to pour all my love and support into the simple touch of skin on skin.
"Any plans for today?" I reluctantly release her to go pour myself coffee. But I stay close, unwilling to break the connection completely.
She turns back to the stove, rescuing a slightly singed pancake. "Just some reading. Maybe a walk if the weather holds."
I move behind her again, unable to resist the magnetic pull of her ass. My arms slide around her waist, drawing her back against my chest. She fits perfectly against me, like she was made for this space. Made for me. I breathe in the scent of her—vanilla and something sharper beneath, like electricity—and fight the urge to call in sick and spend the day rediscovering every inch of her body, reminding her with every touch how deeply she's loved.
Even if it's only massaging touches with clothes strictly on. I feel starved for her.
"I could come home early," I suggest, my voice rougheningwith the images playing through my mind. "We could do something together."
She just laughs and dances away again. "Breakfast's ready."
The workday dragslike a wound being stitched without anesthetic. I check my phone between every meeting, hungry for any connection with Anna. By mid-afternoon, I've nearly worn a path in the carpet from pacing during calls, restless with the need to be home and have her in my arms.
I try calling her around lunch, but it goes straight to voicemail. I listen to her recorded voice—"Hi, you've reached Anna, leave a message!"—just to hear her and bridge the aching distance in any way I can.
DOMHNALL: Thinking of you. Hope you're having a good day
