Do Not Stop

The song ended.

Neither of them let go.

The orchestra started another song. Slower. A ballad she did not recognize. Damien's hand on her back felt like a thing she had been missing for so long she had forgotten it was missing.

"Aria."

"Yes."

"I want to take you home."

She closed her eyes.

She had been waiting for this sentence for three months. She had rehearsed her answer a hundred times. I am not ready. We said no. Rules. Boundaries. Self respect.

What came out of her mouth was none of those things.

"Not your home," she said.

"Not mine."

"My hotel."

"Yes."

"Damien."

"Yes."

"If we do this, I need you to understand something. This is not forgiveness. This is not a reunion. This is one night. And tomorrow I am going to have to look at you across a table and figure out whether I still respect myself. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Do you really."

"I understand that you are going to use me tonight to punish me for something I deserve to be punished for, and that I am going to let you, because even your punishment is more mercy than I have earned. Yes. I understand."

Her breath caught.

She did not know if he had meant the words to be heartbreaking. They were.

"We leave separately," she said. "You go first. I will follow in ten minutes."

"Yes."

"Damien."

"Yes."

"If you are late. If you are not in that hallway when I get there. I am going home to London tomorrow and I am not coming back."

"I will be there."

He let her go. He stepped back. He turned and walked through the crowd without looking back, his shoulders tight like a man carrying something fragile.

She stood alone in the middle of the ballroom with a thousand eyes on her and smiled as if nothing in the world had happened.

She waited twelve minutes, not ten. She made him wait. It felt good to make him wait.

She left the gala and got into her car and the driver took her to The Plaza and she walked through the lobby with her heart in her throat and rode the elevator up to her floor.

The hallway was empty.

For one horrible second she thought he had not come.

Then she turned the corner toward her suite and he was there. Leaning against the wall next to her door. His tie undone. His jacket over his arm. His eyes waiting for her.

She walked past him without speaking. Unlocked the door. Held it open.

He walked in.

She closed it behind him.

For a long second they stood in her entryway and did not move.

Then he reached for her.

She let him.

His hand on her jaw. His thumb at the corner of her mouth. His breath on her forehead. All of it shaking.

"Aria."

"Do not talk."

"I need to say one thing."

"No."

"Aria."

"If you say one more word I am going to remember why I hate you."

He kissed her instead.

It was not the kiss of a man reuniting with the wife he had lost. It was the kiss of a man apologizing with his whole body. Slow. Careful. Almost trembling. His hand in her hair. Her fingers gripping his shirt. His mouth moving against hers like he was trying to memorize her in case this was the only time.

She pulled back.

"Bedroom."

He picked her up.

Her legs went around his waist and he carried her across the suite without breaking the kiss. His hand was splayed wide against her back, holding her like she was both precious and unbreakable at once. She had forgotten that he was strong. She had forgotten what it felt like to be lifted.

He laid her down on the bed.

He stopped.

Hands on either side of her head. Looking at her.

"Aria."

"What."

"I want to look at you."

"Look."

He did. For a long time. The gold dress against the white sheets. Her hair fanned out. Her mouth swollen. The scar on her hip just visible where the dress had ridden up.

His eyes caught on the scar.

"Is this where."

"Yes."

"Aria."

"Do not."

He lowered his head and kissed the scar.

Slowly. Gently. Like an apology.

She made a sound that was not quite a sob. He came back up to her face and kissed it away.

"I have you," he whispered. "I have you now."

"Damien."

"What do you need."

"I need you to love me carefully tonight. Because I do not think I can survive you being rough with me."

"Carefully," he whispered.

He was careful.

He was careful with every breath. With every touch. With the way he held her hand against the mattress when she arched. With the way he said her name, over and over, like a prayer he had been denied for three years.

Aria.

Aria.

Aria.

At some point during the night she started crying.

He did not stop. He did not ask. He just pressed his forehead to hers and kept saying her name and kissing her tears off her cheeks like the salt of them was something he needed.

When it was over she lay in his arms and did not move.

"Do not leave," he whispered.

"I am here."

"Do not leave tomorrow either."

She did not answer.

She fell asleep with her face against his chest, listening to his heart.

It was the first full night of sleep she had gotten in three years.