Listed: Volume V (4 page)

Her
hand strayed up to his neck.

He
released a sound like a low, long moan as she caressed him there. His breath
was hot against the skin of her throat.

Since
he seemed to be enjoying it, she kept stroking the nape of his neck. He moaned
again. Then she felt another, different sensation. One that surprised her.

“Oh,”
she said, stiffening slightly as she felt him growing erect again against her
thigh. “That was quick.”

“Mm
hmm,” he murmured, mouthing her pulse in a way that felt more intentional than
before.

A
little spark of the playfulness she’d experienced earlier hit her again, and
she said with impressive sobriety, “That’s really quick, isn’t it? I thought
men slowed down on recovery time when they got older.”

Paul
stiffened palpably and lifted his head to glare down at her. “Just how old do
you think I am?”

She
was hard-pressed not to giggle, but she managed to keep her face still. “Twenty-three,
right? Isn’t this a quick recovery time for someone your age?”

He
took a raspy breath as he seemed to swallow his indignation. But then his
expression suddenly changed. “You little tease,” he muttered, his eyes sparking
with affection and amusement, even as he tried to maintain his cool
disapproval. “You’re taunting me again.”

Emily
burst into rippling laughter and pulled him down into a hug. “Sorry. You need
to be teased sometimes, though.”

“Do
I?” He kissed her softly. Then again.

“A
little teasing is good for someone of your advanced years,” she explained, her
heart overflowing with something nameless, something she didn't dare to analyze
closely.

Paul
laughed out loud, and then he kissed her again. As they kissed, his hand
explored between her thighs.

“We
can go again,” she gasped, breaking her lips away from his for long enough to
suck in air as her body responded to his fondling. “I want to.”

He
stifled a groan and claimed another kiss. And he was still kissing her as he
lined himself up and sank inside her once more.

This
time, their lovemaking was slow, sensual, tender. They kissed almost constantly
as they rocked together, and pleasure rose slowly, inexorably inside her from
all of the stimulation mingling into her rising emotion.

She
was still, for some reason, wearing her high heels, and she toed them off so
she could wrap her legs around Paul’s hips, wanting to feel him even more
deeply.

Only
at the end, when their motion became more urgent, more needy, did their mouths
break apart. She panted against his cheek and he panted against hers as their
hips worked together in matching passion.

Paul
started to murmur out rough endearments as he neared climax, choppy,
disconnected words made up of “Baby,” “Good,” “Sweet,” and “Love.”

The
words washed over Emily, as powerful as his flesh inside her. She whimpered and
arched up into them, into
him
, as her pleasure finally broke.

He
came with her, and then they were both gasping and shaking as they came down,
their bodies finally replete.

Emily
held his hot, relaxed body on top of her as long as she could. But she was sore
now—after two rounds of sex—and their combined fluids inside her was
uncomfortable.

Since
Paul still hadn’t pulled himself together, she gave him a quick kiss on the temple
and then eased herself out from under his weight. He rolled over to let her go,
and she ran to the bathroom to clean up.

When
she returned, Paul was still sprawled on the bed in his rumpled suit. He looked
adorable and incredibly sexy. His eyes were open, and he smiled at her with an
inexplicable softness.

She
smiled back, but the panic in her chest returned with full force as she started
to understand the implications of…everything.

She
couldn’t misunderstand what had just happened, what Paul had revealed in the way
he’d made love to her just now.

He’d
been making
love
to her—which was something he never should have done.
She’d never dreamed it was really possible, and so she hadn’t worried about
what would happen to him after she died.

“I’m
going to get ready for bed,” she told him, grabbing a pair of pajamas and going
back into the bathroom. She mostly just needed to get away from him for a
minute. When she’d changed, brushed her teeth, and washed her face, she went to
grab a bottle of water for the bedside table, since she was thirsty.

By
the time she returned, Paul had found the energy to heave himself up and get
ready for bed too. As soon as he turned off the lights and climbed back into
bed, he pulled her into his arms.

She
lay in his arms, in his embrace, her cheek resting against his bare chest and
her arm draped over his belly.

She
felt him relax, felt his breathing even out and slow down, felt some of the hot
tenseness leaving his muscles.

She
couldn’t deny the way he felt against her at the moment—like he needed her,
like he felt safe with her, like he could finally, finally let down some of his
defenses.

In
any other circumstances, the knowledge would have thrilled her. That Paul
needed her as much as she did him. That he cared for her as much as she did him.
That he wanted her—all of her—as much as she did him.

But
it just wasn’t supposed to happen with them.

It
couldn’t happen.

He
brushed a few sleepy kisses in her hair and murmured a goodnight. Then she felt
him fall asleep.

Emily
was absolutely exhausted so it didn’t take her very long to fall asleep too.

But
her slumbers were tense and restless, and sometime in the middle of the night
she was hit with a stark revelation. Maybe she dreamed the conclusion, or maybe
she just finally put the pieces together in her sleep.

But
she woke up knowing for sure.

No
matter how unlikely, implausible, ridiculous. No matter how much such a thing
should never, ever have happened. No matter how ludicrous it was to think that
a man like Paul Marino—a man who had learned to protect himself from being hurt—had
actually fallen for his dying wife. No matter....

She
knew—she
knew
—he had.

