his eyes wide and panicked,
and all we can hear is the steady stream of water as it
flows over us in the shower.
“You love me,” I whisper.
“You love me,” I whisper.
His eyes widen further and his mouth opens. He takes
a huge breath as if winded. He looks tortured—vulnerable.
“Yes,” he whispers. “I do.”
I cannot contain my jubilation. My subconscious gapes at
me open-mouthed—in stunned silence—and I wear a
face-splitting grin as I gaze longingly up into Christian’s
wide, tortured eyes.
His soft sweet confession calls to me on some deep
elemental level as if he’s seeking absolution; his three small
words are my manna from hea一ven. Tears prick my eyes
once more. Yes, you do. I know you do.
It’s such a liberating realization as if a crushing
millstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, fucked-up
millstone has been tossed aside. This beautiful, fucked-up
man, whom I once thought of as my romantic hero—
strong, solitary, mysterious—possesses all these traits, but
he’s also fragile and alienated and full of self-loathing. My
heart swells with joy but also pain for his suffering. And I
know in this moment that my heart is big enough for both
of us. I hope it’s big enough for both of us.
I reach up to clasp his dear, dear, handsome face and
kiss him gently, pouring all the love I feel into this one
sweet connection. I want to devour him beneath the hot
cascading water. Christian groans and encircles me in his
arms, holding me as if I am the air he needs to breathe.
“Oh, Ana,” he whispers hoarsely, “I want you, but not
here.”
“Yes,” I murmur fervently into his mouth.
He switches off the shower and takes my hand, leading
me out and enfolding me in my bathrobe. Grabbing a
towel, he wraps it around his waist, then takes a smaller
one and begins to gently dry my hair. When he’s satisfied,
he swathes the towel around my head so that in the large
he swathes the towel around my head so that in the large
mirror over the sink I look like I’m wearing a veil. He’s
standing behind me
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