“I don’t know what to say,” Rylee says quietly. Tell me you won’t leave me. Tell me you still want to be with me now that you know the truth of my past. Tell me you’ll stay. “It’s such a heartbreaking story, but one of hope too.”
I kiss the top of her head, feeling a sense of relief from how understanding she is, at least how understanding she sounds. “I know I’ve come a long way, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about the woman I killed or the son she left behind. I strive to be a better person for them.”
She shakes her head, her voice sounding sullen when she speaks. “I can’t imagine the type of weight you carry on your shoulders, the responsibility of living out your life in the honor of someone else. Just heartbreaking.” She takes pause and then asks, “What happened with Christine?”
“Divorced a few months after the accident. Haven’t heard from her since.”
“Not even once?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “And I prefer it that way. That part of my life is in the past and I refuse to revisit it. Every step I take is forward, never backward.”
“That’s a beautiful way of seeing life.”
In silence, we sit, my past now hanging heavily over us, the tension in the room starting to grow thick with every word that goes unsaid. Even though she seems empathetic, more needs to be said. I need reassurance that everything is going to be okay, that she’s not going to run.
Gnawing on my bottom lip, my arm tightening around her, making sure she can’t escape, I say, “Tell me what you’re thinking.” I have to know. I have to fucking know if she thinks differently of me, if I just ruined any chance I had at being with this woman.
“The pictures you paint, who are those people?”
I shut my eyes, mentally counting all the personal pictures I’ve painted over the last few years ranging from children to adults. “They’re victims of alcohol abuse. People I’ve met over the last few years, people I’ve had the honor of speaking with. I have all their stories written in a notebook that I read through at least once a month, reminding myself of the grave and long-term effects careless drinking has on individuals. It’s one more way I can remind myself of staying on the straight and narrow.”
“Do you still crave alcohol?”
“No.” I take a second and add, “I’ve devoted a lot of my free time to educating youth, talking about my experience, what I’ve done, how I’ve affected others with my poor decisions. I’m often a guest speaker at AA meetings, telling my story, spreading the word that there is life after alcohol.”
She nods and lets out a long breath. My anxiety increases with every long bout of silence. It’s not often I talk about my story with someone I know, about the mistakes I’ve made, so telling Rylee everything has me quaking beneath her.
I want her to tell me it’s going to be okay.
I want her to accept my faults.
I need her to not give a damn about the man I once was and instead care about the man I am today.
To be honest, I never thought I’d find someone important enough to open up to, but now that I’m here, laying all my cards on the table, I’ve never been more terrified.
Standing in front of the judge, listening to my sentencing was nothing compared to the fear I’m feeling right now. I’ve come to rely on this woman, to depend on her smile to brighten my day. From her witty sense of humor, to her throaty laugh that makes me want to dive into her soul, I need it in my life. I need her.
“Rylee,” I say, my voice strained, my throat so damn tight I’m not sure how I’m able to speak. “I need you to say something, babe. I need you to cut the silence.”
She shifts on my lap and lifts off my chest, skyrocketing my pulse to an unbearable rate. Is she leaving?
Lifting her head slowly, she reveals streaks of tears falling down her cheek. With the back of her hand, she wipes them away.
“W-why are you crying?” I ask, stumbling over my words.
“I’m sorry.” She gives her head a shake, leaning farther back.
Fuck.
Fuck, she’s retreating.
“Just listen, Rylee. I know I’m an alcoholic, but I have it under control, I don’t crave—”
She presses her fingers against my lips, silencing me, more tears streaming down her cheeks. Cupping my cheeks, she slowly brings her lips to mine where she lightly presses a faint kiss across them. Our noses touch, our foreheads press together, our breaths mix.
“I can’t imagine the weight you hold on your shoulders every day, the sheer magnitude of knowing how you’ve altered someone else’s life. And knowing you, knowing your heart, there isn’t a day that goes by that you don’t live for that woman, for her son.”
Fuck. My eyes start to water and I attempt to look away, but Rylee doesn’t let me. She holds me in place, forcing me to listen.
“You need to be proud of the man you are today, the man you’ve become. You are a product of second chances in life, and you’re taking that second chance and turning it into something beautiful.”
My eyes shut and tears fall quickly. Rylee catches them with kisses across my lips, searing me with her taste, with her compassion.
Slowly, tears still streaming down my face, I take hold of her hips and reposition her so she’s straddling me. Her hands still gripping my face, her kisses become more forceful.
Crashing.
Biting.
Sucking.
Her tongue parts my lips, and her strokes dissipate the knot around my heart. With every touch she unravels the tight hold.
Tongues clashing. Unravel.
Fingers wiping my tears. Unravel.
Hips rotating against mine. Unravel.
“You’re such a beautiful soul,” she whispers when she lightly pulls away, keeping our heads connected.
My eyes search hers, my chest expanding, my soul connecting with hers.
Scooping her up, I take her to the bed and lay her down. Her dark hair fans against the bright white of the bedding, a stark contrast. She might look hard on the outside, but on the inside, she’s empathetic, a quality hard to find in some people. A quality I want in a partner.