He’d
even been mumbling out the words to her just before climax as they’d been
making love the last time. She’d heard them but hadn’t fully processed what
they meant until now.

She
sat up in bed with an anguished gasp, pulling out of the arm Paul was still
holding her with in his sleep.

She
gasped again as the terror and horror coursed through her.

It
was wrong. It was so incredibly wrong.

What
had she done to him? How could she have been so incredibly heartless as to bind
him to her emotionally when she was only going to be ripped away in the end?

He
would grieve. He would be devastated. He would be broken when she died. She
knew better than most how deeply emotions ran in Paul, how intensely he felt
everything
.

She
couldn’t bear the thought of it. She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t
breathe
.

With
a flare of panic, she scrambled to the side of the bed, desperately sucking in
air in an attempt to ease the suffocating clench of her chest. Her body was
washed with waves of heat, and she felt for a moment like she might literally
faint.

She
leaned forward, dropping her head between her knees, and tried to force herself
to breathe in the dark silence of Paul's bedroom.

Her
bedroom now, as much as his.

Tears
squeezed from her clenched eyes as she forced in breath after pained breath.
Eventually, the wooziness passed and her chest unclamped.

But
then her shoulders started to shake with emotion she tried desperately to
stifle.

She
didn’t want to wake up Paul. He needed to sleep. He needed to be taken care of.
He needed to live a long, happy life. He needed not to be left broken when his
wife died.

He
needed to never have married her at all.

She
choked on the rising sobs and nearly lost it when she heard Paul shift on the
other side of the bed.

“Emily?”
he asked hoarsely. “Baby, what is it?”

She
couldn’t answer. Just shook in tight, silent sobs.

He
was getting out of bed now. Coming around to sit on the edge of the bed beside
her. He wrapped a warm arm around her and pulled her against his side.

“Please
don’t cry,” he murmured roughly, wrapping his other arm around her as well so
he was holding her in a tight hug. “Please don’t. I can’t stand it.”

She
sobbed into his chest, still repressing the emotion so she was barely making
any sound. But that was as much as she could suppress. The horrible reality
just ripped through her.

She
had done it to him. She had asked Paul to marry him, assuming he’d never be
emotionally invested, assuming her death would barely be a blip on his
emotional radar.

It
never should have been anything else.

She’d
been so incredibly wrong.

The
grief and pain lodged hard in her heart when she was finally able to control her
sobs. She leaned against his bare chest and tried to think of some way to
explain her breakdown.

He
wasn’t going to accept a refusal to answer.

“Emily?”
he prompted, gently stroking her messy hair. “You need to tell me.”

“It’s
just…” she choked, terror keeping her from speaking her deepest grief out loud,
“It’s just
everything
.”

He
seemed satisfied by this response. He hugged her more tightly. “I know. I feel
the same way.”

She
hugged him back. She couldn’t help it. Despite everything, she still needed to
comfort him and to take comfort from him.

Eventually,
he pulled away and peered down at her face in the dark room. “Are you okay? Can
you come back to bed?”

She
nodded and crawled back under the covers as he climbed into bed beside her. He
pulled her into their normal position, and she didn’t try to pull away.

But
she wanted to. Every time he touched her—every look and the sound of his
voice—seemed to affirm the awful realization she’d come to.

She
wasn’t sure how she’d missed it before.

But
she knew it now, as she felt him hold her for a long time and then relax into
sleep again. He needed to sleep. She was happy he was able to.

She
needed to too. But she didn’t. Not at all. Not until dawn.

She
lay awake in the dark, in his arms, and came to a few bleak conclusions.

If
there was any way for her to stop this—to keep this from happening—then she
would have to do it.

Even
if she had to break him a little now to keep him from breaking completely when
she died, then she would have to do that too.

Sometime
in the night, her head started to throb. Maybe it was just the overload of
emotion, but maybe she was getting sick again. Her last fever had ended less
than two days ago.

It
was the final sign she needed.

The
treatment hadn’t worked. Even with the information on the virus in the report,
they weren’t going to find a cure. She knew it with absolute certainty.

And
there was something else she knew now, as she felt Paul clutching her even in
his sleep.

He
loved her—he
loved
her—and she was going to die.

*
* *

Emily must have dozed
off around dawn, and she woke up feeling achy and overly hot.

She
blinked at the other side of the bed, only to find it empty.

It
was after nine, she realized, and Paul must already be up.

She
rolled out of bed, feeling the heavy sinking of her heart as she processed the
revelations she’d come to last night. She wandered down the hall, instinctively
seeking him out.

She
found him in his office. He’d been working on his computer, but he turned to
her with a fond smile when he recognized her presence.

“Hi.
Did you sleep all right?” he asked, his eyes taking in her rumpled pajamas, her
sleep-flushed face, and her messy hair.

She
nodded, even though she hadn’t slept well at all. “Yeah. I didn’t mean to sleep
so late. Did you get up early?”

He
gave a half-shrug, which she took as an admission that he’d risen at some
ungodly hour.  “How do you feel?” His eyes were sharp, as they always were.

“Fine,”
she lied. “Kind of groggy. I must have drunk too much last night.”

His
smile widened. “Maybe. Do you have a headache?”

“A
little one. No big deal. I’ll take some aspirin and drink coffee.”

“You
can take it easy this morning. There’s nothing we need to do.”