Page 90 of Moving Forward

He captures my breast in my mouth and works my nipple with tongue and teeth. I cry out as he releases it with a pop and focuses his attention on my other breast. The second his tongue flicks against it, my hips buck against his. He must have been waiting for me to make the first move because as soon my hips begin to writhe against his, he comes alive. Wild.

He thrusts into me, unevenly and uninhibitedly, taking all I have to give. I gladly hand myself over to him. We move together as one. With every moan, he thrusts harder, and with every growl, I become more frantic. As his hands hook under my kneecap, allowing him to go—miraculously—deeper inside me, he finds a spot that sends me into bliss. I feel him swell inside of me and then he groans out my name like a curse as he follows me.

He pulls me to his chest. He whispers words of love against my hair as he absently traces patterns down my spine. This is where I want to be forever. With him. Alive. My heart beating with his.

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When I wake up, Cain is gone. The sheets are tousled on his side and still warm. I roll over and press my nose against the pillow, breathing in the smell of him. That’s a wonderful way to wake up. Waking up in his arms would be a lot better.

I pull on his discarded shirt and wander around the boat, calling his name softly. When he doesn’t answer, I get a little worried. We said I love you and we made love. For someone who’s had nothing, that is a whole lot of scary. I wouldn’t blame him for freaking out, because I’m still waiting for my own freakout—the realization I’ve given myself over to a man I’ve known for less than a month, a man I managed to fall in love with in even less time than that.

A guitar is playing softly outside. I sigh in relief, happy he’s still here, and pad out onto the deck in my bare feet. The sun has only just begun rising along the horizon and the moon has yet to sink for the day, the sky a battle between night and day, the winner already decided. Cain sits on a chair with his feet propped up on the railing, wearing a pair of sweats, as he absently strums his guitar. His hair is in disarray, five o’clock shadow making him look gruff and exhausted.

I lean against the rail, unable to take my eyes off him. He looks gorgeous playing that guitar, with his concentration locked on something far in the distance. The tune he’s playing is repetitive. Every once in a while he’ll stop, furrow his brow, then start over again, making slight changes until it sounds better. Sometimes he figures the next chord out quickly, while other times it takes him a few tries, but he doesn’t move forward until he’s figured out the right way to play it.

“My dad wrote this. He was a talented musician . . . before he realized he cared more about drugs,” he explains quietly. He plays a few more chords, then shakes his head bitterly and sets the guitar on the floor beside him. “’My Morning Love’ he called it. The lyrics play a lot on the difference between waking up in the morning after falling in love and mourning the loss of love. He wrote it for my mom.”

“At least he did something sweet,” I encourage.

He sets his elbows on his knees and runs his fingers through his hair. “She’d broken up with him and he used it to win her back. That song is the reason why I’m here today, really. If they wouldn’t have gotten back together, I wouldn’t have been born. It made my mom fall for him in more ways than one. Too bad he couldn’t have known love if it kicked him in the ass.”

“Then why are you playing it?” I ask curiously.

“Because he can write one hell of a song. Even if he doesn’t know anything about love, he could fool a person into believing he does. I mean, he’s fooled me with his lyrics. I feel everything he says.”

“Good or bad?”

He drags a palm over his face. “Good.” He stands and closes the distance between us. “Very good. But bad because . . . I don’t know . . .”

“He left you and you don’t want to connect with something of his,” I answer. “Everyone has something to offer, including him. By leaving you, he taught you how to stay. By being a terrible father, he taught you how to be a good man. It’s sad that’s the way it happens, but sometimes it has to.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Always.”

“Sometimes I blame him. Not for everything. But having a father around might have prevented some of the mistakes I made.” He clears his throat. “Then again, I was raised by Grams and Grandpa, the best parents you could hope for, and I still made the decisions I did.”

“You’re allowed to feel that way, Cain,” I tell him. “If he ever came back into your life, would you try to repair your relationship?”

He pauses before answering, but eventually shakes his head. “I know how it feels to have made mistakes you want to correct, but too much time has passed.”

“This conversation has turned sad.” I stand on my tip toes and smack his chest lightly. “We’re happy people, remember?”

He stiffens. I’m pretty sure it’s just to hide a smirk. “We are? Since when?”

“Now. We are going to be happy, joyous people who believe in equally happy, joyous futures.”

He wraps his arms around my waist, capturing me against his chest. “I’m not biologically made to be a happy, joyous person. More like a depressing, grumpy eighty-year-old. But I guess I’ll work on it for you.”

“If that fails, we’ll be depressing, grumpy old people together.” I grin at him and he seems blinded for a split second. Then he kisses me. “Play the song for me?” I ask.

“Alright, yeah. What I can remember of it, that is. Sit down over there.”

I do as he says and fold my hands in my lap. His eyes rove over me—in his shirt, showing a lot of leg—and one corner of his mouth raises slightly as he shuts his eyes. As the seconds tick by, his mouth droops into a frown. His forehead starts to furrow and I can’t help wondering if asking him to sing this song for me is hurting him. I didn’t stop to think about how he might not want to share it with me or how doing so might affect him.

I’m about to tell him that he doesn’t have to when he finally starts playing, putting me in a trance. The song is smooth and melodic, with gentle pauses here and there. The words are melancholic, yet hopeful. Cain sings the song as if he’s found love and is trying to keep hold of it beyond the morning. There is awe in his voice, though, that tells me that even if he sees love right before him, he can’t bring himself to believe it—he still doesn’t know why love would choose him.

His fingers trip over a chord and he stops playing. The mistake doesn’t matter to me. The peacefulness in his expression makes him so readable, so okay—and not in the way he pretends to be. While he’s singing, I catch a glimpse of him healed, even with all the scars.

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