Page 39 of Savannah Royals
“Yes. Come here.” He reaches for my face.
“Really?”
“Yeah. If you won’t let me sleep, I may as well get something out of it.”
“So romantic,” I grumble.
“Watch yourself.” His tone is sharp. “If you want romance, go to Paul. Now clam up, Kat.” His fingers lightly graze my cheeks before he presses his lips to mine.
Hunger, fast and stabbing, flares. We are a tangle of demanding lips and groping fingers. All impulse, no thought. Hips pressing into groin.
My endorphins sigh. Adrenaline sings.
When my lips become swollen from his kisses, I move to the base of his neck, sucking and tugging. Little nips. Hard pulls. Abe groans.
His hands slide up and down my waist. Time blurs, the whispering ticks of our synchronized watches urging us on. We’re feverish at first, then slow and thorough. No nerve ending left untouched. Every knot languidly unkinked.
I’ve never kissed Abe like this before, and now I know what a mistake that’s been. Romance or not, I taste love on his lips.
“Kat.” He pulls back. “It’s almost time.”
“Is it?” I mumble, dazed.
“We should get into position.”
On shaky legs, I rise. Blood rushes painfully in. I cling to the wall as Abe wiggles to stand beside me.
“Fucking Christ,” he groans. He kicks out his long legs, hands sneaking to adjust the tented crotch of his pants.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“You’re not sorry,” he grumbles, still rearranging.
I don’t reply because he’s right. I’m not sorry.
In the hallway, we stare at our watches, bated breaths coming in time with the tick of every second. We press our ears against the master bedroom door, listening.
One o’clock comes and goes.
Then 1:05.
1:10.
At 1:15, I start hyperventilating.
“What if she doesn’t get up tonight?” I whisper. “What then?”
“She will.”
“What if shedoesn’t?”
Suddenly, light streams into the hallway from beneath the door. Abe steps back, and my heart stutters. He points expectantly.
I put my hand on the doorknob. If I believed in God, this would be the moment to pray.
But I don’t. God doesn’t live in the dark corners of the Catacombs. God doesn’t breathe at the point of our knives. God didn’t turn water to wine, not for us. Onlywehave ever done that. For ourselves and for each other.
Emboldened, I raise my eyelids and crack open the door. The bed is on my immediate right, the blankets pulled back, an empty indentation in the sheets. The fireplace is across the room, and…
