My eyelids drag apart, reluctant to see the light of day. I emerge from utter solitary darkness, only to enter more of it. The bedroom is dark, apart from the flames of the fire, which is roaring inside the fireplace. The realization that I'm alive, that I'm blinking, that my fingers can tap into the blankets, is daunting.
I'd given up. I'd felt my body giving up, and yet here I am.
Everything hurts. Well, not so much hurts. Everything is sore. I'm not sure if I can move. In all my travels, in all the dangers and unknowns I've faced amongst them, never once have I felt the end as close as I did here. It only took a couple of seconds, and my life was nearly over. Just like that. Trying to find my bearings, I blink to restore my vision. My sweeping gaze stops the second my eyes land upon him.
He's seated on the edge of the mattress, one leg bent, one hanging off the side. It looks as though he's been there for some time. He's like a statue, unmoving even when he knows I'm awake and staring right at him. The expression sunken into his features scares me. It's a desolate, blank look, one that rids his face of any real color or life.
He's in clothing now, and he's changed me into some as well, layers upon layers of it. Dressed in an oversized hoodie that's hanging low enough to reveal to me that he's not wearing anything else beneath it, and navy sweats, he looks like he's the one who has been through the true trauma.
"What were you thinking?" he whispers, almost inaudibly.
"I'm sorry," I apologize, stunned by how hoarse my speech currently is. "I didn't know I was walking on it."
"You could have died. You nearly did."
My determination is stronger than my pain, pushing me onto my palms.
"Don't," he says, with concern as I sit up, scooting across the short distance to him. I crawl onto his lap and clasp both his cheeks, weakly, pressing my face to my hand. The room is spinning, and at my wavering, his arm circles around my back to hold me close, despite his anger.
"I'm sorry," I breathe, stroking his hair, kissing his cheek softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
I look upon his face, admiring the way his eyes are closed, savoring my affection and drag my thumb slowly over the curve of his brows. I'm rendered breathless when they re-open, now swelling with water. His usually hard features are cracking under the strain of his anger and my repentance.
"You stopped breathing, Jo," he whispers, and my chest swells with shock, shaken by those words. "I worked over you for three damn minutes before you took a breath again."
To hear my heart stopped beating is enough to get it racing now. I have no clue what to say, what to do, how to comprehend any of this. One minute I was in a rage, and the next, I was relying on the man who was the reason for my reveling to save my life.
A lot of the incident is cloudy, but his panicked pleas aren't. I remember falling unconscious, and can only imagine what that must have done to him, what that must have been like...to be trapped in this manor in the middle of a storm with an unconscious woman and no connection to the outside world. What it must have been like to find me out there in the snow and ice, in the same place he found his wife and child, rendering him helpless all over again.
The look on his face tells me he's been sitting on those dwellings for a while now.
"Maybe I am cursed," he confesses darkly, his voice choked with overwhelming pain. I shake my head, horrified when he snaps his face away from me stubbornly so I won't be witness to the tears falling from his eyes. I urge him back to me, unable to stand it.
"You aren't cursed, Aidan. I'm here," I breathe, kissing his temple, then his cheek. "I'm right here. You saved me."
The sound he makes when his chest breaks under the strain of his reluctant emotions wrenches my heart, striking me to the core. I hold onto him tighter, wrapping my arms around him with all the force I have left to give, tucking my face into his throat as his sudden unleashing of violent sobs rake through my body, shaking us both.
He's always so careful to hide himself away. To hear him break is painful. It's painful because even in the dark, I know whatever he is hiding is destroying him. His memories, his secrets are gnawing at his insides, forcing him to carry this guilt, this darkness with him wherever he goes.
I want him to tell me. I want him to tell me everything, just so he doesn't have to bear it alone anymore, but I'm sure he won't allow me in. The harsh words we exchanged in his parlor haven't dissipated with this event. They are still there, just not as important anymore.
"I could never..." he starts, sucking in a gasp. My body flinches when he releases it. "I could never hurt them. I could never..."
I wipe his tears, nuzzling his throat, exhaling. "I know. I know."
