Page 61 of Breathe
Chapter 22
Kane was sitting on his bed, still unable to believe what he was looking at. Ellen was leaning against his headboard, naked, a plate of Thai food in her lap, her skin luminous against his charcoal-gray sheets. Her blond hair was loose and fell to, but didn’t cover, her breasts. He felt, as he’d felt for three days, as if he couldn’t blink or she’d disappear.
She was—there was no other word for it—magnificent. The buttoned-down Ellen he’d met had been beautiful, and smart, and intriguing, and queenly. This Ellen was an empress: demanding, imperious, and more passionate than even he had imagined. Kane had grown up feeling that he was pretty much the equal of anyone he met. Ellen left him in awe.
She had gone home early on Tuesday morning and come right back on Tuesday night, and again last night, and tonight. The only concession she’d made to outward appearances was to leave her car at work and take a cab to his building, to throw off the cameras. They had caught her through her driver’s window flipping them the bird, which endeared her to him even more, but which he guessed probably hadn’t gone down too well at work. But Ellen seemed determined not to do anything anyone told her to, and that included Kane.
Perhaps more precious to him, though, than Ellen’s awakened passion, were the hours they spent talking; when her hand rested on his arm as they lay next to each other and squeezed him every now and again while he talked about his father. And he found himself sharing things with her he hadn’t even admitted to himself: his fear of losing the company that sent cold sweat down his spine each time he saw a burnt-out building; and the mantra that still plagued him, the next time, next time, that made him dread a ringing telephone. Ellen listened, and nodded, and didn’t run screaming from the room. And then she’d crawl away from him to the other side of the bed, her butt in the air, and he’d forget whatever it was he’d been worrying about.
“Let me ask you a question,” she said, pinching up some noodles with her fingers and dropping them into her mouth. Kane was instantly turned on so badly he had to shift positions. He had loved watching her eat from their first dinner together. “This apartment. Did you make any decisions about the décor at all?”
He looked around him. He’d lived here for five years. Except for that one night when he’d questioned his choice of couch, he hadn’t once thought about his surroundings. “Why?” he asked. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing!” she said, flipping over the sheet in her lap. “All this gray and purple. Very...”
“Masculine?”
“I was going to say, funereal.”
“I see,” he teased, getting closer to her and putting his bowl of curry on the bedside table. “Three days in my bed and you’re changing out the drapes already, huh?” He picked up one of her noodles and began to spiral it around her breast. Ellen drew in her breath so hard she almost dislodged it, but she stayed very still while he did the same with the other breast.
“Not just in your bed,” she pointed out in a strangled voice, and then “Ah!” when he began to take the noodles off with his mouth.
“Mmm,” he said. “My new favorite way to eat pad Thai.” And he reached for another noodle.
But, as he’d expected she might, Ellen moved, pushing him off her. She picked up a noodle of her own and said, “Now what shall I wrap this around?”
Was he aware that Ellen had to be in absolute control every time they made love? Of course he was. Did it hurt that even at this stage, she still didn’t trust him enough to let him take over? Yes, a little. Could he make himself care a whole lot at this exact point in time? Hell no.
• • •
“You get the paper,” Kane said several mornings later, kissing the tip of her nose. “I’ll make eggs.”
Ellen groaned and sat up in bed. The bedroom faced west, and at this time of year, the sun was barely up when Kane’s alarm went off. She squinted up at him so she could enjoy the sight of his bare bum before he put his pajama pants on, then roused herself and threw on his bathrobe.
Listening at the front door to make sure no one on his floor was opening theirs, she got the paper and tucked it under her arm. Then, as had become her habit, she scooted Kane over a little at the stove so she could reach the kettle, fill it, and set it to boil. The teabags she’d brought over especially were close to hand. While she waited for the kettle, she sat at the counter and opened the paper. From here she could wake up slowly and watch Kane cook, her body languorous, her heart peaceful.
Until she saw page five, anyway.
She shot out of her seat. “Oh, fuck.”
Kane spun round at the tone of her voice, but she was already running for the bedroom.
“What?” he said, following her.
“Shit. Fuck. Shit,” she heard herself saying while she fought with her bra and knickers. She’d begun to leave some things at Kane’s so she wouldn’t have to get up so early. Useful today. She threw on her clothes without even showering.
“What is it?”
Ellen waved an impatient hand back at the kitchen, at the newspaper she’d flung to the floor.
Kane went out. Oh God oh God oh God oh God, she thought as she dressed.
He came back in with the paper in his hand. “Honey...”
Ellen dashed into the bathroom, with some vague idea that she had to brush her teeth. Nope. Takes too long. She ran back.
“Ellen.” Kane’s voice was getting firmer. “This doesn’t mean you.”
