I Left to Make Him Follow, and He Let Me Go for Three Years novel · Chapter 4 of 24

Chapter 4: Our Bed

The bedroom looked exactly as I had left it.

His grandmother's quilt lay on the bed, the blue and cream one with the broken stars.

The tall lamp still wore its mended shade.

My side of the closet was empty, with the hangers pushed neatly to one end.

He had not put a single thing of his on my side.

I laid the key on the nightstand and turned around.

He stood in the doorway with his hands at his sides, waiting.

He had always waited.

For three years I had taken that for indifference.

Standing there in the lamplight with his throat working, he looked like a man who would not take one step into that room unless I told him to.

"You said you would be good with them," I said.

"You said it. I said nothing," he said.

"Then say it now."

"I will be good with them."

"Come here, Ansel," I said.

He came.

I put both hands on his chest and walked him backward until his legs touched the edge of the bed.

"Sit."

He sat.

I stood between his knees and began to undo his shirt, one button at a time, starting at the throat.

He watched my fingers, and his breath came heavier with every button.

"Slower," he said, almost to himself.

"I'll go as slow as I like."

"I know."

I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, and he let it fall.

He was leaner than I remembered, and harder, as if he had spent three years lifting nothing but glass.

A white seam of old burn ran down his left forearm.

I put my mouth on it, and his whole body jolted.

"Neve."

"Be quiet."

I kissed my way up his arm to his shoulder, then his collarbone, then the hollow of his throat where his pulse jumped.

He made a low sound, and his hands came up and hovered at my waist.

"Touch me," I said. "Tell me what you want to do."

"I want to take your clothes off," said Ansel.

"I want to put my mouth on every part of you that I remember."

"Then do it."

His hands slid under my sweater and lifted it over my head.

He looked at me in my bra, and the lamp showed me every line of his face.

In five years I had never seen him look at anything the way he looked at me then.

He said something in Polish that I did not know.

Then he said, "You are the most beautiful thing in this house."

"The glass is nicer."

"The glass is a hundred times less nice."

He unhooked my bra with one clean tug and closed his mouth over my left breast.

I groaned and pushed my fingers into his hair.

His tongue circled the nipple, slow and warm, and then he drew on it.

A line of pleasure ran straight down to my knees.

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