"I—God, I can't talk about it. I can't—"
I beg him to stop, unable to hear him this way. It's crushing me. His fingers are digging into my back, into the shirts of his he's put me in. His tears taste like ocean water, salty and thick. My lips are wet from them, pressed to the corner of his mouth. My own emotions are blundered, effected greatly by his sorrow, and my own trauma, reliving the helplessness I felt under the ice, and buried in the depths of snow.
We've got a world of drama between us, and the only relief is tenderness. We paw at each other, feeding off one another's vulnerability, until we're gasping, consuming the air with greed and desperation.
We both move in sync, praising and worshipping, and the tension swells. And despite how weak I feel, burdened by fatigue, or how short my nerve-endings actually are in this moment, our lips find each other, our searching's coming to hilt. My stomach somersaults at the way he inhales and crushes me under his grip, kissing me hard enough to hurt. I don't have the strength to reciprocate, my arms limp between his chest and mine.
"I want this to be perfect," I whisper against him. I'm all too aware that I haven't showered. My teeth are not brushed. My hair feels like hay. My fingers are stiff and just bending them creates aches throughout my whole hand. Acquiescing, he nods, allowing me to breathe.
"About that..." he says, grimacing. "I don't have condoms here."
I nuzzle against his nose with mine, humming. "Have you...since—?"
"No," he breathes, stunning me. "It's been years."
He pulls back enough to grasp my cheek, and look into my eyes. "I haven't felt this way about anyone before."
I'm brave enough to ask, praying he doesn't get offended. "Nora?"
He closes his eyes, while I swipe my thumbs over his cheeks, erasing his tears.
"It wasn't like that between us," he finally says, softly. He's told me before that he lived in a marriage without much carnality, but it hasn't sunk in until now.
Aidan has known me for less than a week, and he's just told me I've made him feel things his wife never did. Their relationship is no doubt complicated, but it's suddenly apparent that we've both confessed to each other that these feelings we have are more than just desire, more than comfort.
This is something else, something strange. Never in a million years did I think there would be a time when I wouldn't cringe at too much affection. I crave Aidan's touch, constantly. I want him to tell me what I mean to him. I want to consume his thoughts, and give him the push he needs to begin living again. I yearn to be everything.
The journal, lost in the abyss of water outside, a clue to the puzzling life he's lived, is just another haunting fact of this place. I don't know why Nora wrote those things about Aidan, but I can't believe her words hold any truth. I can't. Maybe that's naïve...it's definitely naïve.
I just can't think about it, not while he's holding me like this.
"I think I have some...in my bag...tucked away," I confess, pushing way past embarrassment. His mouth curves gently, his index finger drifting over my cheekbone.
"It's nice to see you blush."
I instantly hide my face in his shoulder, exhaling. I'm exhausted.
"It's Christmas," he whispers, after a few moments of silence. I can still hear the storm in his voice. He's trying to gather himself together again, but it's clearly hard. My eyes find his and widen, gaping as I'm struck momentarily speechless.
"What do you mean it's Christmas?"
"You've barely moved an inch in two days."
His despairing gaze suddenly makes complete sense. Aidan has been watching over me for days. It would explain a lot, like why my stomach feels hollow, and why my muscles are still stiff. It's my turn to blubber. I press my cheek to his shoulder, blinking back tears.
"Wow, some Christmas for you," I grumble, angry I've missed the opportunity to brighten this holiday for him.
"You're alive," he says against my hair. "You woke up. That's all I need."
It takes a lot for us to finally detangle. Only the low grumble of my empty stomach is enough incentive for Aidan to leave the bed to throw together a meal for us. He doesn't leave before helping me up first so I can quickly wash myself off with some warm water.
I'm frankly embarrassed by how hard it is to walk a few feet. I manage to go through the motions, sighing with relief at the first douse of lukewarm water against my face. However, its mere seconds before my body has had enough, and I begin to speed up my movements, realizing I'm in no condition for cold temperatures yet.
I slip on the robe Aidan left for me, and tie it tight around my waist. I'm moving the heavy basin when Aidan steps back into the room, frowning at my efforts.
"No, Jo. Stop," he says, setting the tray down on his cluttered desk. He intercepts, and grabs it from me. He tucks it by the tub in the bathroom, and turns to me, glowering.
