Page 173 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

Guilt rises like bile up my throat, and I do the only thing I can think of to push it away.

I kiss Endzoh. Kiss him like the first time - frantic passion and need.

He responds eagerly, kissing me back with enthusiasm, though he does try to wrest control of the kiss from me, to slow it back down.

I don’t let him, digging my hands into his hair, running my hand over the expanse of his back, trying to pull him closer to me.

Try to fill myself with him. To knock the bad feelings out.

Endzoh slides his hand beneath my top, questing upwards to my breasts.

Most of the girls have started going without any sort of support, but Sally showed the bustier members of our party how to make a tight band that provides a bit of lift without all the sweaty discomfort of the badly fitting Mercenia issue bras we arrived in.

Endzoh finds the fabric of that band now, peeling it downwards, then brushing his thumb over my nipple.

It’s like an electric jolt goes through me, my back arching off the floor, pressing my boob more firmly into his palm.

All thoughts - except of him and his touch - are knocked right out of my head by the exquisite pleasure of it.

Endzoh groans low in his throat, then pushes my top up, revealing my skin to him.

He cups both my breasts in his hands, kneading lightly, then breaks our kiss to claim the point of my nipple with his lips, drawing it between them with a light suck before flicking his tongue over its pebbled surface.

I gasp, the sound ragged as it escapes my throat. My hands go automatically to his head, threading into his coarse hair and gripping. Endzoh growls his satisfaction, rewarding me with another firm suck, before gently scraping his teeth over my sensitised flesh.

And there’s nothing else. Nothing but his lips against my skin. In moments, I’m lost, writhing and squirming beneath him, overcome by the pleasure of his attentions. He moves back and forth between my breasts, licking, sucking, nipping, until I’m whimpering with need.

“Oh, Endzoh,” I moan, his name once again escaping the confines of my throat with no difficulty.

He shifts so his face is over mine, his body pressed all alongside me, his arms wrapped around me. He grins, the biggest expression I’ve seen from him yet, then speaks.

“Nhi Carrie.”

The heat and desire he curls round my name should have me squirming even harder, but it’s the little possessive syllable that catches my attention.

Nhi Carrie.

My Carrie.

I blink, and I’m not in a cave in the raskarran forest anymore. I’m in my bedroom, listening to Mercenia nearly bang the door down in their impatience to be answered. Mom’s standing next to me, looking at me with a mix of sadness and hope.

This is your chance, my Carrie, my darling girl.

All at once, the guilt invades. It steals over my skin like insects crawling, robbing me of any pleasure. My throat goes so tight I’m afraid I might choke, and my heart pounds out the rhythm of my words, thumping against my ribcage as if it’s trying to launch them out of me.

I promise.

I promise.

I promise.

I wrench myself out of the memory, back to the present moment.

Endzoh’s brows furrow as he looks down at me.

He knows something is wrong, something has changed.

Immediately, the heat that has built between us dissipates, and the feeling behind the way he holds me shifts from possessive desire to comforting concern.

It’s that softness, that compassion in his gaze, that makes the first tears blink loose.

Endzoh freezes, holding himself very still as he looks down at me, indecision written in every line of his face. I lean closer to him, pressing my face to his chest, gripping his top with my hands. I don’t want him to go anywhere. I don’t want him to think I want him to.

I feel the moment he softens, his body relaxing as he wraps his arms around me, cradling me to him.

His hands stroke over me once more, but the tone of his touches is completely different.

Calming, soothing. Even as I appreciate that he seems as willing to give me this as he was to kiss me, a hard core of something unfamiliar starts to form inside me.

A biting, clawing sort of feeling that rises up from my chest to lodge with all my words in my throat.

Anger.

Rest, tea, joy. The medicines Shemza prescribed for me. Why is it so damn hard for me to take the last one? Why can’t I even enjoy a kiss without the guilt rising up to hurt me? To hurt Endzoh.

I press up so I’m sitting, needing to apologise to him, to explain that it’s not him. It’s not even me. It’s things. The circumstances.

The promise I made.

