Goodbye to You (33 page)

I crave his touch, however, and think it might make me feel normal somehow.

I don’t want to reward him for taking care of me—I just want him. My body says yes. My brain shuts off.

“Shay, I’m sorry.” I attempt to turn my head away, but his hands hold my face in place.

“Do
not
apologize. I get it, but I won’t deny I miss this.” He kisses my forehead gently, and I suck in air. The fresh scent of his shaving cream lingers. I squeeze my eyes tight and wait for more.

“Or this.” His lips whisper across my eyelids.

“Mmmmmm.” My toes flex into the carpet.

“Do you want me to stop?” His warm breath tickles my ear.

I shake my head.

“May I kiss you?”

I nod.

He dips his head, his lips and mine separated by a breath.

My heart hammers against my ribs. “Please. Yes. Kiss me.”

His lips whisper against mine. He keeps his mouth closed until I slip my tongue between his lips, inviting him to do the same. One of his hands slides to the back of my head, pulling me closer.

He tastes of sweet tea with a hint of tart lemon. I clutch at his tee shirt, balling the worn fabric in my hands.

He tastes like more, and I need more.

He pulls away. I whimper.

“Do you want to . . .” His hands smooth the sleeves of the red robe, his palms hot through the cool, thin silk. “. . . lie together?”

“Please,” I croak out.

He kisses the tip of my nose, and we move to the bed. He pushes the comforter aside and steps back for me to pass.

I climb in, and fully clothed, he slides in beside me.

“Sweetheart, can I take my shirt off? I want to feel you against my skin.”

My stomach flutters. The only bared skin on me is on my legs. I hope he doesn’t want me to remove the lingerie. I want to see him, though, drink in his beauty. “Yes.”

Shay tugs the tee shirt over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest and abs.

My fingers itch and twist in the sheets.

He crawls in next to me, reaching his arm underneath my shoulders. I tuck my head into his shoulder, and I shudder at the twinge of discomfort radiating from my armpit to collar bone.

“Hey. You okay? Do you need me to move?”

The pain fades quickly. “No. This is perfect.”

And it is. I reach out and run one hand across his chest, the light dusting of dark hair crisp under my fingers.

I draw in a ragged breath. Another.

“Can I touch you?” His voice catches and he sucks in a breath as I trace my fingers across his hard stomach.

“Yes.” I hesitate. First robe, then nightgown? Can I do this?

I want the heat of his hands on my bare skin, so I sit to shrug off the robe. He smoothes the silky fabric off my shoulders, his tender touch making me shiver.

I twist to see him and bite back a groan as I try to get comfortable.

The only thing separating me from him is this flimsy nightgown. Heat is shimmering off his body and need the warmth in my hands. My fingers skim to the button on his pants.

More.

His hand circles my wrist. “Don’t.”

“But I want—”

“Do you want to, or do you want to for me?”

I bite my lip. “Both.”

His fingers loosen. “If you want to.”

His eyes burn with need and the cords in his neck strain against his skin. Sweat beads his upper lip.

I fumble with the button on his jeans, and he brushes my hands aside to finish the task. He stands and sheds his pants.

I gulp. I hadn’t seen him like this since before . . . I can do this—I want this.

He sits back on the bed and leans against the headboard.

A small pool of moisture stains the gray knit of his boxers. I crawl on his lap, straddle him, his cock heavy and hard and straining against my wet panties.

I try to read his eyes, but his heavy-lidded gaze disguises any hint of emotion.

Is he staring at my chest? Or the relative lack thereof, compared to two months ago?

My heart stops. He’s disgusted. He’s seen them, the smaller breasts and the scars; he saw them the entire time he’d been caring for me. But instead of being a patient, I’m his girlfriend. I finally want to have sex, and he’s repulsed. I drag a leg up to move away.

His large hand cups my knee. “Wait.”

He wasn’t staring at my chest. Wasn’t disgusted.

He was trying to hide the tears shining in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

I shake my head, scrunching my eyebrows together. “For what?”

“For living. I can’t imagine losing you to cancer, but I won’t have to.”

Tears burn my eyes. “Shay?”

“Yes?”

“Please kiss me.”

He obliges, this time with no restraint. His fingers curl into my hair as my tongue darts out and rubs against his. The spark kindled by his soft kisses and feathery touches erupts into a five-alarm fire in my belly.

I’m hungry, thirsty, and need more. I kiss him harder than ever before. He is famished too. No more controlled, delicate kisses. He grinds his mouth into mine, the pressure bruising, brutal.

It’s wet and sloppy, our teeth knocking together. He yelps when I bite his lip too hard, and our noses bump when we pull back and dive into the kiss again. Minutes go by, and more.

Time stops. We may have kissed for hours.