"Please, have a care."
"I'm fine," I press, crossing my arms as I walk, rather slowly, back into the room.
"Your hair is too wet," he says, behind me. When he tells me to sit, I do, not having to be told twice. He stuns me when he grabs my towel and takes it upon himself to dry my mess of locks for me. My pale, chilled skin is thankful for it, despite how strange it is to accept his help.
I pick at the food, enduring his consistent wrath for my sudden loss of appetite. But after a few sips of warm broth, he concedes, handing me a brush. I go through the motions, and chuckle at how my arms buckle at the measly task.
"Let me," he says, holding his hand out over my shoulder.
"God, I hate this."
He takes the brush, humming. "You knew a storm was coming."
"Well, I warned you I would leave."
"And still you walked the entire path, and trudged into unmarked terrain...in an unknown place...without telling me."
"Well, maybe if you'd calmed me down..."
"Well, maybe if you'd not been snooping in the first place?"
"If you'd put a little trust in me, I wouldn't have run."
"Trust? You came at me armed, Josephine. Did you honestly think that would make me want to relive the worst day of my life? Did you think that was the way to go about it?"
"Don't you even want to know what it said?"
"You told me enough."
"There were some serious accusations in there."
"I don't want to hear a single thing from that book, Jo," he says, firmly, effectively stopping me from pressing any further. I nod, looking down at my lap.
"You do know how hard it is to want you, right?" I ask, after he's gotten out all knots and is simply combing the brush through my long strands of golden hair. "To go into this completely blindfolded?"
"Yes."
"As long as you know," I mutter sarcastically, my fondness for him overpowering my annoyance. "You're lucky I'm so tired, or I wouldn't give up so fast."
He chuckles, and sets down the brush. I smile, wrapping my arms around his neck when he sticks his hands under me in the seat and lifts me up into the air.
"You know, I can walk..."
"Why walk when I can carry you?"
I smirk up at him. "You're right. I think you can carry me everywhere from now on, then."
He leans down, kissing me softly, pulling back far too soon.
"Gladly."
My secretive smile widens into a much wider, much broader display of affection. He places me on the bed, and I'm beaming by the time he reaches the other side and pulls back the covers.
We're going to sleep together.
I turn onto my side, tucking my hand under my cheek as he settles down. However, he sighs, closing his eyes.
"What?"
"I forgot the bed warmer."
I reach out, placing my hand over him when he begins to turn back the blanket. He looks at me, just catching the moment my cheeks brighten.
"You are warmer than that," I state, unabashedly. His fingers curl around my wrist, and immediately pull me in. I hum with laughter, enjoying being like this with him. I was too delirious to appreciate it before. I was right. His arms, strong and perfectly muscular, are instant heat. I press my face into him, exhaling.
"You're shivering still," he admits, worriedly. I shake my head, closing my eyes.
"I don't feel it."
***
The moon is visible. Settled high in the sky amongst the clusters of stars, beaming light shines down on Washington for the first time in nearly a week. The world is snow-covered, a brilliant winter wonderland. From the windowsill, my eyes drift over the sight of the forests, reliving memories I'd like to forget but know I never will.
The manor grounds feel deeply personal, like I know every surface of it now. I nearly died in that river, and then in the snow. I can still remember bits and pieces about what it felt like to sit there, before I became delirious and lost sight of what was real and what was not.
Like the tree with the broken branch hanging down close to the ground, or the burrowed hole in the ground where rodents ensured their safety through the storm. I remember what sounds the wind made, what colors the sky shaded to. All of it is more than I bargained for.
I came here for a story, for work. I drove into a bustling small town, cluttered with festive people and Christmas lights. At that point, I was still regretting how I left Brad, the ex-fiancé that is always left waiting for me.
At that point, Aidan Hughes was just a story, just a beautiful man with a wealthy background of tragedy. And now, I'm staring over these grounds as if they were mine. Across the room Aidan sleeps on his back, bathed in natures light, and I'm left wondering how I'm going to cope with leaving this place.
Will we want to continue this? Will we leave it here?
The better question is will he want more...because I know I do.
