Page 64 of Seven Nights

I want to hold him, but I want him naked when I do.

I sever the back of the waistband, then twist around and follow the earlier slice at the back of the knee all the way down to the bottom hem on that leg. I repeat the process on the other leg, my movements fast and assured now that I have a hazy outline for why Griffin erected all his barriers.

When I tug on the fabric, he lifts his hips, freeing the material so I can whip it onto the floor to join what remains of my dress.

I consider ordering him to roll over, but I don’t. He hasn’t opened his eyes and I am willing to let him hide a little longer. Instead, I drape my body over his.

Tall as I am, Griffin is taller. My head rests between his shoulder blades and my feet don’t reach quite as far down the mattress. Curling one hand around his shoulder, I run the other down his side, caressing at the back of his thigh and butt cheek as I plant soft, warm kisses along his spine.

There are questions I will ask him later. Some of the answers will make me cry, others will offer solace. But now is not the time to have him spill his guts on how his mother egged his father on during the beating or how his parents’ mutual shame exiled him to boarding school for the next five years of his life to be raised by schoolmasters and, in the summers and over holidays, by Harriet and Philip.

Now is the time to touch, to heal.

I kiss lower, caressing both sides of his back and hips. Long, quiet minutes pass before I know whether I am doing the right thing or driving him further away. But, slowly and eventually, the tight muscles relax. The flesh warms from the attention it has so lovingly received.

And I do love him. I loved him before and I love him more now.

Griffin rolls over. My throat, already tight, locks down entirely. Robbed of oxygen, my eyes begin to water.

“Shh, love,” he coos.

I roll my lips. It’s not right that he should be trying to comfort me. It is selfish of me to need him to do so. But maybe he can because he has lived with the scars and their deeper wounds for more than half his life. Maybe he can because I have, however ineptly, relieved some of the pain he continues to carry with him.

Griffin draws me to him. I press a cheek to his chest, listen to the strong beat of his heart. He strokes at my hair, at my back and arms and shoulders.

Straining upward, I cup the sides of his face and softly claim his mouth.

The journey to get here was unconventional, but, as Griffin holds my gaze and lovingly slides into me, here with this man is the only place I want to be.

Katelyn

Surrounded by twilight,the glass panes of the greenhouse throw back light like glass beads at Mardi Gras. I watch the multi-hued twinkling from the restored nursery, where the firm leather club chairs and couch have been replaced with rocking chairs and softly tufted chaises.

I sit in one of the rocking chairs, my six-month-old daughter in my arms. The eyes of Madeline Harriet Montgomery are closed, their laser blue intensity shuttered by sleep. Faint sounds from her tiny body intermittently salt the air. A gurgle, a snort. Her chest lifts and falls and every now and then she performs a head-to-toe squirm or stretches an arm, the little fingers unfurling.

“A restless sleeper like her mother,” Griffin whispers in my ear.

More than two years have passed since the first time he watched me sleep. What was true then is history now, at least when he is in bed beside me.

“Here,” he says, his hands expertly sliding beneath Madeline’s body.

He makes sure the hand-off is flawless. I rise quietly and trail behind him. He passes through a door adjacent to our bedroom. Only nightlights illuminate the space. Against one wall, a crib waits.

Our little Maddy can be a mercenary, killing off the sleep of others. For whatever reason, she fights bedtime when someone other than me holds her, even when that someone is Griffin. And when I try to put her in the crib, she will wake up. Maybe what seems like an unerring talent on Maddy’s part is really separation anxiety or similar that tightens my grip or heats my skin enough she can sense it through the protective layers of the blanket.

But Griffin has perfected easing her out of my arms once she’s asleep, gliding to her room and placing her in the crib without rousing her.

In the soft fairy glow of the nightlights, he finishes the task. I tiptoe out of the room ahead of him. He shuts the door as he exits. His longer legs let him catch up with me before I reach the threshold of our bedroom.

“Mrs. Montgomery,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my ear. “Your bath awaits.”

I let him lead me toward the glow of candles visible through a half open door. Inside the bathroom, he sits me on the bench in front of the vanity and pulls my hair up, securing it in a bun.

Kissing at my neck, he strips the silk robe from my shoulders. His breath leaves him in a raspy purr as he reaches around to cup both of my tender breasts.

“This could turn into a milk bath,” I fret.

I am only half serious, even if I am wholly worried. Maddy decided to turn her nose up at my milk a month ago, but my body hasn’t fully caught up to the lack of demand.

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