Page 95 of Until the Storm Breaks
We lie there tangled together, the sound of rain hammering the roof above us, the storm raging on while his body warms me from the inside out. Finally, he tucks me into his chest, his arms holding me close, his hand still lazily stroking my skin as if he cannot stop touching me.
“Let’s stay right here,” he murmurs, his voice soft but sure. “Let the storm do what it wants. We’re not moving.”
I press my lips to his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s lie here until the storm breaks.”
His hand tightens in my hair, his lips brushing the top of my head. “Until the storm breaks.”
CHAPTER 24
CALVIN
I wake before dawn with Maren pressed against my side, her breath warm on my chest. The room smells like her vanilla shampoo and sex and the salt air that never quite leaves these cabins.
I ease out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. The conference is this weekend and for once, I’m actually looking forward to it. Maren’s coming with me. She got shifts covered at the bar for the whole week so that we could head to Seattle a few days early, just the two of us. And yesterday she went through the panel schedule on my laptop, making notes about which sessions at the conference she wanted us to attend.
My laptop is still open on the table from last night’s failed attempt at writing something new. But it doesn’t matter. With her coming to Seattle with me, the whole thing shifts. It becomes an adventure instead of an obligation. I walk quietly to the kitchen to start the pour over.
I’m measuring coffee grounds when I hear her shift in bed,rolling over with that soft sound she makes. I set down the coffee and walk back toward the bedroom, already smiling.
She’s sprawled across the bed now, sheet tangled around her legs, one arm thrown above her head. Morning light streams across her skin, turning it golden. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. The curve of her ass, her nipples visible through the thin sheet, everything about her perfect. My cock responds instantly, remembering last night. Her nails down my back, how she’d clenched around me when she came. The satisfied smile she’d given me before pulling me down for another round.
I move closer, wanting nothing more than to slide back into bed with her. That’s when I see it clearly for the first time.
The tattoo.
Tiny, cursive script inked into the side of her ribs, just beneath her left breast, curving around her side. I’ve glimpsed it before in low light, but never really looked. Never read the words. Now, in the morning sun streaming through the curtains, they stop my breath.
Some storms are good enough to dance in. Even if they ruin everything in their path.
My whole body goes still. Those aremywords. From the essay everyone quotes, the one that ended up on Pinterest boards and Instagram posts. I wrote that line drunk on vodka and regret, trying to make sense of Dad dying, of everything falling apart.
And here it is, etched into her skin. Permanent. Deliberate.
She’s had it this whole time. Through every conversation about my writing, every touch, every moment we’ve spent together. My words on her ribs, and she never mentioned it. Never said anything.
How long has she had this? Since before we met? Since before Mom got sick?
I force myself to breathe normally as she curls closer, her arm draping across my chest, fingers spreading over my heart. Istudy the tattoo again, the elegant script, the way it follows the curve of her ribcage. Try to understand what it means that she carries my words on her body. That she chose to mark herself with something I wrote.
My chest feels tight, constricted. There’s nothing inherently wrong with it. People get tattoos of quotes all the time. She was probably young when she got it. She had told me before that my book had helped her. It’s a good line. Maybe the only good one from that whole self-indulgent collection.
But still. Why didn’t she tell me?
She stretches, then notices me.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice coming out surprisingly normal. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
She sits up, the sheet pooling around her waist, then stands and pulls on my flannel shirt from last night. The fabric swallows her smaller frame. The tattoo disappears beneath it.
“What time is it?” she asks, walking toward me.
“Early. Just after seven.”
“Too early.” She wraps her arms around me, pressing a kiss to my chest. “But I’m starving. We kind of skipped dinner last night.”
“We were busy,” I remind her, trying to match her playful tone.