I've known him less than a week, and he seems so familiar to me. This place seems so familiar to me. The noises I hear throughout the house have replaced my need for city noise. The stone walls, the Parisian rugs, the windy drafts are not frightening to me anymore. They remind me of him, of Aidan, and because of that, I've come to admire the strangeness of this place.
The oddities, the ghosts I'm sure are all around me, don't feel so frightening anymore.
I'm a different person here, with different wants and needs...the largest of them all being him.
Aidan.
I leave the frosty window, and gravitate to the edge of the bed, where my bag is rested, still in the same place Aidan left it earlier. I bend and unzip the back pocket, fishing out a condom. When I straighten, my chest is thumping wildly, set on shocking him, on finally bringing this to light.
I leave the foil on the night stand, crawling onto the mattress softly. My eyes appraise him in slumber, laid out, completely unaware to my wanting, to my plans. I reach out, touching him, pushing back the blanket as far as I can without having to turn back. I wedge myself between his legs, and spread out my hands over his abdomen, slipping them beneath the material of his shirt.
I can hardly breathe from wanting him so bad. I want to taste him, praise him, make his head explode with need for me. His body is a lean, rippling, muscular surface, mouthwateringly healthy. In the pale moonlight, I expose him, pushing his shirt up over his abs, so I can leave fluttering marks along his skin, nipping him gently. He stirs, despite my gentleness, but doesn't wake completely.
My fingers pry under the waistband of his sweatpants, and under his briefs, slowly enough that I hardly move him, but fast enough that my mouth's descent reaches the trimmed hair leading to the most intimate part of him just as I peel the layers back.
At my small attentions, his cock has begun to harden, and when I tentatively drag my tongue along his navel, and then over the length of him, it's pleasing how quickly my touch moves him. He's stiff within seconds, and I smile, hardly surprised that he's perfect under his clothes as well.
When my mouth envelops the thick, smooth head of him is the moment I hear a sharp inhale come from him, and watch as his chest inflates with steeling air. My fingers fondle him gently as I look up enough to watch his chin snap down, his eyes taking in the sight before him.
I don't want to speak about this. I don't want to dwell on the rights and wrongs.
I just want him.
I take him deep in my mouth, pushing down his pants with more strength, and his head falls back with a gutted moan. The sound awakens my crumbling nerves, and invigorates my body, igniting fire deep within me. I devour him, desperate and invasive, loving the taste, the feel, the size of him, and when he lifts himself up enough to watch me, burying his fingers into my hair, I'm breathless from my exertions, and desperate to see more of him.
My hand slides under his shirt, along his hot skin, and he realizes my desire. Bobbing my hand over the long length of him, I watch as he pulls the thin hoodie over his head with greed. He throws the material down, closing his eyes with a low groan as I sink my teeth into the soft skin surrounding his cock, becoming more and more gentle as I reach the target. I merely drag my tongue in one, wet swoop over him in contrast, utterly pleased when he shivers violently beneath my hand.
He helps me remove the rest of his clothing, shoving the material down over his long, muscular legs, and although I want to continue tasting him, he has other plans. I gasp when he uses the hand in my hair to guide me up to him, and crushes his mouth to mine, burying his tongue in my mouth, consuming me whole. There are no restraints, no hesitance as before.
He's just as desperate as I am.
I lay myself flat over him, clasping his face between my hands as we drive each other crazy, taking advantage of our time alone, and the miracle of being together like this. And while most men desire a fuck, Aidan clearly doesn't.
His kisses are overwhelming, his caresses designed to praise me too. There are no fumblings, or lifeless dirty words. Every single touch means something here.
His mouth has traveled to my throat when he rolls me onto my back, trapping me beneath him so I mold into the endless blankets covering the bed. His lips travel over my skin while his hands untie the knot holding the robe together.
I gasp when he frays the material open, immediately curving his arm under my waist to urge me to him, while his mouth covers my breast, absorbing the sensitive skin with attention. My heart is racing, my mind experiencing too much too soon to be rational.
My hips rock against the air as he takes his time appreciating my nakedness, spreading kisses along my skin. His arm escapes under my back to grab onto the underside of my thigh, never once lifting his face from my body. I'm put through my own torture when his mouth reaches the dip of my naval, and just the feel of his breath can make me moan.
