The House on Hancock Hill (17 page)

“Years,” he told me, voice rough.

A thrill of anticipation ran through me. “Then let me, please.”

Henry kicked off his underwear the rest of the way and positioned himself with his knees on either side of my waist. His cock and balls rested against my stomach. “Are you sure?”

I’ve never wanted anything more
, I thought, a truth I barely managed to keep from spilling. “I’m sure.” Trailing my fingertips up through the coarse hairs of his thighs, I cupped his ass and pushed until he lifted to his knees. Henry gripped the headboard above me with both hands, and we locked eyes. I opened my mouth and guided him in.

The sound he made was beatific, and I was glad we’d decided to forgo the condoms because I could take him much deeper without the taste of latex to spoil it. “Oh, God.” It was hardly audible, but the words trembled with real feeling. “Jason.”

I dug my fingers into the muscles of his ass and pushed him forward. He groaned and his thighs shook, glutes flexing under my palms. He held my gaze, and I saw so much in his eyes. Heavy-lidded and beautiful they were, still holding on to a trace of unease that I desperately wanted to erase. I pushed against his hips until only the tip of his cock rested on my tongue and sucked, cheeks hollowing. I tasted precome on my tongue. A harsh breath punched out of his mouth, and his eyes closed. He smelled like musk and clean sweat and something entirely Henry that was far too familiar already. With my hands, I guided him into a rhythm, fluttering my tongue against the underside of his cock whenever he slid back. He was careful not to go too deep, which I appreciated in the position I was in, and there was something incredibly galvanizing about the way he shook with restraint.

Soon he didn’t need my guidance anymore, and I watched him as I cupped his balls with one hand, tugging lightly. His tempo faltered, then sped up, so I placed two fingers behind his sack and pressed.

“
Oh
,” he gasped. His head fell back, body beautifully stretched above me, stomach muscles rippling and clenching as they worked. I wanted to kiss the V that pointed toward his groin. I wanted to lick the sweat from between the ridges of his abs. I wanted a lot of things I couldn’t have.

My jaw began to ache, but I ignored it, sucking harder as his noises grew louder and more desperate. I circled the base of his cock with one hand to give him that edge he needed, and, with an exquisite sound, he tumbled over the brink. I loved that he’d been too far gone to warn me. To prove I didn’t mind, I sucked him hard, swallowing it all. He curled in on himself as he jerked through his orgasm, head hanging down between his stretched arms.

Chest heaving, he eased back a little. He carefully held my face between his palms and kissed my sore, puffy mouth. “Thank you,” he whispered, which made me laugh. He grinned a bit sheepishly, going pink, but he didn’t take it back. “I mean it. That was magnificent.” Still breathing hard, he rolled away, lying on top of the covers gorgeously naked, and reached for me. Mindful of my ribs, I climbed on top of him, and he enveloped me in a warm hug, dragging his mouth up and down my throat.

“You know I can’t—” Unbelievably, I choked up.

“I know,” Henry murmured. “It’s all right.” His mouth found mine, and I held Henry tighter than my ribs allowed. He was shaking ever so slightly.

“You all right?”

“Hmm,” Henry hummed against my neck. “Bit overwhelmed, I guess.” He kissed my jaw and my insides seemed to contract and expand all at once. I wondered if that was love, this space of contradictions inside, that when all was said and done, felt right.

T
HE
MOST
difficult part of working through the panic attack was breathing without making any noise.

At 5:00 a.m. Henry was deeply asleep, but there was no way he’d understand me creeping around, gathering my things one by one as I tried not to gasp for breath. I didn’t quite understand it myself. All I knew was I’d awoken half an hour earlier, quietly working my way up to the panic that ultimately had me clawing my way out of the sheets, nearly falling out of bed in the process. I had to get out of Hancock right that minute. Every soft breath I heard Henry take had stolen oxygen from my lungs, leaving me high-strung and persuaded I was ruining his life just by being there. Irrational, in hindsight, as only anxiety could be.

There wasn’t much to take from Henry’s bedroom. The new clothes still in their plastic bags I’d leave here; I didn’t need them in Traverse City. All my painkillers were in the kitchen, but I’d leave those too. If I was in agony on the flight, it was nothing more than I deserved.

I was glad for the darkness, for the moonless night, because if there had been enough light to show me Henry’s serene face, I might’ve lost the willpower to go through with this. As it was, the shadows for once held no doubts: I couldn’t spend another waking moment with Henry without doing myself permanent harm when the time came to say good-bye. Wearing the clothes Henry had found me in, I stood in the doorway and whispered the words burning feverishly through my veins just once. Henry didn’t move, not even a hitching breath. He hadn’t heard me, and he’d never know. My leaving like a coward in the dark would surely have him forget whatever feelings had been stirring from his side. I hoped he’d have an easier time of it than I would.

My laptop sat by the stairs where I’d left it the night before, and I heaved it over my shoulder next to my other bag, ribs protesting. I tried to tell myself this wasn’t a terrible thing I was doing, that Henry would be better off this way. I knew, however, as soon as the adrenaline of my flight had worn off, rock-bottom is where I’d be. In the living room, Pat stirred but didn’t get up or bark. Briefly, I considered saying good-bye to the old wolf, but I decided against it. The comfort would solely be mine, and I deserved no such thing.

Two flights a day left from this small town: one at four in the afternoon and one at eight in the morning. I had no doubt there’d be room for me on the earlier one. The front door opened and closed without a sound. Outside, the cold wind snapped at me with vicious icy teeth, stealing my breath completely.
Good
, I thought as I walked down the drive, searching my phone for a taxi service that’d meet me at the end of the road at this hour and take me to the airport. I allowed myself one last image of Henry lying in his large bed, warm and unaware still, curls tangled over the white pillow. Then the expression on his gorgeous face when he noticed I was gone came to mind, and the pain of it punched the air out of me in a white, freezing cloud. The cold rattled me to the depths of my being.
Good,
I told myself again
. You don’t deserve to ever feel warm again.

