Under the Northern Lights(64)

He broke apart from my lips, his eyes glowing in the flickering candlelight. One of the only good candles he had left. “I just want to hold you,” he whispered.

His lips returned to mine, and I ignored the flash of disappointment coursing through my body. He was being smart, still, and I respected that. I respected him. I loved him. With everything inside me, I loved him.

Michael leaned over as he kissed me, half covering me with his body. Sheltering me, protecting me, warming me . . . always warming me. He cupped my cheek, and a strangled whimpering sound escaped him. Pulling back, I searched his face. He looked desolate.

“Michael . . . ?” I knew I didn’t need to ask him what was wrong—I already knew—but the words lingered in the air anyway.

He placed a soft kiss on my lips, then my nose. “I just . . . I didn’t think I could feel like this again. After Kelly . . . I didn’t think I’d ever want to. And now . . . now you’re leaving, and I . . . I’m sorry. It’s just harder than I thought it would be to let you go.”

My heart was thumping so hard in my chest that I was positive he could hear it raging in the silence between us. “You don’t have to. You could . . .” I bit my lip, not wanting to ask him, once again, to leave with me. I already knew he wouldn’t.

Hope was in his eyes, though. “What if we come back?”

“Come back?” Was he saying we could leave? Together?

Michael cringed like he hated what he was about to say. “What if we fly into town, fill up the plane with supplies . . . then come right back?”

No . . . he wasn’t asking to come with me. He was asking me not to leave him yet. The hope in my chest faded and flickered. “My family is searching for me. They’re scared out of their minds, thinking I’m dead. I can’t . . . let them remain terrified.” Even just postponing it these last few weeks was selfish. But I hadn’t been able to stomach saying goodbye to him, hadn’t wanted to feel that pain . . . this pain.

“You could call them, tell them you’re fine . . . then come back with me?” The pleading in his eyes was almost too much to bear. Was he finally, in a roundabout way, asking me to stay?

“Michael . . . I can’t live this isolated life all the time. And you said so yourself: your heart isn’t ready for me.”

“But maybe it is,” he said in a rush. “What if you stayed here, and I stopped . . . resisting. What if we tried . . . to be together?”

God, he was offering me paradise. I only had to give up everything to take it. “Michael, I can’t.”

“Please, just think about it. I don’t want to lose you.” His lips returned to mine, heavy and urgent. I wanted to think clearly, really toss around what he was saying, but his tongue brushing against mine made coherent thoughts impossible. All I felt was a rising, uncontrollable need, one I desperately wanted to satisfy.

I ran my hands through Michael’s hair, pulling him closer to me—I wanted him as close as possible. Our kiss intensified as passion cascaded around us. I felt out of control and yet completely in control at the same time. It was a heady feeling, one that left me delirious with bliss.

My fingers trailed down his chest, darted under his many layered shirts, and wandered up his back. I felt so close to him, but I wanted to feel so much closer. Almost unconsciously, I started pulling on his shirts, wanting them off. Michael pulled away from me to look me in the eye. Here was where our make out sessions usually ended—when one of us crossed the intimacy line. I hoped he didn’t pull away now, when so much between us was changing. I needed him.

Maybe sensing my need, maybe feeling it himself, Michael tore off his shirts, depositing them on the floor I could never seem to get clean. As I drank in his bare skin, his eyes drifted to my clothes. My chest felt hot as his pale eyes washed over my shirt. I was scared to move, scared I’d push him away, but I was scared not to move too.

Finally, when I couldn’t take the ache of longing anymore, I reached down and started pulling off my top. Michael’s hand stopped me, and I nearly groaned in frustration. His eyes were conflicted as he stared at me, and I had no idea which direction his head would send him—toward me or away.

After an eternity, he finally inhaled a deep breath . . . then started removing my shirt.

Realizing just where this might go had me breathing so hard I thought I might pass out. Ordering myself to calm down, I helped him with my shirt. After setting it down on top of his, I began unhooking my bra. I could see Michael’s breath increasing as he stared at my chest. When I pulled the bra off, his eyes lingered a moment before lifting to my face. The reverence I saw there stole my breath.

Putting a hand on the center of my back, he pulled me toward him until our bare skin was touching. Our breath and the crackling of the stove were the only sounds, and with the way he was looking at me, cherishing me with his eyes, it was the most romantic experience of my life.

He laid me back on the mattress, then curled his body so he was again half hovering over me. As our kisses became languid, his fingers traveled over my skin, touching everything that had been hidden for so long. When his thumb brushed over my nipple, I couldn’t stop a groan from leaving me. I worried he might stop, but he didn’t. He made an enticing sound of his own and lowered his lips to my neck. Emboldened that he still hadn’t fled, I didn’t worry about the next groan. Or the next one.