Hadley & Grace(48)
“What’s your name, Mr. Blaze of Glory?”
She feels him hesitate, unsure whether to give his first name or last. “Mark,” he says, and she gives a silent cheer.
Marcus? Markham? Or just Mark? she wonders. Spelled with a c or a k? Mark Wahlberg. Mark Twain. Mark Sloan from Grey’s Anatomy—Mr. McSteamy. She smiles.
“There,” he declares, stepping back to admire his work, the ACE bandage now draped like a loose snake between them. He smiles triumphantly, believing he has done it and is therefore now safe.
She hops toward him.
He steps back.
She hops with him.
“Hadley—” he says when he runs into the wall.
“Mark,” she interrupts, the recklessness bubbling over and making her feel drunk.
He opens his mouth to go on, but her lips on his stop him. It’s an awkward kiss, his bound hands pressed to her sternum as her neck cranes to keep them connected, his mouth frozen open as hers clumsily pushes against it.
He forces space between them. “Hadley—”
“No,” she says, shaking her head.
“But—”
“No,” she says again, tears filling her eyes and causing him to drop his to the floor between them.
Then something extraordinary happens. She is on the verge of losing it, her emotions teetering somewhere between despair and desperation, when his hands rise to cradle her chin, and he leans in and brushes his lips against hers. She knows it is only meant to be a kindness, a consolation to soften the blow of his rejection, but beneath the touch, hunger pulses. She feels it, ache and neediness that match her own, and when she wraps her hands around his neck to pull it closer, he loses the battle and his mouth molds to hers.
When he pulls away, shame blazes in his bright-blue eyes.
“It’s only us,” she says, setting her fingers against his lips to stop his protest. “And it’s only this moment.”
She has no idea where the words have come from, but they feel right, too much terror behind her and in front of her to think about, creating a vacuum in time and space so all that exists is him and her and now.
She sets her hands on his chest, then kisses him again. And when she slides her hands down and begins to unbutton his shirt, he lets her. She pulls it from his shoulders, and it falls halfway to his elbows before getting stuck because of his binds.
He looks down, and she looks down, and they laugh.
He bucks and leaps and spins trying to break free, and she laughs harder, and he laughs harder, both of them cracking up until they’re doubled over with their fit.
“I’ve got it,” she says. “Bend over.”
He does as she says, and she grabs his shirttail and yanks it over his head, turning the shirt inside out and causing it to land in a tangle on his wrists.
“Brilliant,” he says, flapping his elbows like a duck to show off his freedom.
Then they are kissing again, but having more fun with it now, the shirt dangling between them and reminding them of the humor. Awkwardly, they remove the rest of their clothes as best they can, and she is aware how ridiculous they must look, his shirt stuck on his hands, her shirt and bra dangling on the ACE bandage between them, his pants and boxers bunched at his ankles, and her skirt gathered at her waist. But frankly, she doesn’t care. For fifteen years, the only love she’s known has been from a man who terrorized her, and now she is with a man she’s known less than a day but who is caring, gentle, and kind.
When they come together, it is strangely ordinary, and yet both of them are aware how remarkable it is, like it is the most natural thing in the world.
It ends too quickly, and she feels how disappointed he is in himself, though she is not disappointed in the least. He was hungry, like she was hungry—two people starved so long it was impossible to show restraint.
It was beautiful, she wants to say, but she knows how corny that would sound.
He rolls off so he is on his back, his chest heaving. “Sorry,” he says. “I guess I’m a little out of practice.”
She shifts so her head is on his shoulder. “Really?” she says, tracing circles on his chest. “You’re a little out of practice making love to a woman in a sweltering trailer in the middle of the desert with your hands tied?”
He chuckles and leans down to kiss the top of her head. It’s such a strangely familiar thing to do, and again she’s surprised how comfortable she is, like she has known him her whole life, or more like she was meant to know him her whole life but they have only just now met.
“Well,” he says, “I can honestly say I’ve never done that with a suspect before.”
“Captor,” she corrects.
“Right. Captor.”
It should be funny, but something in the word deflates the moment.
She runs her finger over the scar on his left shoulder. The broiled skin trembles beneath her touch. “The war?” she asks.
“Football.”
“Linebacker?”
“Mascot.”
She smiles, then pushes onto her elbow and leans over to brush a kiss across it. When she lies back down, he wriggles closer and takes her fingers in his.
“So, you live in Las Vegas?” she says.
“DC. I moved there two years ago.”
He tells her about his life, and she tells him about hers. He grew up in Boston, played football for Notre Dame, served in the marines, then started with the FBI. He beams when he talks about his kids, Shelly and Ben, his love so big it fills the room, and she feels his hurt when he talks about his marriage, like somehow its failure is a reflection of his character.