But I know the raskarran words for ‘thank you’, I don’t know them for ‘I’m sorry’. So I just mouth them in my own language, over and over, hoping the meaning somehow absorbs into his mind.

Endzoh sits up, touching a finger to my lips in the most unnecessary ‘be quiet’ ever gestured. I almost laugh, it’s so ridiculous. I catch the twinkle of amusement in his eyes, before his expression turns gentle and so achingly kind.

I’m okay , he gestures. You’re not okay.

Not you , I gesture back to him, urgent. I make the head spinning gesture again, touch my hand to my throat, throw my hands up in frustration.

Endzoh just calmly catches my hands again, drawing them back to his chest. I feel the rapid, but strong, beat of his heart beneath them.

He lets go with one hand so he can point to himself. Then he opens his arms out, as if holding someone, then points to me.

Fresh tears burst out of me, and I nod, allowing him to wrap me in the comfort of his arms, the same way Mom used to wrap me in the comfort of her fairytales.

The real world and all its problems are still out there, but as long as he has his arms around me, I can allow myself to forget about it.

We lie there together for a while, bodies intertwined, my head against his chest. For each rise and fall of his chest, I feel like I’m sinking a little deeper into him, as if our spirits are mingling, joining. It’s nice. I can imagine snuggling into him every night like this.

I just wish I could imagine it without the accompanying image of my mother alone in the darkness of her rapidly fading world.

I promise.

I wonder if that broken promise will ever not cut at me.

Endzoh raises a hand towards my face, brushing his fingers over my hair, twining it between them, twirling it and stroking through it.

You like my hair? I gesture to him.

I like all of you , he gestures back, indicating my whole body with a sweep of his arm.

You like me crying? I brush away the last of the tears on my cheeks. Point to the damp patch I’ve made on his shirt.

He makes a series of gestures that are too convoluted for me to easily follow. He repeats them again, slower, pausing every so often for my brain to catch up.

I like that you are okay to cry with me. I like to hold you.

Then something about quiet and spinning thoughts, and I wonder if he means I make his head quiet, or if he wants to make mine quiet. Then I wonder if it even matters if it’s either, or even both.

Being around him makes me happy. And me being around him makes him happy. Even in my confusion of grief and guilt, that makes my heart feel so very full.

You like to kiss me , I gesture to him, wanting to address it. Wanting him to know that I’m not upset about it.

You like me to kiss you , he gestures with a grin that could have come straight off Rardek’s lips.

I laugh, a little sound even escaping me, then press a chaste kiss to his lips. A new promise. One I can hopefully keep. Endzoh looks at me with a heat that melts over me, but he seems to understand without need for more gestures or words that I’m not ready for any more kisses today.

Then he cups his hand to his ear, touches a finger to my lips.

I like hearing your voice.

I trace my tongue over the place where he touched me, then take a sip of air.

But even wrapped in the warmth of his arms, his body a comforting presence next to mine, the grip on my throat is too tight to let any words out.

Even when I move my lips to shape his name, only a thread of air escapes. No sound.

So I raise my fist to my heart, tapping it twice.

Me, too.

Then I shrug, placing my hand over my mouth and shaking my head.

Endzoh’s expression is gentle as he brings his fingers up to brush over my throat, before slowly starting to gesture to me.

Your throat is bad because you are sad?

It’s a rather large simplification, but not wrong. There aren’t gestures I can think of for ‘guilt’, ‘broken promises’, ‘grief’. So I nod.

Endzoh points to himself, then to me, then traces the shape of a smile on my face, pairing the series of gestures with raised brows. Making it a question.

How can I make you happy?

I don’t know how to convey to him how he already has done, just for asking. And how that’s still not enough.

I glance over at the wall. The ridiculous, pointless dress I’ve drawn.

The light breaking through the holes in the ceiling has shifted onto a new part of the wall, unmarked by my chalks.

A new canvas. I push myself upright, out of Endzoh’s arms and point to the furs beneath us, then over to the wall, before scrambling over to collect my abandoned chalks.

Endzoh watches me for a moment, before rolling the furs up for me to kneel on once more, setting them down beside the blank stretch of wall.

I take a breath. Raise my chalk to the pristine surface.

Begin to draw.