GHOSTS OF ST. BARTS a totally addictive romance read (St. Barts Romance Books Series Book 5) (7 page)

Chapter 8

“Take off your clothes.” It wasn’t a request.

“What?”

“Take off your clothes. I can see what I did to your face. You didn’t bite your lip, did you? Let me see what else I did to you.” His voice was flat.

“Sven, I’m fine. Really. Charlie was just upset about Henry.”

“I won’t ask again. Either you’ll take off your clothes or I will.”

They had returned to their bedroom in silence. Sunny realized there was no arguing with him, no waiting for the worst of the damage to fade. She removed her sweater, unveiling the purple bruises on her upper arms.

Sven’s face was unreadable. She slipped off her black pumps and reached back to unzip her dress. There were patches of whisker burn on her upper thighs and the swell of her breasts, hickeys up and down her torso. The air was cold on her body, cold as her husband’s face. She reached around, fumbled to unhook her bra and slipped out of her nylons and panties. Sunny stood naked in front of Sven. She shivered, wishing he would say something — anything.

* * *

Sven looked at her sweet face with its anxious eyes. Her ravaged lips. His eyes travelled down the body he knew so well, assessing the damage he’d inflicted on that silken skin. He closed his eyes to try and block out the sight. It hadn’t been a dream. Sven grasped at a fragment of memory. “You hit the back of my shoulders, didn’t you?” His voice was raw. “You hit me; you wanted me to stop and I didn’t.” The last came out in a half sob.

“No — I don’t know. I might have. But Sven, it wasn’t you I was hitting.”

He paused at her words and read truth in her eyes. She hadn’t been hitting him. His wife had mistaken him for Clyde. The thought seized him: he was no better than Clyde. He was worse in fact. His murderous friend hadn’t been able to finish the job, but he had. Those stained sheets. Yes, he had finished the job. Sven sank to his knees, fists clenched at his side. His eyes were closed, his head bowed in shame.

* * *

Sunny stood naked in front of her husband. What should she do? How could she help him? Part of her wanted to run away, to go to St. Barts by herself, where she could hide and heal. But she knew she had a duty to her family to somehow make this right. She had already spoken to her therapist, recounting in a torrent of words the fragmented memories that had arisen. They would talk again, soon and often. She would heal but would Sven? Charlie had talked about a divorce. Was their marriage, their family, at risk? She would not let her memories of Clyde’s attack rob them of their future; then Clyde would have won. She would not be his victim again. This wound must not be allowed to fester.

She stared down at her husband who knelt in silence, like a confessional penitent, waiting for the axe to fall.

* * *

Sven had no words, no more apologies to make, no more reassurances to give her. She would go and he would let her. She would leave and take their daughter and he wouldn’t protest. He had no right after what he’d done.

He’d hurt her badly before; he failed to protect her from Clyde, he hadn’t wanted the baby. He wasn’t there to save her from the tsunami. She had always forgiven him, always responded to his thoughtlessness with love and understanding. But this was unforgiveable. The word echoed in his mind as he tried to erase the image of those bruises.
Unforgiveable
.

Sunny walked swiftly to the bedroom door and, instead of running away and slamming it shut, he heard her fasten the bolt in the old lock. Wearily he assumed she wanted to get ready before walking out of his life.

He could smell her now, the mix of sweat and flowers that he could pick up across a crowded room. He could hear her, approaching him. He willed himself not to look. Let her do her worst. He deserved it.

Her bare feet stepped into view beneath his bowed head. She was standing right in front him. Funny the thoughts that popped into your mind at such important moments . . . he noticed she needed a pedicure. Sunny always needed a pedicure. Was she about to strike him now?

Instead, her arms went round his shoulders, pulling him to her and pressing his cheek against her stomach. The skin felt like velvet, soft and inviting, but he stiffened at the sight of a violet mark on her left hip. He had done that.

