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What the…? I was glad nightfall and my duvet hid my beet-red face.
“Could you learn to knock!” I think I managed the correct level of righteous indignation.
He laughed, then vanished.
“No! Come back!”
“I’m waiting for you. Go to sleep,” he said from somewhere.
“Well, it’s going to take me longer now!” I fumed.
He’s standing by the ravaged tree in the purple-gray haze. Dressed in black, the breeze ruffles his messy hair, and he stares at me, his eyes wide and wary and bright green. I gaze at him for a moment, appreciating his beauty, appreciating it more so because I know it’s more than skin deep. I admire his compassion and grace. He saved me. This man, this unearthly man, saved me from Webster. He saves me from the mundane and the ordinary. When I’m with him, both at home and in my dreams, I come alive in a way I’ve never done before. With him, I am in the moment, and I forget the recent awful, awful past and my irreparable loss.
He opens his arms, palms up in a come to me now gesture, and gives me a dazzling smile. Joy blooms in my heart once more.
“Tristan,” I yell and run barefoot toward him through the heather and over the soft mossy terrain. I leap into his arms. “Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”
“Beauchamp, I could tell,” he breathes and holds me tight, lifting my feet off the ground, nuzzling my hair and inhaling deeply. “Oh, you fucking precious jewel, I could have lost you.” His voice is hoarse with relief and longing, and the ardent timbre of his voice, the yearning I hear, ignites the ember that’s already burning inside me. In my excitement, I wrap my legs around his waist, and my hands fist in his hair and tug so his head tilts back.
“Jesus, Emily,” he says in bemused shock, and then my lips are on his, claiming him. He cups my behind and staggers back, surprised by my assault, but his tongue meets mine, hungry and demanding and meeting my challenge. He turns and my back is against the rough bark of the tree with only my T-shirt protecting me. But I don’t care.
I want him. This is my dream.
He groans deep in his throat, and the sound travels reverberating through sinew and bone and setting fire to everything in its path. I don’t want to think about this. I just want to do, to enjoy, to revel in the touch of his lips and his hands—and to touch him. I want to blot out today and weeks ago and forget everything that’s happened. I want the now, the now with him. I need it.
He breaks free from my lips, dragging air into his lungs and cupping my jaw, gazing into my eyes. “Wow, I knew you were stoked, Beauchamp… but this. What is this? This is not like you. Is this about him? What happened with Webster?”
“No.” I’m vehement. “This is about you. It’s only you. It’s only ever been you.”
He gasps.
“Please,” I beg, the sound barely a sigh. “Make me forget everything.”
His eyes widen, and he’s stunned. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, I do. I want this. I want you.”
“No. Emily. No.” I see the conflict wage in his eyes before he closes them. He steps back from the tree and releases my legs so I have no option but to slide down his body and stand in front of him on the soft ground. Memories from years of teasing about my hair and my freckles surface, ugly and unwanted… like me.
“You don’t want me?” I whisper, crushed.
He grabs my shoulders. “Emily. For all intents and purposes, I’m dead. Dead. Do you understand?” His voice is raw and broken.
“Not to me you’re not. Look.” Reaching out, I place my hand over his heart. His warmth seeps into my palm, and his heart is pounding. It gives me hope. “See. I feel you. Your heart is beating.”
He closes his eyes, silent for a moment as his lips part and he inhales.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “It beats for you, Beauchamp, and only you. But you deserve so much more, and it doesn’t change the fact—”
My finger against his lips silences him, and I complete his sentence. “That you don’t want me.”
“No, Emily, sweetheart.” He pulls me into his arms, and his voice is husky against my ear. “I bathe in your sunlight every day. Of course I want you. More than you’ll ever know. But we can’t. I’m no good for you.”
“That’s not true. You saved me. Without you, that man—” A shiver skitters up my spine.
“Stop,” he says. “When I saw him… Fuck.” He grabs my face between his hands. “My world fell apart.” He emphasizes every word. “I could have lost you. If that happened, that would be me finished. Do you understand? I would cease to exist.” He pauses for breath, and he scrutinizes my face, his expression desperate and intense. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“No. No. Like I said, he just frightened me, but I’m so thankful you were there—and you stopped him.”
