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One of my hands is under her shirt now, her hands are furrowed into my hair. There’s already no air between us, but the need to get closer is razor sharp. I slide one hand under her ass and press her harder against me. My cock is pulsing, desperate to plunge into her channel.
We make our own friction in small movements to the guitar chords of One Hell of an Amen. Brantley Gilbert crooning “Be well my friend,” somehow filters through the haze of flames licking inside me. My brain is screaming something at me the rest of my body isn’t comprehending. The chorus starts over again, and I pause. I pause just long enough for me to recognize my ringtone. Cell service is back up.
I set Lorelai back down on the edge of the bed and back up enough to clear my head. The tune wraps again, and I turn and grab my phone from the side table by the recliner. “What?” is all I can get out.
“Mr. Carlo? It’s Sharon.”
Silence stretches out too long while I search my memory for the name. My head is still filled with the heat from Lorelai’s tongue.
“Sharon from The Maine Cabin's office.” I'm grateful when she fills in the blank for me.
“Right. Yes. Sharon.”
“Just checking to make sure you and Rusty made it through the storm okay. It’s going to take another day or two ‘til they get the plows out.”
“Yeah,” I run a hand over my face, still trying to focus. “No, we’re good here. Didn’t even lose power.”
“Great. Well, I’ll let you get back to it. See you in a couple of days.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I press the End button and just stare at my phone for a long minute, pulling myself back into reality. A reality that doesn’t include making out with an injured girl almost sixteen years younger. “Hooking up” is not something I do.
I brace myself and look over at Lorelai. She holds my gaze for a second then gives me a slight smile. She slides off the bed and starts picking up the discarded outerwear. I don’t know what I expected from her, but it wasn’t this wordless acceptance that the moment was over.
I feel like I need to say something, but I’m not sure what. I’m saved by the text chime on my phone pinging in again and again, so I sit and start answering the backlog of messages. I return a couple of calls that I keep short and sweet. I send some photos I took of Rusty and the snowstorm to Trev to show Emilie and his little Becca.
I notice Lorelai makes no calls. If she receives messages, her devices must be set to silent. She doesn’t even check them.
She does pull a worn deck of cards out of her pack once I’m done with my calls and asks if I want to play Rummy. We definitely need a distraction from the heat still lingering in the air.
We play a few hands of Gin Rummy. Then I teach her War. Well, Battle. I took the British name for the game when Emilie wanted to learn to play cards, and war was not a word I wanted my daughter to associate with fun.
And it is fun. Lorelai gets into the competitive spirit and plays her cards with enthusiasm. She slaps down her winning cards and pretend-pouts over her losing ones. When she wins the first hand, she stands up and spins on her almost-good leg and loses her balance. She stumbles right into my lap.
I set her back on her feet, and we both laugh until I snort. She looks at me trying not to laugh again and drops back into her seat. She hides her face, but I can see her shoulders shaking. I laugh again and her giggles burst out. Her laugh turns into champagne bubbles dancing in my chest.
Her smile is brilliant and my eyes sting like looking into the sun too long. I feel my smile stretching across my face at her antics, at the fun of the day, at the laughter I can’t help but feel is so rare for her. I know I must look like an idiot. But she doesn’t care, so I don’t care.
Chapter 11
~~ Lorelai ~~
I wake, startled. The fire is still glowing low, and in its light I see Rusty is alert, his posture says he’s ready to act. He's watching the form in the bed.
I hear it again. The groan that must’ve woken me, then a muffled curse, low and angry. Rusty looks at me, back at James, and then back to me. Something is wrong and he wants me to fix it.
I can just make out James’s arm lying outside the blanket. He’s gripping a handful of cloth so hard his knuckles stand out, strained. He jerks in his sleep. “No, don’t...” That is clear enough. He’s having a nightmare.
Rusty and I leap up at the same time and rush the few steps to the bed. I stop short, not exactly sure what to do. I read somewhere you aren’t supposed to forcibly wake someone from a trauma dream.
I reach out and ease my hand over James’s, but I feel the flinch, the gathering of muscles, ready to strike. I pull my hand back. “James,” I whisper. He doesn’t move, doesn’t waken, but I hear him grinding his teeth.
How can I soothe him without becoming whatever he’s fighting in his dream?
There’s room behind him, so I crawl up onto the bed, my bad knee screaming at me. I lean against his back, rubbing his shoulder slowly. “James, it’s okay.” I whisper close to his ear. “You’re safe.” I keep running my fingers over his shoulder and down the tattooed bands on his arm. His muscles are tight, and I keep up a soft pressure, moving up and down again. It takes several minutes, but gradually his arm relaxes, and his fingers release their grip on the blanket.
Finally, James turns to me. I can’t see his face, but I know mine is highlighted by the fire glow. “You were having a nightmare,” I say softly.
His whisper is rough, “I remember.” His hand lifts to cup my shoulder. “I was back in Afghanistan, and my team was caught in between a suicide bomber and a squad with ARs. The bomber was just pulling out his trigger. Then an angel came to lift me out, telling me I was safe.”