He tried to pull away but Sunny’s arms held him close. One hand reached up and her fingers ran through his hair. The gentle touch was more shocking than any blow. Sven knelt down, trying to make sense of things. She was holding him close. Why was she not pulling away or flinching as he expected — and deserved? She was stroking his hair. After a moment or two, her hand reached down and cupped his chin, turning his face upwards. He shuddered at the sight of the bruises on her upper arms and the red marks left by his stubble on her breasts. She increased the pressure under his chin, tilting his face upwards until he couldn’t help looking into her face. Her poor face. He averted his eyes in shame. Then she spoke.

“Sven,” she said softly.

This was more hurtful than screamed insults or clenched fists. He should have known that Sunny would be loving and kind in her farewells. She would forgive but never forget. He would have preferred anger because this gentleness was unbearable. She knelt down in front of him and would not let him look away. How typical of his wife not to show condemnation or disgust. Instead he saw empathy and compassion. Thank God it wasn’t pity. He waited for her to say goodbye.

Instead she reached for his hands, still clenched at his hips. She uncurled the fingers and brought them to her face. Holding his hands in hers, she turned the palms upwards and kissed them so softly it felt like a sigh. Her eyes still fastened on his, she took one of his hands, placed it on her breast and held it there. He could feel her heart beat. It beat slow, strong and steady, like her gaze. She took his other hand and placed it in her hair. He let out a breath and inhaled her scent. Her gaze never faltered.

They knelt there, staring at each other, she naked, he fully dressed. His fingers tightened in her hair, a spasm induced by the familiar texture of those springy curls. He let a strand slide through his hand. His other hand relaxed ever so slightly against her breast. Their gaze held.

She leant forward, whispering softly against his ear.

“Sven.”

A single word — his name.

He felt a kiss on his lobe, insubstantial as dandelion fluff.

Her lips trailed downwards against his neck and traced the line of his jaw.

“Sven,” she exhaled against his cheekbones leaving an echo of eiderdown kisses. Her hands slid his suit jacket off his shoulders, then slowly undid the knot in his tie, letting it slip to the floor behind him. He offered no resistance.

She breathed his name as she unbuttoned his shirt. Passive in his confusion, he was as malleable as clay.

She sighed his name against his chest, and her lips trailed butterfly kisses. His own grazed the top of her head, and he shut his eyes against the welling emotions.

“Sven,” she murmured, as her hands whispered along the skin of his waist where she undid his belt. His head came up and her eyes locked on his as she slowly drew down his fly and slipped her hand inside. He pulled back, shocked into speech.

“No! You can’t want me now. Not after the other night. You can’t still want me?” His voice was hoarse, the words struggled to emerge.

Instead of an answer, Sunny reached forward, gently taking his clenched hand, again unfurling his fist and kissing his palm. She stared into his face as she replaced his hand on her breast and pressed him into her. Her hand went again to his groin, slipping into his underwear, caressing the hardening flesh.

“Sven.”

A gentle smile curved her lips. One hand was behind his head, the other busy below. Would she clench? Would she now try and inflict pain? No; both of her hands were stroking gently but insistently. She kissed his lips sweetly as a dream. Her eyes darkened. She moved, cupping her breasts with one hand and using the other to press his face against her. He could feel her pulse gathering momentum. The pressure on the back of his head increased until his lips touched her breasts, cupped by her hand like an offering. She clasped him to her.

He couldn’t catch his breath. His mind was swirling and her scent overwhelmed him, so that he felt drugged. He kissed her breasts and felt her sigh against his hair. She wasn’t pulling away. She was leaning into him, holding his head against her with both hands. He kissed her again in abject apology, moving his lips to her nipples.

“Sven.”

Her voice deepened as she arched against his face. He complied with a gentle tongue that traced the marks on her breasts and one finger reached down and touched the blemishes dotting her torso and hips. She took his hand in hers again, directing it further down and placing it between her legs. He felt her moist naked heat against his palm and, astonished, looked up into her face. There was no fear or panic in her greenish-grey eyes. Instead, a loving soft smile overlaid with the stirrings of desire. His fingers dipped into her slickness, watching the smile widen into familiar wonderment and she shuddered softly against him.

