Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(63)

He saw her climax before he felt it, the violent ecstasy filling her eyes, tightening her brow, and then her body clamped around his and she cried out, “There! God! Yesyesyes! Theo, God!”

What came from her lips thereafter had no language but was vividly clear nonetheless. Theo thrust again, and again, until the hot fist in his gut finally opened, and he buried his face in Carmen’s hair and came with a long, agonized groan.

“God, Carmen,” he gasped, when he remembered language. “Jesus Christ.”

She kissed his cheek and laughed, her breath soft and cool on his hot, damp skin. “That was f*cking poetic.”

He eased out of her, loving the way she followed him up, trying to keep him, and her whimper as his body left hers. Then he lay at her side and shifted them both until he was on his back with his arms around her, and she was pillowed on his chest. He reached down and grabbed the nearest pillow—a red one—and tucked it under his head. Passion spent, fatigue crept in.

Theo had never been able to sleep well on an airplane, and he certainly hadn’t been able to do so this latest trip. He was approaching two days since he’d last slept. The weariness of the long, stressful hours since—hours spent sober, in his longest stretch since the summer—began to make his bones ache.

But Carmen was with him, her head on his shoulder, her fingers playing in the hair on his chest, and he wanted to be present for every new minute. It was Thanksgiving, and instead of the bleak absence of the holiday he’d anticipated, his day abounded with blessings.

“I’m afraid of something else, Theo.” Carmen’s voice was uncharacteristically fragile.

He crooked his finger under her chin and lifted her head so he could look down into her eyes. “Talk to me.”

She didn’t answer, but he could see it coming in the eyes she held to his, so he waited, watching.

“I’m afraid…” She stopped, and again, he waited. She huffed and started again. Theo almost smiled at the frustration she’d turned on herself. She did so hate to be weak. “I’m afraid you can’t love me enough.”

He let go of her chin and sat up more, so he could face her directly. “What? What do you mean?”

“You already had your great love. I’m not sure what’s left for me.”

“Oh, beautiful girl. Now who’s the hopeless romantic?”

Her brows drew together, and she pushed herself up to sit. He’d made her angry. “I can’t compete with a ghost.”

“Carmen, enough. That’s not how love works. Do you honestly not know that?”

“Don’t patronize me, Theo.”

Those words elicited in Theo an acute sense of déjà vu. She’d said the same thing in the cab on that shitty, shitty day in Paris. Feeling suddenly furious again for the first time since she’d opened her door, he turned and swung his legs off the daybed. Sitting up on the side, he fought with himself for a few seconds, biting back the powerful urge to tell her he’d stop patronizing her when she stopped acting like a child.

This was what it was to love Carmen: love and war, often concurrently. He took a breath and forced himself to reply calmly. “It’s not a contest, Carmen. What I feel for you is different in its very essence from the love I had with Maggie. It’s not less. It’s different. About the only thing you have in common with her is your gender.” She didn’t fight him; she simply stared, looking neither skeptical nor persuaded. “You’re a reader. I expect you read The Great Gatsby at some point?”

“Sure. A couple of times. Not since school, though.”

“I teach it all the time. There’s a line in Gatsby: ‘There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.’ I think it’s true. I know for us, for me, it is.”

At that, finally, her expression eased into something he could read. She smiled, just a little tightening at the corner at her mouth. “As I remember it, I don’t think The Great Gatsby is the best example of healthy love.”

He smiled, too, glad for the tinge of teasing in her voice. “Not healthy, no. But encompassing. And it doesn’t make the statement less true. I love you, Carmen. Completely. You either believe that or you don’t, but I can’t compete with your fear of a ghost.”

They stared at each other, even more naked than their bare bodies, until Carmen finally nodded.

Theo needed her to say the words. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“And you love me?”

She chuckled, low and wry. “Theo, you’re my great love. My one and only. I knew it this summer. That’s why I’m so f*cking scared.”

Words weren’t sufficient, there was no poetry or platitude suited to the moment, so Theo simply leaned in, slid his hand in Carmen’s beautiful, thick hair, and kissed her. She relaxed into him immediately, and he felt trust in the way her body molded to his. When she moved forward, pushing him to lie down again, he went, and they made out quietly for several minutes—not foreplay. Not play at all. Just connection.

When they broke for breath, Carmen smiled down at him. “Can I tell you something else?”

“I don’t know if my heart can take it, but go ahead.”

“You look like hell.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry. You’re still gorgeous. You just look like you haven’t slept in a century.”