"Aidan," I beg, softly as he grazes his lips along my thigh, and over the skin of my lips. I'm on fire, on my elbows, watching as he gazes intimately at the sight between my legs, and with his hands, pulls my legs apart far enough to see everything, far enough that even I become nervous.
"Patience," he whispers, kissing the smooth, naturally soft skin of my inner thigh. I flinch at the proximity, at the how close he is to my desperate nerves, gasping at how he's teasing me. His eyes flick up to my face, and I snap my mouth shut, realizing I was gaping.
"Please," I beg, sure that if he doesn't relieve the burning ache, I will go mad.
"You smell sweet, Jo," he whispers calmly, and every part of me clenches in reaction. I look down at him, my chest heaving in anticipation. "I want to savor this, savor you."
He leaves soft trailing pecks from my thigh, slowing when he reaches the soft corner of my lips. With one hand circling my hip to flatten against my stomach, he pulls me as close as he can get, and buries himself into my heat, dragging his warm tongue through my silky folds and flicks my small nub, knowing exactly where to provide the attention.
The warm, wet, teasing feel of his mouth is more than I expected, his desperation, his uninhabited passion driving me closer to ecstasy faster than any hard as hell lay could ever do. It's the rawness of this, the knowledge that I am the first woman he's allowed himself to feel this way with since the tragedies of his life that makes this surpass intimacy.
He licks and sucks and probes with endless vigor, possessed by something strong. He enters a finger, and then another, stretching me out to him, never once allowing his direct attention to leave my clustered nerves. The sound of his deep, guttural moans when he tastes my building excitement, or when I tremble beneath him spur me on, and I can't stay still.
I surge up onto my elbows, gazing down at his thick locks between my thighs. I reach out, running my fingers through them, hearing how my body responds to his intruding fingers at my entrance, filling the room with the sounds of my arousal. I'm not embarrassed. I'm turned on by how much he can make me feel, how badly I need this.
I'm close, so close, and sure he won't stop until I've come. I beg him to keep going, to continue where he is, as my gasps become hoarse and short, my legs tensing. Widespread contracting shocks spread throughout me at the build-up, rendering me speechless. My eyes close as his tongue devotedly sends me straight into pleasure, not faltering even when I lose coherence, squirming, and a loud sob of pleasure finally leaves my throat when I'm allowed to come back down from that peak. I suck in a gasp of air, and deflate into the mattress, my eyes opening, wild with confusion.
Fucking hell, this is something else.
Tirelessly, while I come down from my high, he moves over my body, tracing the curves, tasting the ridges. I tilt my cheek into his mouth when he reaches my face, searching for his lips. We're both equally breathless, and his tongue is sweet, proving his statement before. I moan at the taste of my arousal on his lips, shaken by how easily he was able to drive me to complete weakness.
I reach up to touch his cheek and he tilts into my tenderness. My fingers are flinching, my nerves still repairing from the height of ecstasy. I drag my thumb along his lip, transfixed by how he's recovering his breath, how his tongue darts out and caresses my thumb before he kisses it.
"The bed table," I whisper to him. I refuse to tear my eyes away from his face, even when he does. He reaches out, and fishes what I'm suggesting. I take the condom the moment he's torn it, and roll it onto his steely, deprived girth while he leans over and discards the wrapper.
I smile when he circles my waist and lifts me, urging me over the mattress until I'm against his pillows. He grasps my bent knees, and slides his hands down over them and over my thighs, until he settles down between them, bringing us close.
I hold my breath by how close he is. By how instantly his gaze invades my heart and my mind, seeking my vulnerability. His mouth is right over mine, but he doesn't kiss me, not right away. His fingers are wrapped around the back of my neck as he enters me, slowly.
I'm tight, tight enough that his eyes close, his breath leaving him in a whoosh as he sinks into me. He fills me to the brink, only halting when he's reached the hilt, nudging a sensitive ache within me. I gape, marveling at how good, how right he feels within me. I want to instantly cry. I'm not sure how to react, how to look away.
