Page 110 of Light Up The Night
Chapter 17
CADENCE
Guilt is a bitter pill lodged in my throat. My pulse is frantic.
I realize I never finished explaining the contractions issue. "My time in Sudan stripped me of my defenses against the world," I murmur. "There was no me, no judgement, no mockery—there was only the work. I didn't speak the language, so Duwana was my translator, and time was always our most precious commodity, so learning to shorten my phrases was imperative. I had to speak more simply, more swiftly. And also, I think with you, I feel no need to shield myself because I know I am safe with you. I trust you."
"Ilikehow you talk," he whispers. "I don't want you to change a single goddamn thing about yourself."
Desire is a deep, dark pool within me, swirling with currents which threaten to suck me down into the depths. I surrender willingly. I give myself to the desire.
For a moment, I see Duwana in my mind's eye. She stands watching me depart in a cloud of dust. Fatima is beside her. I see Duwana raise a hand in farewell—smiling.
I do not know if I will ever see her again, but I know she would be happy that I am back with Riley once more.
Boldness fills me. I know Riley is concerned for me, and not without reason. I know that my road to recovery, mentally and emotionally, will be a long one. I am not suddenly cured of my PTSD merely by spending a few days in a quasi-vegetative state. Being with Riley will not affect a cure either. But both are a start. A place to begin.
He will be hesitant. Reticent to press me into anything I am not ready for. What I do not know how to verbalize is that Iamready.
For him.
For us.
I will have to show him what I want. I have dreamed of this for so long—every time I closed my eyes, I saw this.
Now it is real.
Heis real.
His body is huge and hard beneath me. His eyes are pale, glittering, piercing blue, steel and ice. His big, strong hands rest on my thighs, low, near my knees, as I sit astride him on the couch. There is so much I want, but to start, I need his kisses.
The rest will follow, I know.
"Riley," I whisper, his bearded jawline in my hands. "Will you kiss me?"
He grins. "Fuck yes."
He slides fingertips along my temples and into my hair, over my scalp. This touch is gentle, soft, tender. My heart flutters at the delicacy of his touch, as if I am made of glass. I cast a quiet breath upon his lips as they near mine—one of long-simmering desire and bated need.
And then he is kissing me. His mouth is wet and hot, his lips strong and soft. He commands my mouth with his, demands and devours, quests and invites. I part my lips for him and accept his tongue, relishing the taste of him, his breath tangling with mine. I dreamed of kissing him for so long that the reality is nearlyoverpowering in its intensity. I whimper as his tongue sweeps through my mouth, inciting arousal in every fiber of my being. I feel my skin tingle and tighten as his hands skim up my thighs—I am clad in the T-shirt he wore yesterday and left discarded on the floor—and nothing else. I do not have any clean clothes, and putting dirty clothes on—panties in particular—after bathing is something I simply cannot do. Riley's shirt is different—it smells like him, comfortingly so.
I shift closer to him, and the denim of his jeans scrapes roughly against my inner thighs. For some reason, rather than the near-agony I would feel wearing the material myself, in this context it is…arousing. But then, I think in my state of desire, everything would be arousing.
His hands continue their slow, careful journey up my thighs; I pull away from the kiss, panting, as his touch reaches the place where my thighs bend and crease; when I told him I was hungry, he left me in the bed to begin cooking for me. He did not witness me dressing, so I do not believe him to be aware of my state of undress beneath the shirt. I did, however, catch the way he looked at me when I entered the kitchen in his shirt: approval, attraction, his gaze stuttering and lingering on my bare legs.
It felt very nice to be looked at with desire. To beseen.
To feel like a woman once more. Not a doctor. Not an American. Not a white person.
Just…me.
His eyes widen as he carves his hands up to my hips, discovering more bare skin rather than the cotton of underwear.
"Cadie, sweetheart," he murmurs, his thumbs roaming the tender, silken skin where my hips crease. "Forgot somethin'."
"No, I did not."
"No?"
