Chapter 17: Her Lead

I read the lab sheet standing in the kitchen.

Then I folded it in half and put it under the sugar bowl.

"They'll say you're nobody by morning," I said.

"I am nobody on paper."

"You're the man who cooked my dinner."

He looked at me across the table, and he didn't move.

He had been careful with me all night, and he hadn't touched me once.

I stood up.

I turned off the kitchen light, and I took his scarred hand off the table and led him up the stairs.

On the landing he stopped.

"You said no touching," he said, very low. "I'll keep it. If you want it kept."

"I'm lifting it."

"Marlo."

"I'm lifting it, and I'm choosing. Tonight I'm not choosing a husband, or a voice. I'm choosing you."

My bedroom was dark, with moonlight on the floor.

I pushed him down to sit on the edge of the bed, and he let me.

I stood between his knees and took his cap off, and his hair fell forward, thick and dark.

I put my hands on his face.

Under my left palm was the rough beard.

Under my right was the scarred side, smooth and tight and warmer than the rest.

He closed his eyes when I touched it.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

"No. It's just that nobody does that."

"Then I'm going to do it a lot."

I kissed the scar, slowly, from the jaw to the corner of his mouth.

His breath shook.

I undid his shirt one button at a time and pushed it off his shoulders.

The burn went down his neck and across his collarbone.

I followed it with my mouth.

His hands stayed on the quilt, fisted, and I felt how much he was holding back.

"You can touch me," I said.

"Not yet. Let me be good."

"You are not good. You've been lying to me for three years."

A laugh broke out of him, rough and surprised.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Say it again."

"Yes, ma'am."

I pulled my sweater over my head and dropped it.

He looked at me in the moonlight, at the plain cotton bra and the nipples showing through it.

His mouth fell a little open.

"Jesus," he said. "I've pictured it. I haven't come close."

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