He raked his hands down his sopping face, exhaling harshly. The rain had eased somewhat; it wasn’t so loud. Yet it fell, steadily. Spattering all around us, seeping into our skin, diluting our haze of lust. Washing Tom with reality, while leaving me swimming in an ocean of unrealized want.
And all I could hear was his breathing, sawing in and out of his chest. And my own.
“Tom,” I whispered again.
He snapped his head up. His eyes swimming in despair and regret and a thousand other things I couldn’t pin down that weren’t supposed to be there. Emotions that had no business being in this moment.
He shook his head, his hands went between us, putting us back to order, tugging on my dress like he hadn’t just been buried inside me. Pulling my straps up.
“Tom,” I pleaded. “Speak to me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop saying that. What the hell just happened?”
He shook his head. “I can’t ... you can’t ... I can’t believe I did that to you ...”
“You didn’t do it! We did it. We were doing it. And I want it, Tom. I want you.” My voice broke.
“You don’t want me. You don’t know what you’re doing.” He kept shaking his head. Like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“But I do know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t. I don’t.” His voice was harsh and mangled.
The wind had died down, but the rain was incessant. I pulled strength from the steady thrum of it, the certainty I felt in my bones.
“I know what I’m doing,” I said calmly. “I’m loving you.”
His face went blank.
Natasha Boyd is a writer with a background in marketing and public relations. She holds a Bachelor of Science in Psychology, and lives in the coastal Carolina Lowcountry, complete with Spanish moss, alligators and mosquitoes the size of tiny birds. She has a husband, two sons and a cat named Tuna. Eversea was her first full-length novel