A Thousand Letters(55)

Time moved, though I didn't, not as the shadows deepened or the temperature fell. Not until the window opened, and he slipped inside.

He was lit half in flames, half in shadow, his eyes sharp with pain and soft with sorrow. Snow dusted his dark hair and the shoulders of his jacket, and I sat slowly, holding the blanket to my breasts, dreaming with my eyes wide open.

Broken. Broken and sorry. He'd flung away the no, the why, stripped his soul bare, and what he was, what was left was the truth: he was broken, maybe irreparably. But I could be what healed him, mended him. It was why he came here, I knew, and selflessly, this was what I wanted, for him to be whole again. Selfishly, I wanted nothing but him, only him, broken or whole. Anything was better than nothing at all.

He begged me to understand without speaking, and I did. I understood when he moved to my side, the cold wafting off of him, touching my skin in tendrils. I knew when he touched my face, his hands warming the moment our skin touched. And when he breathed, I wished to be his air.

My eyes never closed for fear if they did, I'd open them to find him gone.

I felt his lips a second before they closed over mine, agony and hope, a fire burning in the empty space left by death. But around the edges was the solace in submission, after seven years of wanting, of waiting and loss, of loving without return. Our bodies came together, winding around one another with the memory of home and pain and love in our hearts.

His hands were around my back, my arms around his neck, our lips laced with relief and regret, with apology and forgiveness, deepening with every heartbeat until he tipped his head, pressing his forehead to mine, our breaths ragged and eyes closed.

"I need you," he whispered. "I love you," he breathed. "I'm sorry," he begged.

"I'm yours," I sighed, and he kissed me again, his heart broken and singing and flying into the sun.

He stood next to my bed, watching me as he pulled off his coat in the firelight, undressing as I sat with the sheets pooled around my waist, breath shallow, body on fire.

His body was strong, no longer that of a boy, but a man, hardened and chiseled by his work, scarred from the war with cuts and burns. I reached for him, tears falling as he sat next to me, my fingers tracing the ruts and tight skin. His fingers circled my wrist, and he brought my palm to his lips, eyes closed, reverent and solemn. And when his eyes found mine again, they were alive with regret, with intention.

He held my face in his big hands, eyes searching mine, and he tilted me gently, laying me down, kissing me with lips that knew me, knew my soul. Lips that had burned their imprint on me so many years before, a brand I'd never been able to wipe away, a brand that ignited again under his touch.

His fingers trailed down my body, pulling my hips into his like they'd never forgotten me, like they knew they owned me. It was his skin against mine, his lips and my own. Our legs scissored, bodies flush, hands roaming, touching, reveling in exploring every familiar curve.

His chest was warm and hard, his heart thumping wildly under my palm as it passed over, moving down, down to him, needing him, wrapping my fingers around his length. He gasped against my lips at the contact, his hand flexing on my hip, fingers digging into my skin before sliding down the back of my thigh to hitch it over his waist. And I stroked him gently, our lips and tongues moving in time as his hand kept moving until his fingers found my warm center. It was my turn to gasp, thighs flexing at the contact, relaxing as his lips moved down my neck.

When I found composure, I flexed my hand, and he did the same, slipping the tip of his finger into me, and I sighed, heart pounding with his face buried in the curve of my neck.

I could heal him, but he would ruin me. I would make that sacrifice without question, simply because he needed me, and I loved him.

He shifted at the sound of my sigh, a noise escaping him from deep in his throat that hit me deep in my belly. He broke away and hovered over me, his legs between mine shifting to open them more, his eyes on mine, noses only inches apart for a moment that stretched out. And then, he kissed me.

He kissed me with abandon, pressing me into the bed with his body as I felt the tip of him against the edge of me. With a gentle thrust, he slipped into me, the feeling taking over every sense, the moment too much, and I broke away, arms circling his neck, breath gone. He filled me, holding still when our bodies were connected, caging me in his arms, pinning me with his chest and hips, his face in the curve of my shoulder, my hands in his hair and cheek pressed against his head. We were as close as we could get, and we lay shuddering, breathing once, twice, three times before he moved.

His hips flexed as his head rose, his lips finding mine, our bodies moving together. Time seemed to speed up and slow down, my heart racing as my hips slowed and his moved faster, rocking against me, the rhythm of our bodies and hearts matching pace until they sped, until we were overcome. And our bodies broke free with a gasp and a whispered name.

The unspoken words were of no consequence for a long, singular moment.

But that moment was all we had.

As our bodies slowed, as he sagged against me, I felt the weight of his heart return, heavier than before. And he shook his head against me, the final fissure in the cracked surface that broke it once and for all.

"I'm sorry, Elliot," he whispered as he pulled away, slipping away from me like smoke.

"Why are you sorry?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"I shouldn't have …" He swallowed hard and sat on the edge of the bed, the pain on his face mirroring the pain in my heart. "I can't do this to you, to me. Not now. I need time."