His eyes are back on me, and they are trying so hard to not scare me. They are dark, and massively telling, shaking when I caress his face, adoring him with affection.
"Fuck, Josephine," he breathes, through clenched teeth. A small cry erupts from my mouth when he rocks himself into me, and my dripping excitement echoes off the walls, proving to us both how badly I want this. My body is giving it away—but his expression is.
I see years and years of pain etched in his features. I see how much he wishes he weren't able to enjoy this, how much he wants to deprive himself. I see how much this intimacy effects him, how my loving touches hurt and heal him. I see how his eyes take in every inch of me, my face, my neck, my breasts and how much he wants to be everywhere at once.
He grinds himself into me deep enough that both of us groan, and our foreheads meet, both of us unable to handle what is occurring here. His hand grasps my breast, hard, a choked breath leaving him before he shoves his mouth onto mine, brutalizing my lips.
We are connected, joined by our lack of oxygen, by the memories we now share together, by this house. Our seclusion has been confusing, frightening at times, but it's brought us together.
It doesn't matter how I got here. It doesn't matter what happens after.
He's changed my life. I've changed his.
I break from his mouth, and delight his prickly jaw with kisses, trailing to his throat. He grabs onto a steel rod in the headboard for support, and the back of my skull with the other. I urge him deeper, running my hands over his spine, and onto the curve of his ass, needing to memorize every surface of skin on his body.
"Oh god," I breathe, shutting my eyes tightly as the ache heightens, rising like flames within me. His breath is against my shoulder, his hips relentlessly active, surging into me, feeding me his cock with deep, passionate thrusts.
I begin to moan under him, soft weak moans as I build again, having trouble believing he's making me come through penetration alone. My nails dig into his back, dragging to the nape of his neck while my teeth grit together, relishing in the sweet, sweet pain of the ascent.
"Kiss me, Aidan," I demand, not even getting every syllable out before he indulges me, trapping my swollen lips with his. So spent, our mouths come at each other with no grace whatsoever, our mouths lingering open, gaping before he slips his tongue in, allowing us both to bask in this race.
"Fuck," he groans and his chest swells beneath my fingers. "This is a lot."
"A lot is good," I breathe against him, and he nods, chuckling breathlessly, grunting by how close he is.
"It's fucking great."
I nod, smiling when he kisses me again, driving us to the last nerve. At the tight clenching within me, my toes begin to scrunch against his legs, my limbs straining. My heart can't take the strain. He's consuming me, and I feel like I'm his, only his, caged between his grasp and I have no desire to escape.
His muscles are contracting under my touch, his skin damp and coated with perspiration. We no longer feel the chill to the room, or the lack of power. Our desire is burning right through us, and its here, in full Technicolor.
"Come with me," I beg, and he groans, nodding continuously, gasping against my mouth.
"I'm there."
When the wave whips us both, striking us with enough force to silence us completely, it steals all of our breath, leaving us shock still and lost in the great abyss we have willingly entered.
My mind is alive, my nerve endings short. I'm positive he's changed some hidden fiber of my being with just this day, this moment. Usually, I'd want to detach from a man right about now. I'd want to distance myself from the emotions that come with post-coital bliss, but my limbs curl around his, and when he settles onto my body, his face nuzzling into the curve of my throat, I can only hope he won't move.
My eyes close when his lips caress the skin of my neck, his palm flattening over the middle of my chest, moving up to clasp my face. I'm stunned, stunned and instantly scared. He kisses my jaw gently, and then my mouth, and I try to hide how much water is in my eyes.
But he sees it, and his features curve with concern.
"What? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"
I shake my head, trying to avoid his direct line of sight, but he clasps my face, and forces me to look at him. He makes me look at him.
"Jo."
"I'm scared," I whisper, and his concern changes into something more serious.
"Of what?"
"Of how much you make me feel."
His features soften, despite his shock at the confession, and his thumb lightly covers the ridge to my cheekbone, tracing my blush.
"You're not alone," he responds, softly. He leans in, and caresses my mouth with tender searching kisses, long enough that they begin to hasten, and both of his hands shoot up to my cheeks, clasping onto them passionately.
"Don't stop," I gasp. His head shakes.
"I won't."