by Noelle Adams
“That was so good,” she murmured, softly stroking his back. “God, Paul, that was good.”
She didn’t expect a response. Not yet. She would have thought that, as he got used to having sex with her, he wouldn’t have been so leveled by the completion. But, if anything, it seemed to affect him more now than it had at the beginning. It was like he poured all of himself into it, and it took a while to gather himself back.
She loved it and feared it both.
After a few minutes, she started to feel a little uncomfortable. He had come inside her, and she felt a little sloppy because of it. Plus, he was kind of heavy. She tried not to shift beneath him, however, since he was still breathing raggedly and hadn’t yet lifted his head.
Her hand strayed up to his neck.
He released a sound like a low, long moan as she caressed him there. His breath was hot against the skin of her throat.
Since he seemed to be enjoying it, she kept stroking the nape of his neck. He moaned again. Then she felt another, different sensation. One that surprised her.
“Oh,” she said, stiffening slightly as she felt him growing erect again against her thigh. “That was quick.”
“Mm hmm,” he murmured, mouthing her pulse in a way that felt more intentional than before.
A little spark of the playfulness she’d experienced earlier hit her again, and she said with impressive sobriety, “That’s really quick, isn’t it? I thought men slowed down on recovery time when they got older.”
Paul stiffened palpably and lifted his head to glare down at her. “Just how old do you think I am?”
She was hard-pressed not to giggle, but she managed to keep her face still. “Twenty-three, right? Isn’t this a quick recovery time for someone your age?”
He took a raspy breath as he seemed to swallow his indignation. But then his expression suddenly changed. “You little tease,” he muttered, his eyes sparking with affection and amusement, even as he tried to maintain his cool disapproval. “You’re taunting me again.”
Emily burst into rippling laughter and pulled him down into a hug. “Sorry. You need to be teased sometimes, though.”
“Do I?” He kissed her softly. Then again.
“A little teasing is good for someone of your advanced years,” she explained, her heart overflowing with something nameless, something she didn't dare to analyze closely.
Paul laughed out loud, and then he kissed her again. As they kissed, his hand explored between her thighs.
“We can go again,” she gasped, breaking her lips away from his for long enough to suck in air as her body responded to his fondling. “I want to.”
He stifled a groan and claimed another kiss. And he was still kissing her as he lined himself up and sank inside her once more.
This time, their lovemaking was slow, sensual, tender. They kissed almost constantly as they rocked together, and pleasure rose slowly, inexorably inside her from all of the stimulation mingling into her rising emotion.
She was still, for some reason, wearing her high heels, and she toed them off so she could wrap her legs around Paul’s hips, wanting to feel him even more deeply.
Only at the end, when their motion became more urgent, more needy, did their mouths break apart. She panted against his cheek and he panted against hers as their hips worked together in matching passion.
Paul started to murmur out rough endearments as he neared climax, choppy, disconnected words made up of “Baby,” “Good,” “Sweet,” and “Love.”
The words washed over Emily, as powerful as his flesh inside her. She whimpered and arched up into them, into him, as her pleasure finally broke.
He came with her, and then they were both gasping and shaking as they came down, their bodies finally replete.
Emily held his hot, relaxed body on top of her as long as she could. But she was sore now—after two rounds of sex—and their combined fluids inside her was uncomfortable.
Since Paul still hadn’t pulled himself together, she gave him a quick kiss on the temple and then eased herself out from under his weight. He rolled over to let her go, and she ran to the bathroom to clean up.
When she returned, Paul was still sprawled on the bed in his rumpled suit. He looked adorable and incredibly sexy. His eyes were open, and he smiled at her with an inexplicable softness.
She smiled back, but the panic in her chest returned with full force as she started to understand the implications of…everything.
She couldn’t misunderstand what had just happened, what Paul had revealed in the way he’d made love to her just now.
He’d been making love to her—which was something he never should have done. She’d never dreamed it was really possible, and so she hadn’t worried about what would happen to him after she died.
“I’m going to get ready for bed,” she told him, grabbing a pair of pajamas and going back into the bathroom. She mostly just needed to get away from him for a minute. When she’d changed, brushed her teeth, and washed her face, she went to grab a bottle of water for the bedside table, since she was thirsty.
By the time she returned, Paul had found the energy to heave himself up and get ready for bed too. As soon as he turned off the lights and climbed back into bed, he pulled her into his arms.
She lay in his arms, in his embrace, her cheek resting against his bare chest and her arm draped over his belly.
She felt him relax, felt his breathing even out and slow down, felt some of the hot tenseness leaving his muscles.
She couldn’t deny the way he felt against her at the moment—like he needed her, like he felt safe with her, like he could finally, finally let down some of his defenses.
In any other circumstances, the knowledge would have thrilled her. That Paul needed her as much as she did him. That he cared for her as much as she did him. That he wanted her—all of her—as much as she did him.
But it just wasn’t supposed to happen with them.
It couldn’t happen.