From behind, I grab my shirt and pull it over my head. I toss it to the ground and then press my hand against the mattress, my body hovering over hers as I undo the tie of her robe, letting the white terrycloth fall to the side, exposing her soft, silky skin. Gently, I drag the pads of my fingers across her collarbone, between her breasts, down her stomach, across her belly button, and just above her pubic bone, watching how with every pass of my fingers, a wave of goosebumps erupts over her skin.
Her eyes become heady, her legs fall open for me, and she licks her lips, an invitation I crave.
Keeping my eyes trained on hers, the moment so incredibly intimate, I undo my pants and drag them to the floor where I step out. Never breaking eye contact, I grip my rock-hard cock in my hand and give it two strokes before I lean forward and place the head at her entrance.
Her chest rises and falls, her rose-colored nipples pucker, and a light sheen of sweat covers her skin when I rest my cock at her core, waiting, soaking in the moment.
She doesn’t force me. She doesn’t show her impatience.
She waits.
She keeps her eyes on mine, the rapid pace of her breathing the only inclination of the yearning passing through her.
“You make me feel like a better man,” I say, my cock inching inside her. “You give me hope, Rylee.” A few more inches, her eyes close for a second, before focusing back on me. “You have offered me forgiveness when there was no forgiving needed.” A few more inches, our breathing becoming one. “You make me want to move on but never forget.” I push forward and bottom out, biting on my lip, her tight channel adjusting around me.
Not saying a word, Rylee pulls on the back of my neck and brings my mouth to hers where we very slowly—rhythmically—kiss each other, our movements deliberate, with purpose as I move my hips, pushing inside her.
There’s no hurry.
There is no urgent rush to climax.
And for the first time in my life, I’m experiencing that all-consuming feeling I’ve heard about, what people strive for. For the first time in my life, I’m making love. And it’s because of her. Beautiful Rylee. Does she know she owns my heart?
Chapter Twenty-One
RYLEE
The early morning sun peeks past the white curtains, casting an orange light over the room. Tucked in close to Beck, I glance at the clock.
Six. I have a few hours left before I need to catch my flight home, the sheer thought of leaving Beck again is breaking my heart.
My hand around his waist, my head pressing against his chest, I hold on to him tightly, trying to figure out how to make this work, how to talk to him about the future, about the possibility of us.
There is no question in my mind that he wants there to be an us. That was clear during our conversation last night, and from the . . . lovemaking we did all night and into the early hours of this morning.
We haven’t talked much since he spoke of his devastating past, since he poured out his entire soul right in front of me. Instead, we’ve communicated through our bodies: touching, holding, loving, and accepting. Healing. It’s what he needed. Every caress of his hand across my skin, every kiss to my lips, to my neck, to my breasts, they were intimate, languid, and purposeful. His strokes inside me were matched with a deeper connection in our gazes, his eyes never leaving mine, his love pouring out of him, his love for my understanding.
I cried.
I cried multiple times, seeing the utter heartbreak in his eyes, but also the promise of what’s to come. With every thrust inside me, it was like he was trying to wash away the emptiness inside his soul and replace it with hope.
I want to be that hope. I want to be the one who continues to watch this beautiful man grow. I want to be by his side when he struggles with his inner demons, and I want to be the one who gives him the world, who stands by his side when he speaks of his past, who hugs him when he’s struggling.
The one he loves.
I want it all.
But there is one thing I need to know first.
I stroke the light stubble on his chest, his taut chest twitching under my touch.
He groans and kisses the top of my head, pulling me closer into his chest. “Morning.” His sexy, half-awake morning voice rolls over me, deep and rumbly. Waking up alone tomorrow morning is going to suck.
“Morning,” I squeak out, moving my body closer. I kiss his chest not in a sexual way, but to show him I’m still here, that despite his past, I definitely think he’s the strongest man I know.
He kisses the top of my head, his fingers tangling with the long strands. “How did you sleep?”
“Perfectly.” I bite my bottom lip and try to figure out a way to bring up the topic I so desperately need to talk to him about. “At least I slept perfectly with the amount of sleep I got.”
He chuckles. “Sorry, I was kind of ravenous last night.”
“Kind of?”
His chest rumbles again, rising and falling with such a delicious sound. “All right, not kind of. I was greedy, but I’m not sorry because last night was”—he pauses, considering his words—“it was everything I needed to heal my heart, Rylee.”
My eyes involuntarily shut as his words roll over me. He was so honest, so open. He deserves the same.
“Where do you see your future?” I ask, jumping right into it.
Caught off guard from my abrupt question, he takes a second, his hand still playing with my hair, our naked bodies pressed against one another. “My future? Hell, I don’t know. I’ve never really planned out my future. There’s one thing I know though, I sure as hell hope you’re in it.”
I press another kiss on his chest, more to soothe my racing heart than his. “Have you ever pictured what your life could be? Like, do you want to travel? Or do you want the white picket fence? You know, that kind of future.”
