Under the Northern Lights(53)

Biting my lip, I hoped he knew which photo I meant. I also hoped the creature hadn’t destroyed it. I didn’t think I could survive that level of guilt. Michael’s warm eyes drifted over my face, his smile serene. “Yeah . . . it’s fine.”

Relief flooded me so fast my knees felt like they might buckle. “Oh good . . . I didn’t think I could deal with something—”

Before I could finish my sentence, Michael lowered his mouth to mine. “The way you care for me . . . makes it hard to resist you,” he murmured, his lips barely brushing against me as he spoke.

A rush of desire sprang to life inside me, nearly burning me with its intensity. “Then don’t.” I wasn’t sure what I meant by those words, but it was too late to take them back.

Michael minutely pulled away to look me in the eyes, and I saw the same desire heating in him. It scared me a little, but it excited me more. We couldn’t cave—we shouldn’t cave—but God . . . if we did, it would be . . . explosive.

I leaned up, silently begging Michael to kiss me again. He lowered his lips back to mine, answering my unspoken request. Fire raged through me as our mouths moved together. Everything about him felt so right, like we were meant to be together. Like it was fate. And wasn’t it? I should have died in that crash, but I didn’t. I landed safely in the middle of nowhere, no one around for hundreds of miles . . . but him. If that wasn’t divine influence, then there truly was no such thing.

My hands came up to dig through his thick hair, and a low, erotic exhale left my lips. Michael’s grip on me tightened, and his kiss intensified. Our breaths were quicker now, frantic pants that screamed our rising need for each other. My body was practically vibrating, and I felt like I was flying. All the reasons why we shouldn’t do this crumbled into dust as I reveled in the feel of his body against mine.

His beard was tickling my skin, but I was too enraptured to care; every second was bliss. Michael’s hands ran up my back, then shifted directions and cupped my backside. A loud moan escaped me, and Michael’s lips left my mouth, curving up my cheek to my ear. He started nibbling on a lobe, and I fisted my hands in his hair. “God . . . yes.”

I hadn’t realized I’d said that out loud until Michael stepped away from me. I gasped as our bodies separated, but when I looked into his eyes, disappointment flooded me. What I saw there was remorse, not acceptance and excitement. “I’m sorry, Mallory. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine,” I told him, stepping forward. “I’m okay with this. I want you to.”

Retreating from my advances, he shook his head. “I’m not. It’s not fair to you. I’m not going anywhere, and you . . . you’re not staying. And my wife, I still . . .” His face scrunched into confusion, like he wasn’t sure what he still felt for her.

With a sigh, he quickly turned around, shutting the door on his confliction. My heart fell, but I knew stopping was the smart thing to do, since he was right about me leaving and him staying. I was getting tired of being smart, though.

“Okay, Michael,” I said, schlepping to my couch bed.

Michael turned to watch me, and another weary sigh escaped him. “Mallory?”

Wondering if he would apologize again, I looked his way. “Yes?”

We locked eyes for long, silent seconds before he finally pointed at my hard bench. “I’ll make you another mattress as soon as I can. I promise.”

While it wasn’t what I’d been hoping he’d say, it was sweet nonetheless. He was such a good man, and that was what made all of this so difficult. Because I couldn’t speak, I merely nodded at him. His eyes were so stricken with guilt that I made myself smile. I didn’t want him ending everything because we’d gotten carried away tonight. Stupid as it was, I still wanted his tender touch.





Chapter Nineteen

A pattern began to emerge over the next several weeks, a pattern of pushing forward and pulling away. I was afraid the kissing would end after our heated moment, but to my delight, Michael still wanted our limited intimacy. He just seemed guiltier about it, like he was certain he was hurting me. I tried to make him feel better by being as bright and cheery as I could be, like none of this was bothering me, but in truth, it was wearing me down. I didn’t want this to end, but the end was steadily approaching.

But the passion between Michael and me was escalating in a way that was harder and harder to contain. It was like we kept dousing the fire but left the coals smoldering. All it took was the tiniest touch to set off the spark. I wasn’t sure what that meant for us; all I knew was I wanted him more and more. I could sense that he wanted the same, but he wouldn’t allow it for fear of hurting me, and so the looping cycle of guilt, remorse, and confusion continued. I wished there was a way for us to be together, without the past or the future interfering. If only he didn’t hate humanity for his wife’s murder . . . then, maybe, I could convince him to give life another chance, convince him to leave with me.

“Do you think your wife would have liked me?” I asked him one night while we warmed ourselves in front of the fire. “I mean . . . if we’d met while you and her were still married, and the two of us weren’t . . . doing stuff . . . obviously . . .”

I felt my cheeks heating as my words trailed off. It shouldn’t still be awkward to talk about his wife, but it was. It was like she was in the cabin with us. I often pictured her angelic form above us, either frowning at me for wanting her husband in all the ways I shouldn’t or smiling at me because I was making him happy.