My heart feels like it’s literally about to explode. It can’t handle all this stimulation.
“Oh!” I breathe into his mouth, doing something resembling the pee-pee dance.
He pulls away to avoid injury as our faces bump against each other. “What?” he asks, looking concerned.
“I can’t stand still!” I whine. “It’s like someone’s sending tiny electric shocks to my muscles.”
He sighs. “Come on. I think I have something upstairs that can help.” He leads me by the hand up the metal staircase. As long as I stay in motion, I don’t feel like I’m going to fly apart.
In the loft, he goes into the bathroom. I hear water running, and when he comes out, he offers me the glass. “Drink this,” he orders. I do. “And you need to drink another one in thirty minutes.” Taking the glass from me, he sets it on the bedside table. “Until then…” He takes one step and pulls me against him, kissing me so deeply and firmly, I have to hold onto him to keep from falling backwards.
But he keeps pushing, until I realize that’s his intent: to make me fall backwards, onto the bed. Okay.
“Nice bed,” I approve. “Is it new?”
Breathlessly, he replies, “Yes. It’s a virgin bed.” Then he kisses my neck and yanks on my shirt.
Soon, we’re naked on top of the snow white duvet. And now my emotions are running away from me. “I’m so sorry!” I whisper forcefully, choking back tears.
“Shhh.” He pulls back and brushes my hair away from my face. “No worries. Just… this.” He enters me slowly, keeping his eyes on mine. “I love you.”
“Okay,” I reply dumbly, still trying not to bawl. The incessant, involuntary blinking is actually helping in that department.
“And I’ve missed you. So much.”
I wrap my legs around his waist. “Me too. You, I mean. I’ve missed you.”
He smiles and presses his lips against mine as he moves above me. “Is this active enough for you?”
Honestly, I answer, “I’d rather be on top right now. I’m feeling a little claustrophobic.”
“Oh-ho! Be my guest.”
We quickly re-arrange ourselves, and after we’re together again, it hits me: I’m making love to Jude in England. On a white bed. In a maisonette. Surrounded by books. Listening to Snow Patrol. It’s so identical to one of my fantasies that it makes me dizzy. “God!” I moan, grabbing fistfuls of his hair.
“Aggghhh!” he utters below me. I take it as encouragement and move faster. But as soon as I’ve climaxed, he sits up halfway, propping himself on his elbows, and says, “Ah, Libby? I’m rather… uncomfortable. Could you? That is, maybe you can… let go of my head?”
“Oh!” I dismount and collapse onto my back. “Sorry. I, uh… wow.”
He rubs his head. “No worries. It’ll grow back, perhaps.”
We laugh at my crazed behavior. Then he goes back to kissing me, placing one every inch or so on my body. “Saucy minx,” he mutters against my breast.
We’re back!
33
Good news: I’m no longer manic. Bad news: I’m still awake. Worse news: I still haven’t told Jude what brought me back to him. Or what started the whole nightmare.
But he’s sleeping so peacefully. I don’t want to wake him up only to have such a horrible discussion. I can see, however, how this could become just like telling him about my parents and the accident. I can put it off and put it off and put it off until it becomes a huge problem in our relationship. And I’m not willing to do that. My deadline for telling all is before I sleep again. Which could be a while, granted, but hopefully it will happen before the weekend is over.
I’m sitting up in bed, taking stock of my body. My eyesight has returned to normal—no more jittering eyeballs; my heart has stopped racing—at least it only races when I’m doing something to warrant it; I can keep my limbs still for relatively long periods of time, which I’m sure is a big relief to Jude who’s been trying to sleep next to a spaz (of course, I offered to go away, but he wouldn’t hear it); and I’m no longer swinging between euphoria and despair, giggles and sobs. Good thing, too. I need to be in total control of myself when I tell him what I need to tell him. And I need to be prepared for it to go badly.
He stirs behind me, but he’s only been asleep a few hours, so I’m not expecting it when he sits up and presses his chest against my back, kissing my shoulder. “How’re you feeling? When was the last time you drank some water?”
I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s tousled and scruffy and warm. No sex for you, Elizabeth Lynn Foster, until you tell him, I order myself firmly.
“I’m fine,” I say in response to his query. “I think the worst is over.”
“Do you have the headache yet?” he asks.
I wince. “No. Is that yet to come?”
“Maybe you won’t get it,” he says unconvincingly.
That settles it. The conversation has to happen before the dreaded headache hits. I can’t handle both at once.
Turning, I sit cross-legged and face him. “I have to tell you something,” I say solemnly, fashioning the sheet into a strapless toga.
“Blimey. That sounds scary,” he says half-kiddingly. “But this time I’ll let you finish before jumping to any conclusions that could get me into trouble.”
I smile weakly at his attempt at levity. Taking a deep breath, I say, “For five of the past six months, I’ve believed something really terrible about you.” When he simply tilts his head and wrinkles his brow, I continue, but I have to look away from him. I focus my attention on the bedspread. “But before I tell you, please try to understand where I was coming from. We’d had that horrible fight about… well, you know. And you wouldn’t tell me what the big secret at work was, so I was pretty tender when it came to trust issues and you.”
I
