The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(108)

“All right.”

“And if you stay and those wolves of yours end up coming, well you know what? I got a baseball bat and a whole lot of Valium. So bring it.”

He reached for her then, pulled her into him. Her neck was damp with steam, her hands redolent of garlic, her body’s lush, soft curves warm against him. “Thanks for taking care of me,” he said.

She leaned back in the circle of his arms. “I had a good time last night,” she said. “It was one of the best dates I’ve ever been on. And frankly, you should give a seminar on kissing.”

Erik smiled at the floor, a pleased heat rising up into his face.

“I’m glad I could be here for you tonight. I’m touched you shared all this with me. And I hope you’ll stay.”

“I’m thinking I might.”

She rested her hand on his jaw. “So much blood. So much pain, baby, and you were so young. I’m sorry.”

Her thumb ran along his cheekbone. Then it glided across his lips. He closed his teeth on it, gently, but held it there. The moment swelled in electric silence as he felt something in him unwind, uncoil. A gate opened and desire coursed through his body, bright, hot, purposeful. He took her head in his hands, brought his mouth to hers. She reached around his waist and with a definitive twist, turned off the burners of the stove.

She took his hand, led him back into the bedroom. They kissed, hungry, peeling each other’s clothes off with shaking hands. The night sat up and begged, ravenous. He was alive. He hadn’t died. Sons and daughters had died today but he was alive, down on his knees, naked, running his mouth over Melanie’s stomach, curling his fingertips into the waistband of her underwear.

She stilled his hands.

“I’m at the tail end of my period,” she said. “There might be some blood.”

He gazed up at her, grateful, so grateful. Her hand played in his hair.

“Don’t be afraid of it,” she whispered. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

She was beautiful. Passionate and compassionate. He didn’t shy away from her blood. He let himself move into it, seeing it as a life force, full of vitality and strength. It was baptismal.

Under him, Melanie was beautiful.

“Come here,” she said. Her voice a song in the dark. “Show me everything.”

His body was strong. He was young and alive. He could go all night.

“God, you’re good,” she said, gasping in his arms.

“You’re so good,” he whispered, his fingers seeking her out again, finding where she was still wide open and wet for him. Wet with desire. Wet with blood. He wasn’t afraid.

“Your body is amazing,” he whispered, a good lover again, thinking of her first and himself second.

Later, he lay drowsily against the velvet skin of her back. Her perfume wafted rich and golden into his nose and throat. Not a sugar scent but spice. Old world and exotic. He breathed her in and murmured, “I never thought it would be this way again.”

She kissed his fingers, twined with hers. “Baby, I often find as soon as you say ‘never,’ life throws ‘always’ at you.”

He ran his smiling mouth along her head. “I never want to make love with you again,” he whispered.

“Smartass.” She turned in his arms, giggling and wicked. “I’m gonna need an extra fly swatter under the bed to keep you in line…”





While You’re Down There


They dated two years. Then they found a beautiful apartment in the historic district—the sunny half of an old Victorian home with a back porch and a small yard—and moved in together.

It wasn’t quite seamless. After the best-behavior novelty of moving in together wore off, they settled back into their ways and found they were an imperfect couple. Melanie was dramatic when it wasn’t necessary—making mere inconveniences into dire issues. Her energy levels were unwavering, especially on Sunday mornings when Erik wanted to sleep. And her inquisitive curiosity, so charming in the beginning of the relationship, could quickly turn to pestering.

Not that he was such a prize: he had his anxious episodes, his dark, seasonal moods—especially in November and April. The intensely painful and private moments from his past were only discussed in general terms. He gave her what he could but she wanted all of him in detail. He knew it frustrated her that he had dehydrated parts of his heart so thoroughly, no amount of drenching love and affection could revive them. It made for misunderstandings and a lot of bruised feelings.

Domestically they did all right—they squabbled about money and bickered over chores. Yet despite the clashes over stupid little things, they lived well together. He grounded her. She gave him a much-needed jolt. She marveled at how he could fix anything. He loved the clever, creative ways she made their home beautiful. They got an upright piano. And a dog—a mixed mutt they named Harry. Naturally, Melanie called him Baby.

Most nights, Erik slept well, curled on Melanie’s back, their hands twined between her breasts. Harry snored in the corner and all was right with the world. But some nights Erik lay awake, not anxious, but feeling he was acting a part in some existential play.

What am I doing?

Who am I?

And he’d look at Melanie sleeping in his arms. Who are you?

Those nights he worried at the relationship, even as his mind chided him to stop tinkering with a non-existent problem. Their relationship was solid. They talked, they laughed, they made a lot of love and, thank God, after sex Erik was peaceful. The lovemaking alone filled him with a gratitude for Melanie he would never be able to fully articulate.