His hands leave my hair, and goose bumps pop along my arms in the wake of his touch. The fabric of my nightgown flutters against my thighs and his long fingers hover over the strap resting against my collarbone.

“Thea, may I see you?”

I stiffen my spine and gulp for air.

No. No. No.

I thought I was ready. Not yet.

I bury my face in his neck, my tears even hotter than his skin. “I don’t want you to see me!”

My words are lost in my sobs.

“Shhhhh.” He strokes my hair. “It’s okay. We do nothing you’re not comfortable with.”

He misunderstands.

I pull back and sniff, wiping my nose with my arm.

“Shay. I want to . . . make love with you, but with this,” I flick the red silk bodice, “on.”

His eyes widen. “Are you—”

“Sure? God yes. I need you, Shay Kelly, like I’ve never needed anyone before. Please.”

He moves me to his side and yanks off his boxers, grabbing a condom from the nightstand before returning. He sits on the bed and waits, searching my face for reassurance one more time.

I take the condom from his hand and tear it open. He arches his pelvis as I roll the latex on.

I lie down, but he eases me back up and plants me on his thighs, his rough hair a delicious tickle on my bottom.

“Like this. You’re in control. Go as far as you want. Take as much as you want. Or nothing at all. Don’t worry about me.”

My heart skips a beat. I want this. No more being afraid. I hike up the skirt of my nightie an inch, two inches. His hands glide across my thighs, making promises of the pleasure he wants to give me.

I’m so wet, and I ease onto him, wrapping my arms around his neck as he fills me, stretching me as he moves slightly. His hazel eyes, shining gold with passion, never break contact with mine. His gaze scans my face as though searching for a sign of reticence.

He won’t find one.

I hate how my breasts feel. I can’t let him touch yet.

But this? The warmth of his arms wrapped around me, his tender gaze? His powerful body underneath mine? Beyond extraordinary. So exciting, but soothing at the same time.

I rock bath and forth on him a few times before his shoulders bunch under my hands and his legs stiffen beneath me.

“Thea, I’m sorry.” He throws his head back and grunts, his eyes rolling back. His fingers slip between my legs, almost in apology, but I know it won’t happen. Not tonight.

A laugh explodes from my throat.

He collapses against the headboard and pulls me to his sweaty chest, the pungent odor of semen and latex clinging to him. He laughs too, a warm chuckle that turns into a boom. I shake with giggles and tears burn my face. I blurt out, “Oh my God, what was that?”

Honestly, the best and worst sex I’ve ever had, rolled into one.

Everything will get better from here.

I’d met his parents and uncle in the summer, so this Christmas trip to Key West is a homecoming.

The best thing of all: I hadn’t thought about breast cancer for days. For the first time in nearly a year, not a single thought till this moment.

Christmas in Key West is a magical thing, but eighty degrees in December is weird.

We’re at the seaport. Da (Shay’s father insists I call him that), Liam, and Paddy are on the catamaran, which we all spent the day decorating with lights. Instead of a regular parade, Key West hosts a boat parade.

A local school band kicked off the festivities about an hour ago, and the boats float by since the sun has set.

The creativity of the boats amazes me. Every possible Christmas theme—and island theme—is represented. Icicle lights drape over the sides of boats, and animatronic reindeer sit on the decks. There’s a giant Snoopy and Woodstock snow globe, and multicolored lights strung in all sorts of shapes: seashells, other animals, anchors, and palm trees.

Boaters throw candy and prizes at the docks, delighting the children scurrying around underfoot.

Even though the temperature is warm, I sip on hot apple cider to create a Christmas mood.

Shay presses against me from behind, nuzzling my hair.

Not even five months ago, I thought no one would ever love me, would be disgusted by how I looked after surgery.

I never imagined this.

Not only did I fall in love with an amazing man, but he loves me back too.

I also expanded my family. That’s how the Kelly family is. We came back a couple days ago, me with a flat chest while I wait for my exchange surgery, but no one did a double-take. I went from a thirty-six double-D bra to my current A cup.

Not a single word, beyond “How are you doing?”

They are amazing people, and I love them all.

Shay? He’s incredible. We haven’t made love completely naked yet—I still don’t want to take my shirt off—but he asked to touch my chest, and I let him last night. He asked if he could kiss me there too. He dropped his head and kissed the hint of cleavage peeking out from the tank top, kissed where the tissue expanders make my chest hard and lumpy to the touch. So different from the soft, rounded breasts I lost.

When I lament their loss, I recall those breasts could have killed me.

My external sensation is minimal, but my heart swelled at the sight of his dark head resting against my nearly non-existent chest.

He points as the catamaran approaches. “Here come Da and the boys.”

I wave and shout as loud as I can, hoping my enthusiasm sways the parade judges sitting on the deck of the waterfront bar.

The boat passes, and more lights flicker on, spelling out words: