She cried for him, cried for the scars on his palms, cried for the nights he’d lost, and she cried for all the things that would never be righted.
“You’re strong, Rebecca. Stronger than you’ll ever know,” he murmured against her hair, her face, covering her tears with his lips. He thought it was her pain that was killing her, but it was his.
She wanted to lash out at the people who hadn’t cared about him when he was younger. Stupid people. People who didn’t know him, know what was buried inside. So deeply buried. She cried for a long time, and she knew he was worried and confused, but she couldn’t stop. At some point the kisses changed. No comfort anymore. There was an edge of desperation there, she tasted it in him, and she took shameless advantage. She wanted to feel him next to her, bare and raw, and soon he was. She used her mouth to love him, to taste the salty heat of his skin.
He cried out when she took his sex in her mouth, his muscles straining, but she stroked him with her hands, with her mouth, soothing him, pleasuring him, loving him.
It was so easy to love him, but he wouldn’t let her finish. He pulled her up, and then rose above her, so careful not to hurt her, but she was having none of that. She scored her fingers into his back, wringing a shudder from him.
Then he thrust inside her, and she met his eyes, met his lips. Outside the snow began to fall again, the sounds of sleigh bells and laughter. Inside, it was quiet. So quiet she could hear her silent whispers.
Later, when the sounds were gone, he touched her cheek, kissed her mouth, traced her eyes. His eyes were so worried, and she stroked his face. It should have been forever, but this wasn’t, and she knew it. It was there in his face.
Cory was saying goodbye.
* * *
8 Tuesday, December 24
The train ride from Lake Placid to her parents’ home in Connecticut was longer than she imagined. Fourteen hours of sitting, with nothing to do but think. Now she had a new regret weighing heavy on her. Cory Bell.
He’d left while she was asleep. She knew that would be his way. Odd to have been strangers before Friday. Four days later and she had seen his soul.
There were so many things that she should have told him. But he hadn’t said a word, and she hadn’t said a word. And so they had a solitary, magical moment in time.
Ha. She rubbed her heart because the pain was strong. Did love come that fast? Would it fade so quickly? She knew it wouldn’t. She had confided in him and he’d stayed by her.
Outside the window, snow was falling, and she watched it, writing a name on the fogged glass like a schoolgirl. As the compartment heated, the name faded, but the memories would stay with her for a long, long time.
* * *
Cory was driving in the shadow of the Laurentian Mountains when the snow started to fly in huge, blinding flakes. The road was nearly invisible. He turned on the radio to drown out the yelling in his head, but there was nothing but Christmas music.
Damn.
He’d never heard yelling in his head before, never felt this pain screaming inside him, but he wished it would go away. He wanted the numbness back.
He shoved the wiper switch to high, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t see jack, so he pulled off the road. Cory slammed his hands against the steering wheel because damn it, her suitcase weighed a ton and she’d have to change stations four times to get from the lodge to her parents’ place in Stafford Hill.
He hadn’t meant to ask anything this morning, only wanted to disappear at dawn, but when he’d seen Mrs. Krause at the desk, he’d asked. Like he had a right to know.
The old woman had sent him off with a ham sandwich, homemade chocolate-chip cookies, and a piece of paper with a Connecticut address on it. At the Canadian border, he’d stopped and looked at the paper. When he got to Montreal, he pulled into an electronics store and checked her route on a computer. Now here he was, nearly at his destination in the mountains, when the name-calling started.
Idiot. Moron. Jerk. He deserved it. There was never a woman he wanted more than Rebecca. Why was he running away from the best, the purest woman he’d ever known, touched or loved?
No, that was it. Cory Bell was done running. He was driving to Connecticut—in a blizzard.
Six hours later, he had made it to New York. Barely. He stopped, got more coffee and bought a Connecticut map. The clerk was a teenager with a name tag that said Happy To Serve You.
“Merry Christmas,” Cory said, slapping some change on the counter.
The kid frowned, glanced at him as if he was a nut job. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”
It was three hundred and ten miles and some five hours later before he reached the tiny town where he’d find her. He should have been bone-tired, but after all the caffeine and something that felt suspiciously like hope in his heart, Cory was more alive than he’d ever been.