The Widower (18+) | [Complete]

Thirty-One

Something tickling against my back woke me up. My eyes opened but the bright sunshine glaring through the windows made me squint. Morning already? Augustine's strong chest moved beneath mine. My head was nuzzled in his neck and my arms wrapped around him. I barely remember falling asleep let alone falling asleep like this.

I looked up at him while he continued brushing his fingertips up and down my spine. "It's morning," I said groggily.

He grinned. "It is."

I untangled my legs from his—surprised by how wrapped around him I had been—and rolled to my back. I settled my head against the pillow and stretched my arms above it. "I didn't realize I slept through the night."

He looked at me and smirked. "We were both were in need of rest after last night."

Memories rushed back warm and lovely. I became overly aware of the sheets sliding against my skin. When he rolled to his side to face me, his expression made my mood dip once again. "What's wrong?"

"You mean so much to me. And I see how much you mean to the children." His eyes drifted over my face. The trepidation in his gaze made me worry. "I want to see what a future with you could mean, but . . ."

I was used to that push and pull. The instinct to create space after realizing you've gotten too close to the thing you fear most. "But it scares you," I finished for him. His head moved ever so slightly in a nod. 

He rolled to his back and held his hand up in front of his face. "I know she is no longer here, and I know I want to move on but . . . I still can't seem to take this off."

I laced my fingers through his and pulled it to his chest. "Then don't." I gripped his hand tight. "She will always have been your wife, she will always be the mother of those amazing kids." His eyes looked into mine, the sunlight brightening the muddy emerald of his morose gaze. "The best thing my therapist ever told me was that healing doesn't mean letting go or moving on. It's knowing you can hold onto what you had and still allow yourself to be happy for what comes next."

He stared at me for a moment then leaned over and kissed me. As gentle as it was, I could feel the emotion he hid behind it. After a moment, his lips left mine. 

He settled back onto his pillow, his fingers fidgeted with mine against his chest. I could feel his heart beating strong beneath them. "I . . ." he started to say something but didn't finish. He blinked, thinking before he rephrased. "You were right."

"Yeah, I know," I said in an attempt to lighten the mood. "About what exactly?"

"Why I do what we do," he said. "When Lara was ill, and after she passed . . . I felt like such a bastard for still having needs. I didn't want to—couldn't allow myself to be intimate with anyone else. Physically . . . or emotionally." He looked over at me. "Until you."

My brow tensed in disbelief. It was a shock to know I was his first. I hadn't considered that he had been going to the club to get his fix while avoiding actual sex. That his dismissive attitude after our first time came from disappointment in himself rather than me. As much as I didn't want to admit it, the passionate moment we had the night before seemed to work well for both of us. It was stripped down, raw, intimate. That wasn't a thing I enjoyed much before meeting him. In some ways, he was a first for me, too.

He rolled to face me and let go of my hand. I ran the back of my fingers against the scruff on his jaw. "What changed?" I asked him.

He brushed his hand over my hair, his thumb running across my cheekbone in a similar position as my own. His gaze dropped to my lips. "I'm afraid I may have fallen in love with you."