“Sven.”

Her voice was a lustful command as her body melted backwards onto the carpet, taking him with her. Her hands were reaching up to bunch his trousers and underpants over his hips, to clasp his buttocks.

She was everywhere at once with infuriating, soft kisses. She used her legs to pull his pants down past his knees. He studied her face, still uncertain. Sunny stared back unabashed, her eyes glittering like emeralds.

Now there was need. She wanted him — still. She needed him. He toed off his shoes and bent his face to hers, his tongue tracing the scab on her lips. He wanted to weep in gratitude. Even if this was her farewell, he could be with her one last time. He would cherish the memory forever.

He kissed her, savouring the taste and giving in to his own desire. Their kisses were lingering, intense in their gentleness. She moaned. He stopped in panic — had he hurt her? Her reaction told him he had not. She pulled him back, her tongue questing and her legs splayed.

“Sven!” she begged, grinding her hips into his. He entered her.

Then he paused, searching for any slightest sign of pain. Her face was bathed in dew and her eyes were glazed. He moved into her, slowly, cautiously. She was having none of it, thrusting up against him, digging her hands into his buttocks. They moved in counterpoint, her bucking against his tentative thrusts. They resumed their familiar physical conversation as if the other night had never happened.

Then came the tell-tale signs of Sunny’s surrender — the pause, the silence and then a rush of tremors that began in her womb and rippled through her body pulling him over the edge. They puddled together on the carpet, spent.

Slowly and in utter silence she disengaged herself and went into the bathroom. He listened to the water running wondering, what next? Would she leave now? Leave him with the memory of their final, miraculous coupling, bereft and broken?

As their fluids cooled on his skin, he realized that this was the best way to say goodbye. No conversation. No recriminations. No angry words. Typical of Sunny, he thought, to come up with a way to let him down easy.

Sven stifled a sob. No, he wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t beg. She had given him much more than he deserved. She was completely within her rights to brush him out of her life like so much trash. So he waited, there on the carpet in the waning twilight, for his wife to come and tell him goodbye.

* * *

After a while Sven grew tired of waiting and he got up and pushed open the bathroom door. Sunny wasn’t gathering up his toiletries or hurriedly packing her own things. She was climbing into a steaming tub.

“I was wondering when you’d come and join me,” she said with a welcoming, if weary smile. He staggered over to the tub and she scooted forward to make room, leaning back with a sigh against his chest, chin hovering above the scented bubbles. Once again, she’d left him speechless. She started to soap their limbs, blowing bubbles and smiling at the sight of them dancing in the evening air.

“This is what I should have done after Henry died; what we should have done. Comforted each other and dealt with it together.” She slid to the side and soaped his shoulders and chest. “I should never have left you alone. I knew what Henry meant to you. I’m sorry.”

Sven gaped. He could see by the look on her face that she was deadly serious. She was apologizing to him! He’d bruised and battered her and somehow she thought it was her fault.

“No! I’m the one who’s sorry. I owe you the apology not the other way around. Fuck! After how I hurt you, I owe you a lifetime of apologies.”

“You owe me a lifetime. Period. That’s what we pledged in our wedding vows: ‘In good times and in bad.’ The other night was a bad time. Henry’s death was a bad time.” Her voice faltered and then regained its strength. “There have been bad times in the past and there will be more in the future. The problems always come when we don’t face them together.”

She picked up his hand and kissed it, before placing it against the soapsuds cladding her breast.

“We are so much stronger together than apart. Don’t worry. We’ll go to St. Barts and heal together. It’s the perfect place; I know.”

Sven tried not to think of all the times she’d healed on the Caribbean Island. After her father’s death. After Clyde’s attack. After he’d rejected the pregnancy. After the tsunami. Sunny was right. She always healed on St. Barts. He could only hope the island would do the same for him.