“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“For the crown molding?” I smile weakly up at him. “Please don’t be. But seriously?” I sit up a little more and try to give him an earnest look. “I really want to go back down the hall. I just thought if I… We can do it now, I guess.”
He shakes his head, and then he’s whirling me around. We take off, and I am bounced by his long strides. He weaves between bookshelves and couches, passing a coffee table that seems to double as a sun dial, passing big houseplants that gleam in the pale sun streaming through the skylights. We reach another opening on the far left side of the room, wider than the one that leads into the hall, and I can smell a whiff of lemon.
This is the kitchen, I think. I remember the blueprint all the news channels were showing right after we were found.
A few more steps, and yes—we’re definitely moving through a kitchen. I cling to his neck, because he’s moving so fast, I’m kind of bouncing. I note a black and white color scheme, and some framed black and white photographs along one wall. One of them features hands. That makes my chest feel warm.
“Where are we going?” I murmur.
I look up at him, but he doesn’t look at me or answer.
Now we’re entering another hall. This one is narrower, and the walls, painted pale green, are bare. I look for doors, for art, for wall-mounted lamps or even floor lamps, but there is nothing. Not even a runner along the middle of the hall, I notice as I listen to the clomping of his footsteps.
We pass a door, to our right, and I feel a funny little tingle in my stomach. I close my eyes and try to remember the blueprint. The room where Mother was found was somewhere to the left of the kitchen… Obviously, he wouldn’t take me there.
I close my eyes again and try to relax. Maybe a tour of the whole place, starting on this side of the house, would help. Of course, there’s that room to avoid. Some kind of dressing room, I think it was. For a long time, I didn’t know many details at all, because my parents cut me off from the world after I got back. We moved to Georgia, and we didn’t have the Internet at home, or cable.
I open my eyes when he stops walking, and I see we’re at another door. His eyes flit over me before he pushes through it, and I’m stunned to find we’re in a gorgeous—lavish—bedroom. The walls are crimson, and the bedroom set is massive, claw-footed mahogany. The king-sized bed has a ceiling-tall headboard that looks hand-carved, and four posts that are almost as thick as tree trunks.
There are pictures on the wall here: giant, abstract prints that might be Dali. I smell something cinnamon, hear the swishing of a ceiling fan. He steps fully inside and shuts the door behind us. Then he turns around, giving me a full view of the room. Like the foyer, it’s enormous: the size of at least three normal master bedrooms. There’s a sitting area with two couches and a chair, and a whole wall that’s a bookshelf.
Immediately, I can feel his ownership of the room. It’s hard to say how, but I just know he’s spent a lot of time here. Still, he crosses the Oriental rug slowly, moving almost hesitantly toward the bed.
It sits up high, and is draped in soft gray silk. There’s a crimson blanket laid across the foot of the bed. Piled against the headboard are dozens of gray and white silk pillows.
I look up at him again, but his face is unreadable as he lifts me onto the bed and lays me in a nest of pillows. I curl up on my side, warmed by how gentle he’s being with me. I hold my breath as he climbs over me and settles his big body right behind mine.
Oh.
I feel him lying down, like I am, then I feel his arms close over me. He pulls me against his hard chest, then drapes one strong leg over both of mine. He presses his face into the tender spot between my shoulder and my throat. I nuzzle my cheek against him, and his hand starts to gently stroke my hair.
From out of nowhere comes the crimson blanket, spread over us both.
I can feel him scoot a little closer to me: his crotch against my ass, the muscular contours of chest against my back. He starts to rub my hair with his bandaged hand, while his other one traces firm, relaxing lines on my shoulders.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
His big, warm hands speak for him. With one more glance around the room, I let my eyes slip shut, focusing on my breathing as I move from feeling just ‘okay’ to almost relaxed.
No words are exchanged as he strokes and rubs me. I feel him harden against my ass, but I don’t rock against him. I love what he’s doing. The way he’s trying to comfort me, even though he hasn’t said a word. I love the way he lifts a remote and the lights around us dim, so that the one large window in the wall beside the bed spills milky light into the room.