Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(53)

“And you?” I asked, nervous that I might not have given him the pleasure that he’d clearly given me.

“I’ve had sex,” he admitted. “I can’t lie to you. I mean, it’s physically impossible for me to lie to you.” He chuckled uncomfortably, scratching the five o’clock shadow that was forming on his chin. “But that . . . that was different from anything in my past. It was like . . . I don’t know. Anything I compare it to will make me sound lame.”

“I don’t care.” I turned to him, reaching out to touch the prickly stubble on his face, urging him to tell me the truth. “You can say anything to me.”

“I’ve never been in it emotionally, ya know? I mean, it was always just sex. Just physical. But with you, it was so much more. You make me feel alive . . . like anything is possible.” He shook his head. “God. I’m an idiot.”

Quickly, I raised up on my elbow and my gaze met his. “No, you’re not. You’re saying everything that I feel. It’s scary, right?”

“Yeah.” His eyes began to glisten with that simple word. “But I don’t care. Bring the fear, bring the pain. You’re worth it.”

“I agree.”

“No regrets?” he asked, his eyes concerned.

I smiled and ran my fingers through his hair. “Never.”

“Good.” He sighed and brushed at the stray hairs that hung over my forehead. “That makes me happy.”

“You make me happy,” I whispered.

Porter scooted himself off the bed, tossed the condom into a garbage pail, and walked to a bookshelf on the wall, retrieving a small notebook.

“So . . . that thing . . . the condom. What is it, um, for exactly?”

“It’s protection . . . for you.”

His words confused me. I tried to remember what Tiffany had said, but my brain felt like mush after our lovemaking.

“I’ve been with other women, and I know I’ve been f*cked up some of the time and skipped using one of these.” He gestured to the packet in his hand. “I can’t risk giving you anything.”

“Giving me anything? What do you mean?”

“Look, I think I’m clean. I don’t think I have any STDs, but I won’t gamble with your health. No way.”

“STD? What is that?”

His expression softened and he sat next to me on the bed. He rubbed my back slowly, his fingers tickled the skin of my shoulder. “Sexually transmitted diseases.”

Goose bumps rose on my arms. Porter could have a disease? The pamphlets. I never looked at the pamphlets.

“Are you . . . sick?”

“No, no. It’s just something you’re supposed to do to be safe. I promise I’ll get myself tested. I’ll do anything you want.”

His eyes were sincere and I trusted his intentions. “Thank you.”

Porter glanced at the notebook in his hands. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his fingers lightly tapping at the plastic of the cover.

“I want to show you something,” he said. “But I don’t want to scare you away.”

“You won’t,” I insisted. “I promise.”

“Sometimes when I can’t see you for a while, my mind wanders, ya know? And I have to get it out. I have to find some way to have you with me, even if you’re only in my imagination.”

“Oh.”

He placed the notebook beside me. I sat up, not bothering to cover myself with a sheet, and opened the first page of the notebook. His handwriting was difficult to decipher, but I could see that a short poem was scrawled on the page. I turned the pages again and again, finding poem after poem scrawled there. Some words were scribbled out, others written in such horrible writing, I couldn’t understand them. But they were love letters—about me.

My heart felt as if it might burst.

Skipping back to the front page, I read the first poem that Porter had written for me.

“That Fucking Purse”

She doesn’t know what she does to me
the way her hair tickles her forehead,
the innocence of her eyes.
She brings me back to darkness,
yet heals my broken heart.
She tempts me with her curves,
yet I’m afraid I’ll break her.
I’m too brash, too honest, too scarred.
Could she ever want me?
The skin of her wrist—
the softest I’ve ever felt—
the pleading of her eyes.
She reminds me of my home,
my hell,
my darkest hours.
And yet I can’t break free.

“This is beautiful.” My voice shook; I was overwhelmed at the depth of his feelings. That anyone could love me like this, even when I wasn’t yet his? It soothed my soul and satisfied my heart.

“The title could use some help.” Porter chuckled self-consciously.

“No,” I said, pressing the notebook to my chest. “It’s honest. And it’s perfect just the way it is.”

Porter gave me a half smile before pressing his lips to mine. “How did I get so lucky?” he asked, his expression so sincere. “You’re just . . . you make everything all right, Brin. Everything.”

My cheeks grew hot; I’d rarely received compliments. But I didn’t allow myself to clam up, to grow embarrassed, or hide my scarlet cheeks. Instead, I pressed my forehead to his and simply said, “Thank you.”