Page 124 of Every Silent Lie
Because when you love someone, you do everything in your power to keep them safe. And I love you bone fucking deep, woman. Every broken, beautiful piece of you.
“Thank you,” I murmur sleepily.
“Shut up.”
I smile to myself and settle into the darkness, not scared of it today, or of my dreams.
December 19th
Low, blinding sunlight blazes though the window, making me squint when I open my eyes. It takes me a few slow moments to register where I am. Who I’m with.
What day it is.
The inevitable twist of my stomach confirms it, and I lift my head off Dec’s chest, looking up at him. His eyes twitch behind his lids, his lips are parted, his breathing’s light. Peeling my body away, I creep to the edge of the bed and go to the window, looking out onto the winter wonderland that today looks even more wonderful with the sun blazing down on it. The snow sparkles under the rays, a kaleidoscope of colours swirling in the various patches of frost. Looking up at the blue sky, I note the beautiful scene won’t be around for long, given the cluster of dense white clouds hovering close by, ready to swallow up the sun and sprinkle more snow, making perfect what wheels and feet have ruined since the last flurry.
December nineteenth.
You’re not supposed to be this beautiful.
I reach for the open curtains and slowly pull them closed, shutting out the day. When I turn around, Dec’s watching me. He lifts the duvet and moves onto his side, and I pad over, slipping in and crawling into his chest, getting as close as I possibly can, my front pressed tightly to his, my face tucked under his chin. He brings the duvet down over us, covering our heads too, and wraps me in his arms. Protecting me from the world.
I crane my head back to see him in the dim light of our secluded, private space. I just have to see him and look into those eyes and imagine everything will be okay. And he lets me, remaining still and quiet as I study every beautiful bit of his face, reaching for his scruff and stroking my palm across it. I trace his lips, his cheek, his nose, his brow. “You’re very handsome,” I murmur, but he doesn’t smile at the reminder of one of the first things I ever said to him.
“You’re very beautiful.”
I rub the pad of my thumb across his chin. “Dominic was having an affair.” There’s no surprise from Dec. Nothing. But he does pull me a little closer. “I’m not mad, I’m not even sad, and I don’t know why. But it hurts still. Like someone’s reached into my chest and ripped my heart out, and yet by some cruel miracle, I’m still breathing. Like I’m numb but still in fucking agony.”
“I want to ease the pain, Camryn.”
“You already do,” I whisper as he reaches for my hand and guides it over his hip to his back.
“Tickle me,” he demands softly. My fingers fall naturally into a sweeping motion, up his back as far as I can reach without stretching, and down again. Repeat. Over and over. Dec hums, brushing my hair back, relaxing into the pillow. “I saw him outside last night.” My fingers falter. “Don’t stop.” His words kick them back into action. “He was worried about you. That’s the only reason I didn’t lay him out.” A gravelly rumble emanates at the back of his throat, and I smile mildly, watching him sustain my tickling fingers. “You can do this all day.” He sinks deeper into the mattress, closing his eyes. I gently ease my body away and he rolls onto his front, his head resting on his bent arms as I slip onto his back, having to pull the duvet up to get more material to drape over us now I’m sitting up. I look down at his naked back, marvel at the expanse of toned, smooth skin, my palms swishing across the top of his bum as I watch, the shade of my skin only a tone or two darker than his healthy glow. I don’t know how, I haven’t seen the sun for any length of time for years.
I place my palms into his flesh and lower my front to his back, dropping a kiss in the centre of his spine as I tickle my fingers up to his shoulders, hearing him hum his happiness. That sound, watching him struggle to deal with my touches, is stunning, could keep me here all day like he suggested. Maybe that’s his ploy—a distraction of another kind. I inhale and kiss up to his nape and rub my nose through the soft hair there, sitting back up and tickling my way back down, rubbing firmly into his lower back and going again, lowering, kissing, tickly, massaging, inhaling his manly scent deeply into me. Repeat. I’m sure, sometime later, when his breathing is even and deep, I’ve tickled him into a coma. I lay my front down on his back and drag light fingertips up to his nape, circling them there, feeling his back muscles roll against my breasts.
“I made you a cake,” I whisper in his ear.
I watch his profile, his eyes dragging open, heavy and sleepy. “Go get it,” he demands softly.
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” He starts turning over, forcing me to lift, and pulls the duvet off us, exposing us to the outside world again. “Go.” His stomach muscles tense, and he sits up, planting a kiss on my lips as he helps me off his lap. I wander off, naked, feeling his eyes on me as I go. Looking over my shoulder as I walk out of my bedroom confirms it.
He raises his brows, and I smile lightly.
Pulling the fridge open when I make it to the kitchen, I slide out my masterpiece and set it on the counter, removing the dome lid and placing it to one side. Buttercream is bulging from the centre of the two sponges, with jam dripping down the sides. It really isn’t much of a masterpiece, but Mr. Percival said he wins awards for this cake at the Royal British Legion, and I’m taking his word on that. Plus, I’ve tried his fruit cake. It’s insanely good.
Grabbing the pack of candles I bought, I sink one into the centre and scratch through my drawers for a box of matches, exhaling my relief when I find some. I light it, blow out the match, and shield the flame with a cupped hand as I pick up the cake and carry it through to my bedroom.
Dec is lying on his side when I get there, his head propped up on a bent arm, his smile discreet. I nibble my lip shyly as I walk slowly toward him, making sure the candle remains lit, and lower to my knees by the side of the bed, setting the cake down on the mattress. He inspects the pile of sponge, cream, and jam, reaching for the buttercream and dragging the tip of his finger through, taking it to his mouth slowly and just as slowly sucking it off. He hums, while I wait for his verdict, stupidly anxious. “It’s good.”
“Mr. Percival may have assisted,” I admit. “For complete transparency.”
He nods, unperturbed, and swipes another bit of buttercream onto the tip of his finger, offering it to me. I gladly take it, my lips popping, my tongue dashing out to sweep up a few remnants on my lips.
“You need to make a wish,” I say quietly, picking up the cake and holding it out to him.
His inhale is long and thoughtful as he watches the flame flicker delicately. Then his chest expands, he leans forward, closes his eyes, and blows out the candle. “Are you going to sing Happy Birthday to me?” he asks, his eyebrow raising teasingly.