He brushed a few sleepy kisses in her hair and murmured a goodnight. Then she felt him fall asleep.
Emily was absolutely exhausted so it didn’t take her very long to fall asleep too.
But her slumbers were tense and restless, and sometime in the middle of the night she was hit with a stark revelation. Maybe she dreamed the conclusion, or maybe she just finally put the pieces together in her sleep.
But she woke up knowing for sure.
No matter how unlikely, implausible, ridiculous. No matter how much such a thing should never, ever have happened. No matter how ludicrous it was to think that a man like Paul Marino—a man who had learned to protect himself from being hurt—had actually fallen for his dying wife. No matter....
She knew—she knew—he had.
He’d even been mumbling out the words to her just before climax as they’d been making love the last time. She’d heard them but hadn’t fully processed what they meant until now.
She sat up in bed with an anguished gasp, pulling out of the arm Paul was still holding her with in his sleep.
She gasped again as the terror and horror coursed through her.
It was wrong. It was so incredibly wrong.
What had she done to him? How could she have been so incredibly heartless as to bind him to her emotionally when she was only going to be ripped away in the end?
He would grieve. He would be devastated. He would be broken when she died. She knew better than most how deeply emotions ran in Paul, how intensely he felt everything.
She couldn’t bear the thought of it. She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.
With a flare of panic, she scrambled to the side of the bed, desperately sucking in air in an attempt to ease the suffocating clench of her chest. Her body was washed with waves of heat, and she felt for a moment like she might literally faint.
She leaned forward, dropping her head between her knees, and tried to force herself to breathe in the dark silence of Paul's bedroom.
Her bedroom now, as much as his.
Tears squeezed from her clenched eyes as she forced in breath after pained breath. Eventually, the wooziness passed and her chest unclamped.
But then her shoulders started to shake with emotion she tried desperately to stifle.
She didn’t want to wake up Paul. He needed to sleep. He needed to be taken care of. He needed to live a long, happy life. He needed not to be left broken when his wife died.
He needed to never have married her at all.
She choked on the rising sobs and nearly lost it when she heard Paul shift on the other side of the bed.
“Emily?” he asked hoarsely. “Baby, what is it?”
She couldn’t answer. Just shook in tight, silent sobs.
He was getting out of bed now. Coming around to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. He wrapped a warm arm around her and pulled her against his side.
“Please don’t cry,” he murmured roughly, wrapping his other arm around her as well so he was holding her in a tight hug. “Please don’t. I can’t stand it.”
She sobbed into his chest, still repressing the emotion so she was barely making any sound. But that was as much as she could suppress. The horrible reality just ripped through her.
She had done it to him. She had asked Paul to marry him, assuming he’d never be emotionally invested, assuming her death would barely be a blip on his emotional radar.
It never should have been anything else.
She’d been so incredibly wrong.
The grief and pain lodged hard in her heart when she was finally able to control her sobs. She leaned against his bare chest and tried to think of some way to explain her breakdown.
He wasn’t going to accept a refusal to answer.
“Emily?” he prompted, gently stroking her messy hair. “You need to tell me.”
“It’s just…” she choked, terror keeping her from speaking her deepest grief out loud, “It’s just everything.”
He seemed satisfied by this response. He hugged her more tightly. “I know. I feel the same way.”
She hugged him back. She couldn’t help it. Despite everything, she still needed to comfort him and to take comfort from him.
Eventually, he pulled away and peered down at her face in the dark room. “Are you okay? Can you come back to bed?”
She nodded and crawled back under the covers as he climbed into bed beside her. He pulled her into their normal position, and she didn’t try to pull away.
But she wanted to. Every time he touched her—every look and the sound of his voice—seemed to affirm the awful realization she’d come to.
She wasn’t sure how she’d missed it before.
But she knew it now, as she felt him hold her for a long time and then relax into sleep again. He needed to sleep. She was happy he was able to.
She needed to too. But she didn’t. Not at all. Not until dawn.
She lay awake in the dark, in his arms, and came to a few bleak conclusions.
If there was any way for her to stop this—to keep this from happening—then she would have to do it.
Even if she had to break him a little now to keep him from breaking completely when she died, then she would have to do that too.
Sometime in the night, her head started to throb. Maybe it was just the overload of emotion, but maybe she was getting sick again. Her last fever had ended less than two days ago.
It was the final sign she needed.
The treatment hadn’t worked. Even with the information on the virus in the report, they weren’t going to find a cure. She knew it with absolute certainty.
And there was something else she knew now, as she felt Paul clutching her even in his sleep.
He loved her—he loved her—and she was going to die.
* * *
Emily must have dozed off around dawn, and she woke up feeling achy and overly hot.
She blinked at the other side of the bed, only to find it empty.
It was after nine, she realized, and Paul must already be up.
She rolled out of bed, feeling the heavy sinking of her heart as she processed the revelations she’d come to last night. She wandered down the hall, instinctively seeking him out.
