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The silence ticked on and on, but it never became suffocating. Instead, it felt safe. I settled on his knee, in his lap. Working the last part of his jaw to make sure I got every bit of stubble.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You may.”
“Well, I opened up to you earlier, so I think you owe me a little honesty,” I said.
“You’re making me nervous,” he said lightly.
I looked him in the eyes. “Did you really kill twelve men with your bare hands?”
His face didn’t change. It stayed all sexy and serious, his broad jaw clenched. His throat bobbed. My stomach dropped and I began panicking, worried I’d offended him.
His mouth curved into a tight smile.
“Why would you worry about something so dark right now, cariad?” he said smoothly. “There’s so many better things to think of.”
His hands gripped my ass and hips, sliding up. Circling my waist. Then he pushed his face between my breasts and rubbed it hard, covering me in shaving cream.
“Did you just motorboat me?”
He swatted my ass, making it jiggle.
“That’ll teach you to mind your business,” he said, not unkindly.
He pinched my thigh gently and I yelped. A hot blush swept up my neck and wiped my mind clean as he pulled me close again. Kissing my mouth slowly as he absently pushed his fingers in the shaving cream on my chest.
Kneading my breast lightly. Tugging my nipple between his fingers.
Making me forget.
I shoved him back playfully and he grinned, eyes flashing.
“Be a good girl and finish what you started,” he ordered.
I kept shaving him, pretending to concentrate fully on what I was doing. But my mind was still drifting back to my question. Back to his refusal to answer.
But he didn’t really need to answer for me to get an affirmative response.
His silence was enough.
When I was done, he leaned over the sink and looked at himself in the window. He tilted his head, gazing at his reflection while I waited for his verdict.
“Very good,” he said.
His praise made me glow. He went upstairs to shower and put on sweatpants. I turned on the radio and switched it to a classic rock station. When he returned a few minutes later, I was heating up leftovers and having a glass of wine.
He circled my waist, spinning me to face him. “Dance with me, cariad.”
We danced in the kitchen to muffled strains of “Moondance” by Van Morrison. It felt like a dream, having my head against his naked chest. His lean hands on my back, his fingers threaded in mine.
I closed my eyes and pretended the week never had to end.
I burned the leftovers and endured his teasing while he made spaghetti and garlic bread. We ate at the kitchen table, me sitting on his lap again, and had a glass of red wine with a fancy label I couldn’t pronounce.
Outside the snow kept coming down. Filling up the endless landscape with pure white. Burying the car in the parking lot, rising in drifts against the doors.
I hoped it snowed forever so we never had to leave.
