Chapter 17: Close the Door

On Friday night, with the ball a day away, I let Kirk in through the east gate and brought him up the back stairs in his socks.

The house was asleep.

Sheridan's light was out, and my father's study door was shut.

I led him down the hall to my blue-quilted room and stood him in the middle of the rug.

He looked at the narrow bed, the cardigan on the chair and the shelf of my school trophies.

"This is where you grew up," he said.

"This is where I was told I'd never be asked a hard question."

I turned back to the door.

Five years behind a locked one had taught me never to close a door again.

I put my hand on the wood.

"Close it," I said.

Kirk went very still.

"Camilla."

"I want it shut, and I want you on this side of it."

He crossed the room in three steps.

He pushed the door until the latch clicked, and I turned the key in the lock.

The sound went through me.

Then I was in his arms, and he kissed me slowly, in no hurry at all.

There was no anger in it.

He undid the buttons of my sleep shirt one at a time and kissed each new place he uncovered.

My collarbone, my ribs, the soft skin under my breast.

I pulled his shirt over his head and put my mouth on his chest, and felt him breathe in sharply.

"Kirk," I said. "Lie down with me."

We lay on the blue quilt, and he rolled me under him.

He kissed down my stomach and slid my shorts off, and I opened my legs for him.

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