She found him in his office. He’d been working on his computer, but he turned to her with a fond smile when he recognized her presence.
“Hi. Did you sleep all right?” he asked, his eyes taking in her rumpled pajamas, her sleep-flushed face, and her messy hair.
She nodded, even though she hadn’t slept well at all. “Yeah. I didn’t mean to sleep so late. Did you get up early?”
He gave a half-shrug, which she took as an admission that he’d risen at some ungodly hour. “How do you feel?” His eyes were sharp, as they always were.
“Fine,” she lied. “Kind of groggy. I must have drunk too much last night.”
His smile widened. “Maybe. Do you have a headache?”
“A little one. No big deal. I’ll take some aspirin and drink coffee.”
“You can take it easy this morning. There’s nothing we need to do.”
It was a Sunday morning, and she’d learned something last night that had changed everything.
Still too hot and kind of blurry, Emily suddenly realized what she needed to do. A plan came into her mind fully formed. “Actually, I kind of feel like waffles for breakfast.”
“Sure. I can ask Ruth to—”
“No, I really wanted those big Belgium waffles from The Cracked Egg. But, if you’re too busy with work, I can have your driver take me—”
“Of course I’m not too busy,” he said, glancing at his watch. He looked a little surprised—since she wasn’t in the habit of asking for special outings first thing in the morning—but not unduly so. “Get dressed, and we’ll go as soon as you’re ready.”
She smiled at him, as brightly as she could. She'd somehow known he would agree. “Thanks!”
She got coffee, took some ibuprofen, and then went to get dressed. She took a cool shower, which seemed to help ease some of the heat from her skin. Her fever couldn’t be too high yet, since she was still able to function. It was so important that she hide this from Paul. If he knew she was feverish, then her plan would never work.
Her whole world had narrowed down to one bleak reality. There was only one thing left for her to do.
She got dressed quickly and carefully applied makeup, making sure to use blush so she wouldn’t look so sickeningly pale. She grabbed her biggest purse—more of a tote than a purse—and put in it her toiletry case, her phone, her wallet, and a change of clothes. Since she had room, she put the lovely music box Paul had gotten her for her birthday in the bag too. She looked longingly at her laptop, but she knew Paul would notice and wonder why she was carrying it with her.
She had to leave everything. Almost everything. Or he would know.
Her chest ached ruthlessly as she slipped off her rings. She kissed the engagement ring. Then the wedding band. Then she laid them delicately on the counter next to the sink in her bathroom. She couldn’t take the necklace either—since Paul had given it to her on their wedding day—but she couldn’t seem to leave the bracelet.
It had been a birthday present. It wasn't a symbol of their marriage like the rings or necklace. Surely she didn’t have to leave it too.
She zipped the bracelet into an inner pocket of her bag, her eyes blurring over with emotion and rising fever.
She couldn’t believe she was doing this, but she couldn’t think of anything else to do.
The world was hot and aching and confusing and so, so hard.
With a gasp, she went to the bathroom to put on her rings again, belatedly realizing that Paul would notice she wasn’t wearing them.
She sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. She could do this. She would do this.
She couldn’t do anything else.
She took her folded, well-worn list and put it in the zipper pocket next to Paul’s br
acelet.
As she was leaving, her eyes fell on Paul’s old edition of Riverside Shakespeare on her dresser. It would fit in her bag, but it would look bulky and call attention to the size of her bag.
But she couldn’t bear to leave it behind. All of Paul’s notes in the margins made her feel like he was reading it with her.
She grabbed the book and hugged it to her chest, deciding she could come up with a suitable explanation for bringing it with her.
She found Paul in the entry hall, talking on the phone. He was talking to Jack Martin.
He smiled at her absently and gestured her toward the door. She was actually relieved that he continued the phone conversation all the way down the elevator and out to the car. That would mean less time for her to hide from his searching eyes.
He didn’t seem to be talking about anything new—mostly just rehearsing what they already knew. Emily realized suddenly that Paul had been talking to Jack Martin when she overheard him on the phone at the inn on PEI.
When he’d said it was the most important thing, Paul had been talking about her.
It hurt. So badly.
After settling into the backseat of the car, Emily opened up her Shakespeare and pretended to read as Paul finished his conversation.
She glanced up with a smile when she heard him disconnect the call. “Everything all right?”
“Yes. Nothing new.” He looked tired, but he smiled at her anyway. “Getting into Measure For Measure?”
“It’s really pretty good,” she told him, forcing her voice to sound perky, even though she felt anything but. “But I’m mostly getting excited about getting to the end. I only have six more plays to read.”
“That’s impressive,” he murmured. “Almost done.”
Paul’s eyes were soft on her face. She couldn’t help but smile at him, even though it felt achingly bittersweet. The emotion in his expression seemed so obvious to her now. He wasn’t even trying to hide how he felt.
She couldn’t believe she hadn’t known yesterday that he loved her.
She couldn’t believe she was leaving him today.