Chapter 10

T
HE
FIRST
night back at my apartment was a cruel wake-up call, so to speak. Ridiculous as it may sound, in the soft embrace of Henry’s bed, I’d forgotten I was supposed to be an insomniac, having slept more deeply than I could remember ever doing.

At about 3:00 a.m., I gave up on the notion of rest and showered. There was only one living space above the bookstore, so I didn’t have to worry about neighbors. A good thing since I spent a lot of nights baking. I flicked the lights on in my kitchen. It wasn’t as well-equipped as Henry’s or the one at the bakery, but it did me just fine. Briefly, I considered trying out the chocolate raspberry tart I would be adding to our selection at the bakery, but I didn’t think I had the presence of mind to perfect the flavored
Pâte Sablée
recipe. Instead, I decided on my go-to comfort routine, something I’d made so much of after I broke up with Tom I didn’t even need to look for a recipe.

The secret of true Belgian chocolate truffles is not the chocolate. It has to be of excellent quality obviously, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be Belgian, although it helps. No one does chocolate quite like the Belgians. The trick lies in the butter. Nearly all American butter contains about 80 percent butterfat, which is too low. The European style butter with a butterfat content of 85 percent isn’t hard to find, it’s just something most people don’t know about. That 5 percent is the difference between an all right piece of chocolate and a small orgasm melting in your mouth.

Creaming the butter and invert sugar first, I started to melt the chocolate to the right temperature before combining the two. While I waited for the truffle mixture to set enough so I could pipe it, a sudden image of Henry sucking chocolate off my fingers made me shiver. For a moment, I felt the ghost of his touch around my wrist, him grabbing the back of my neck in a tight hold to kiss me roughly. The memory of Henry lifting me on top of his granite worktop like I weighed nothing, grinding us together until we came still half-dressed, had me so weak at the knees, I had to grab hold of my countertop. Fuck. I missed him so much.

Blinking rapidly, I piped the truffles into even mounds and set them aside to cool. What was left to do was temper the couverture chocolate and roll the dipped truffles in cacao powder: my favorite part. Tempering chocolate is a pain in the ass, but there is something incredibly satisfying about gently submerging truffles in shining, liquid chocolate and then covering them in a beautiful layer of cacao.

Pleased with the result, I stepped back. Outside my kitchen window, the day began to dawn. I heard the morning delivery truck for the flower shop around the corner, and knew soon the first early farmer’s market vendors would start to filter into town. Five thirty. If I went to bed now, I’d get half an hour of sleep before I needed to go to the bakery. I’d be better off staying awake. Opening the fridge behind me, I reached for the tray with cooling truffles to put them away. Henry would love these. On impulse, I reached for my phone to take a picture for him, my tired brain momentarily forgetting Henry wouldn’t want to hear from me after what I’d done.

As if he’d been summoned by my thoughts of him, his name appeared on my phone a fraction of a second before the ringing started. Uncomprehending, I stared at it for two full rings before I realized Henry was calling me. He was calling me at five in the morning.

“Hello?” I croaked, pressing the phone to my ear before the coward in me allowed it to go to voice mail.

“Jason.” Henry hesitated. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t. I was still—I was already awake.” A painful, awkward silence fell while my pulse fluttered in my throat like the wings of a frightened bird. Static crackled like a sigh on the other end.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right,” Henry said very quietly in a voice I’d never heard from him.

“Yeah,” I said, throat thick. My eyes stung with salt, and I gathered all my courage from my socks. “Listen, Henry—”

“You don’t have to explain. I—I think I understand. It’s not…. It’s not a big deal. Like I said, I only needed to know you were okay.” I’d never heard him sound so lost before. It had me desperately searching for the right thing to say, but I came up empty.

“I am.” I couldn’t manage much more than a whisper by the time I added, “And you? How are you?”

Henry was quiet for so long, I checked my phone for the connection. He was still there. “Pat died.”

It took a second for the words to gain meaning. “Oh,
no
, Henry.”

“Yeah, he…. Last night. It was quick. He didn’t suffer.”

“Oh, God, I am so sorry. I wish—” What? What was I going to say? I wish I’d been there for you? I hadn’t even managed to be there for one ordinary Sunday morning. I felt terrible. Not only had I hurt Henry by running off like a coward, but now he’d lost his dog too, all in the span of twenty-four hours.

“Yeah,” Henry interrupted quickly as if he knew what I’d been about to say. “I just wanted you to know. Take care of yourself, Jason. Call me some time.”

“Henry—” I said desperately, but with a barely audible click, he was gone.

T
HE
NEXT
night promised no more rest than the one before. Exhausted, I sank down on my couch, but the tiredness was physical; my mind whirled with barbed-wire restlessness. For some reason, the ache in my ribs bothered me more now that it was a dull ever-present throb instead of occasional sharp shooting pains. Fully aware of the dangers of strong painkillers, I was glad I’d left them all behind. Chances were they’d be tempting me with the promise of sleep by now.

My phone chimed, startling me out of the slightly morbid path my brain was taking.

You up?

Daniel. I glanced at the time: 10:00 p.m.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I thought about seeing him. Company sounded good but there was only one reason why we ever met up, and I wasn’t sure I wanted that. As if my hesitation transmitted through the ether, a second message came in.

We can just hang out and talk if you want
.

I took a deep breath and forced it out of my lungs. I should’ve known the relief I felt was suspect.
Yeah sure. Come around
.