“Are you asking if I’ll ever get married again?”
No. But I go with that. “Yeah, will you?”
“To the right person, yes. I know my first marriage was a sham, a decision I’ll always regret obviously, for many reasons. I don’t believe I’m a man who gives up on marriage because his first one was a nightmare. I see that marriage as more of a chapter I had to read through in order to get to where I am today. So, yes, I’d marry again.” He chuckles and asks, “Why, you looking to fill the position as wife?”
I laugh against his chest as well and playfully pinch his side.
“Hey, watch it, Saucy.” He takes my hand in his and laces our fingers together, bringing the connection to his lips.
“What else do you see?”
He exhales. “Hell, I don’t know. If I were to really go for it, if I could really fulfill my dreams, I could see myself owning an art studio with my pictures, every story told underneath, the vivid colors and compelling truths educating people. I can see a wife by my side, accompanying me to AA meetings, showing individuals who struggle that there is hope for a future. I can see a house that isn’t perfect, but perfect for my wife and me. I can see the cracks and dents that give the house character, just like my life. I can see children, so many fucking children running up to me, holding my finger, calling me Daddy, depending on me to be the father they deserve in their life, a father full of faults but determined to prove to his children they can make something of themselves.”
I swallow hard.
“How many children do you want?”
He doesn’t even pause before answering. “At least three, four if I’m a lucky bastard.”
I nod, my mouth going dry, my heart racing uncontrollably to the point that I can feel my lungs reaching, straining for air. Please don’t keep talking, Beck. Please don’t want—
“With Christine, I never wanted kids. I didn’t want to bring innocent lives into that dysfunctional mess. But with a little wisdom under my belt and a whole hell of a lot of promise, I want to give myself the chance to be a father. I want to prove to myself that even though I come from a damaged and torn-up past, I can still raise kind, loving, and selfless children, the type of children who make a difference in this world. The best kind of difference that understand their worth and the worth of others.”
Silence falls between us.
My lungs are screaming for air.
My heart is ready to explode.
My eyes brim with tears. If I blink, if I take one breath, I’ll lose it. And I don’t want to lose it, not in front of him.
To reassure him, I place a kiss on his chest and say, “Bathroom,” before sprinting out of bed and running across the room to the bathroom where I close and lock the door. Falling to the floor, I place my head in my hands and let the pain seep through my eyes into my palms. I try to catch my breath, but my chest is heaving, my body is shaking, and so many tears are falling uncontrollably.
I should have known.
From the very beginning, I should have known.
It’s obvious in the way he carries himself, in the way he’s so compassionate, sympathetic. His heart really is that big.
He’s supposed to be a father. He’s meant to be a father. He’ll be an incredible father. His kids and his wife will be the luckiest people in the world.
But it won’t be me. Can’t be me.
Because despite the love and empathy I can give him, the laughs and the passion, there is one thing I know I can’t give him.
Children.
The sorrow is building, the ability to hold it in any longer impossible as a sob bubbles out of me followed by more tears. I’m not quiet, I’m not discreet, and there is no hiding it anymore.
And as I expected, the man I’ve started to fall for, the man who’s become a staple in my life pads across the hotel floor and tries to open the door.
Knocking on it, he says, “Rylee, are you okay?”
More tears. More shaking.
Oh God.
This hurts. It’s too much. It hurts—
“Rylee . . .”
I shake my head even though he can’t see me, my head still buried in my hands, the cold tiles of the floor chilling my body.
“Damn it, Rylee, open the door.” More pounding.
But I don’t move.
I can’t move.
I should never have come. I should never have answered his text messages. I should never have given him my body in Key West. I should have run as far away as possible, like I’ve promised myself I would do.
Run away.
It’s why I’ve struggled with writing. I’m not stupid. I understand a part of telling stories is mental, if you shut off a part of your life, an intricate part of your life, your writing will suffer.
And I shut off love.
At least I thought I did . . . until I met Beck.
Then he changed everything.
It’s so simple: meet a man, fall in love, get married, have kids, grow old together. That’s the fairy tale, right? At least that’s the “predicted fairy tale.”
Unfortunately, not everyone is that lucky. Myself included.
I get it, not everyone wants kids; not everyone sees a future that consists of soccer tournaments on the weekend and sticky hands clawing at your pants, begging for attention. But I did. I saw it so vividly, just like Beck.
“Rylee, please . . . open the door.”
I can’t. Looking around the bathroom, I see a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt from yesterday and quickly put them on. I tiptoe around the bathroom, gathering my cosmetics, tears dripping onto the marble counter. Taking a deep breath, I open the door and breeze past him.
“Rylee, what the hell is going on?”
I choke on a sob. “I . . . I have to go.” I reach my suitcase and start stuffing things inside.
“The hell you do.” Beck grabs my arm and pulls me away, hairspray dropping to the floor between us and rolling across the carpet. Lifting my chin, Beck searches my eyes. “Rylee, what are you doing? Why are you crying?”