Guilty Needs
The day his wife died, Colby knew his life was
over. At least, that's how he wanted it be. He didn't want to feel
anything, not even when his wife's best friend, Bree, offered him
solace.
He just took off. But he couldn't outrun the pain and he couldn't
outrun the dreams. Hot, sweaty dreams that threaten to drive him
mad. He can't stop thinking about Bree.
A year later, he returns home, determined to close the book on his
old life. But those dreams--those dark, guilty needs--haven't gone
away. They threaten to consume him. And it doesn't help that his
wife's ghost is haunting him…encouraging him…
He never realized he’d
fallen asleep until the phone jerked him awake. He
jumped, for a moment not recognizing where he was and
his mind automatically went to Alyssa—he needed to check
on her…but then he remembered.
In the distance, he
could hear Bree’s low, quiet murmur and he blocked the
sound of it out, tried to still the storm churning
inside him. He needed to get out of here. The rain was
still coming down, although from the sound of it, the
downpour had lessened a little. He came up out of the
chair, wadding up the blanket Bree must have draped over
him. He threw it on the footstool and headed out of the
den, hoping he could grab his jacket and slip outside.
Remembering that his
car was still at the funeral home, he paused, but then
just shook his head. He didn’t give a damn if he had to
walk. He didn’t really have a destination in mind
anyway—just not home. That was the only thing that
mattered. He didn’t know if that house could ever be
home again. He’d built it for Alyssa.
It hit him then, just
as he went to grab his coat from the hook hanging by
Bree’s side door. It hit him like a ton of bricks
dropping down to crush him. Slamming a hand against the
wall, he tried to keep from buckling under the weight.
What hit him weren’t tears—such a simple term couldn’t
explain the pain that boiled up from deep inside and
threatened to kill him as it clawed its way out of him.
He never heard Bree
come in, just knew that suddenly she was there, slipping
an arm around his waist, then the other, holding him as
he finally let himself acknowledge reality.
Alyssa was gone.
There would be no one
last chance to hope and pray for a miracle, no more
nights where he could lie awake and watch her while she
slept. Gone.
* * * * *
Her back was on fire
and her left leg was so numb, she was pretty sure it
would take an hour just to be able to get any feeling
back in it—if she was ever able to move. But she didn’t
care, didn’t say anything. They were half-laying,
half-kneeling, with his head in her lap and the fingers
of one hand twined with hers, holding on as though he’d
never let go.
Her own tears were
blinding her, but she blinked them back.
She wasn’t sure when
the silence between them started to change. It wasn’t a
comfortable silence, or an easy one, but the grief
between them kept it from being awkward. But it
changed—more on her part than his—or at least she
thought it had. But then she realized that his free hand
rested on her thigh and his thumb was stroking back and
forth. Through her skirt, she could feel his warmth and
every slow stroke was enough to make her heart skip a
beat. He wasn’t even aware he was doing it, she
suspected—any more than she was aware that she was
lazily stroking a hand through his silky hair.
The tension spiked
between them and slowly, Colby lifted his head. His
pupils were dilated with just a thin sliver of amber
showing. The hand on her thigh stilled—tightened. His
gaze dropped to her mouth. She hated how easily her body
reacted, hated that she wanted more than anything to
close the distance between them and press her lips to
his. Hated it. Just as she hated knowing that she was
weak enough to give him anything he might need, even if
it was just some sort of comfort sex.
She hoped that
wouldn’t happen, yet somewhere inside, part of her hoped
it would. Colby might need comfort, but she needed him.
She’d always needed him and she’d never had the chance.
His lashes drooped
low, shielding his gaze. A harsh sigh shuddered out of
him and then he shoved to his feet. Without looking at
her, he walked out of the kitchen, pausing only long
enough to grab a key ring from the small bowl by her
phone. She heard the engine of her bike revving out in
the driveway. As he pulled away, she thunked her head
back against the cabinet at her back and closed her
eyes.
“Nice work, Bree.”
