He just lifts his chin.
I look back to his arm and trail my finger down the dripping clock into the hourglass.
And then the date.
I’m not sure how old he is, but I doubt it could mean anything else. “And this is when she died.”
He nods.
And he’s right. No words are needed as our gazes lock.
I don’t let go of him. Not that I could if I wanted to.
His hold on me is resolute.
I want to thank him for sharing the memory of his sister with me. But I don’t.
Instead, I continue being selfish.
“No one has touched me in a very long time.”
I get nothing but a tick of his strong jaw.
“Not like this.” I give his hand a squeeze. “Or held me in their arms. Or comforted me. Or anything else.”
It’s his turn to speak over the gravel in his throat. Every single word travels down my spine and hits me somewhere dusty. “I’m convinced your husband is the biggest fucking moron on the face of the planet.”
I don’t answer. I’m guilty for putting up with it for too long.
“What do you want, Evie?”
I exhale and feel lightheaded under his spell. But I’m honest when I say, “I want to be needy and selfish. I haven’t done anything I wanted in a very long time.”
I say no more.
There’s nothing else to say.
He gives me a good yank. Before I know it, I’m turned with my bottom in his lap, his hand in my hair, and his lips land on mine.
They devour mine.
But not just his lips.
His hands. His arms. His tongue.
I forget who I am. That I’m married. That my son is across town because someone is after us.
For the first time in too long, I lose myself in someone else.
It feels good.
No, it feels fucking great.
And there’s not one tender or gentle thing about it. Micah’s lips are bruising. His tongue is demanding. One hand is buried in my hair, and the other is planted on my ass. My hair pulls at the roots and his other hand grips my ass like he’s holding on to his sanity by a thread.
And he tastes like man. My tongue dives into his mouth, into heaven. Micah is like nothing I’ve experienced.
And to think I was excited about donuts.