“And as for changing, I don’t think what I saw was innocence,” Holly says slowly. “More . . . willful ignorance. A deliberate decision not to know.”
She pauses, trying to put it into words. “When he came in through the window that first night, he was like . . . like everything you can imagine. Christmas and springtime both. If there’s truly magic in this world, that was the closest I’ll ever come to experiencing it.”
“Goodness. It sounds terrible,” Jane says. Her voice is entirely without sympathy.
“I was so broken that night, so close to giving up,” Holly says, ignoring her. “And it was as if he healed everything that was wrong with me.” She thinks back, shivers. And then deliberately broke me all over again. “For a bit, anyways.”
There’s no way Holly can explain, not in words. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t remember.
Chapter Eighteen
She’s never spoken of that night to anyone, let alone Jane, but it haunts her dreams. The way Peter had reached out, curious, and traced a finger across her shoulders, along her collarbone, then down her side to her exposed knee, his touch as delicate as a butterfly, but curious too, as if he’d never touched anyone before. She’d stood motionless, barely breathing, afraid a single careless movement would drive him away. As if he were a wild creature visiting her room.
The breeze from the window moved through her thin nightgown, but she already had goose bumps. He kissed her in odd places: The crook of her elbow. The back of her wrist. The nape of her neck. Each kiss accompanied by the warmth of his breath, the heat of his lips, so that the contrast with the cold air from outside made her dizzy. She closed her eyes, shivered. When he kissed her lips, she wouldn’t let herself think at all. But her body, starved for touch since the crash, had a mind of its own. When at last she wrapped an arm around Peter’s neck and slowly, gently, drew him down to the bed, she’d almost forgotten who he was. Or, rather, who he wasn’t.
She kept her eyes closed, concentrated only on sensation: Hands spread like starfish over her breasts, cupping them through the fabric. Warm lips along her collarbone. Fingers running along her legs, up the inside of her thighs, rucking her nightgown to her waist. Weight, surprisingly solid, pinning her to the bed, pressing her hips down. A long hesitation, during which she remained perfectly still. When she felt him enter her, she gasped, willed herself to stay where she was, someplace between awake and dreaming. Someplace she’d been only with Robert.
He moved deliberately, long slow strokes that made her arch against him. His rhythm carried her, drove her along like a swimmer caught in a current. If she didn’t move, she would drown. Faster and faster, until a shower of stars exploded through her body, filling every inch of her with warmth and light. She cried out, bit her lip to stifle the name she’d almost called. Kept her eyes closed.
She felt him collapse onto the bed next to her. He hadn’t said a word, and he didn’t touch her. When at last she could pretend no longer, she turned on her side to look at him. His face was pale, his eyes huge, and she felt a sudden wave of sympathy that pierced through the darkness cloaking her. Perhaps he was more of a boy than a man after all.
“Are you all right?” she asked, reaching out her hand to touch him. It was as if she’d broken a spell. In the blink of an eye, he was at the window and then gone, the tiniest flicker of a light at his heels.
* * *
She’d slept then, her body sated but still worn by grief and pain. In the morning, it had seemed no more than a feverish dream, the type she’d had almost nightly since the wreck. Only for the first time, she hadn’t dreamed of Robert. Not really.
The next night, she bathed with lavender oil and plaited her hair. She sat by the window, watching the stars wink against the darkness, and told herself she’d imagined it all. Even so, when she shivered, it wasn’t entirely because of the cool night breeze. At last she made her way to bed, sliding under the crisp white sheets and closing her eyes.
“Does it hurt?” A voice said in her ear. She opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. He was there, to the right of the bedpost, so still he could almost be a shadow.
“What?”
“What we did. Does it hurt?”
“No.” She didn’t elaborate, just watched him, not moving as he came closer. He knelt on the bed, staring at her. He’d shut the window, and a small golden light fluttered against the glass. She closed her eyes again, tilted her face. Waited.
The kiss, when it came, was like a butterfly landing against her lips, so light she could have imagined it. He kissed her again, moving down her jaw, to her neck. A flock of butterflies, moving in the breeze. She leaned toward him and—