“Miluji te,” whispered Milan, breaking the kiss.
“I love you,” she whispered back.
His hair on her brow again, his weight on her—these things were both her current experience and tied in with intense memories and a sense of loss. For a moment, it was almost too bittersweet to bear and she thought she might cry.
Then he began to move inside her and her mind switched from emotion to sensation, wanting to conserve the memory of each second, just in case it was the last time. If only she could be sure of him…
But, for now, she had to process and file away each thrust, each teasing nudge of her G-spot, each whispered endearment, the exact pressure of his fingers on her flesh. She would want to relive them over and over again.
He brought her to the crest of pleasure, holding her there for such a long time then letting her fall from that height into her orgasm, joining her only when her cries subsided.
Lying together afterwards, warm and hidden from life in the dark, they were silent for a long time.
“Will it be all right, Milan?” she asked, her words breaking the spell.
He held her closer.
“I don’t know.”
Her stomach clenched. He sat up, releasing her, and reached for the lamp switch on the bedside table.
The lamp cast an unforgiving yellowish light on the room.
“I need a drink,” he muttered, then he got up and walked, naked, through the bedroom door.
Lydia felt his absence as keenly as if he’d ripped out her heart and taken it with him. Surely this was an overreaction, she told herself sternly. Just because he’d left her in bed to get a drink, it didn’t mean…anything. Did it?
But her anc
hor was adrift and she had lost any sense of stability in the relationship. Words of love were just that—words. Where was the security?
She groped for her bathrobe and followed Milan into the living room, where he sat drinking brandy on the sofa and staring into space.
“Are you okay?” She sat beside him, fearful of his response, but brave enough to put her hand on his thigh. He was half dressed now, in trousers and unbuttoned shirt.
“No, Lydia,” he said with a sigh. “I am not okay.”
“You need time,” she said. “It’s still all so painful.”
“Time? No. Time won’t bring people back.” He held out the bottle to her, but she shook her head.
“Nothing can do that,” she said. “There’s nothing to be done. Just life to be lived.”
He turned to her and she saw that his eyes were bloodshot.
“I can’t live. How can I live, when they are dead? How is that just? How is that right?”
“Milan!” She tried to take the drink from his hand but he shook her off, more roughly than he’d probably intended.
“Don’t,” he said. “Go back to bed.”
“I want to help you.”
“Go. I’m fine. I’ll come to bed when I drink this, okay?” He screwed up his face, put out a hand to find her, ruffled her hair. “I’m sorry. I’m not the man… I’m not the man you wanted. I’m not him.”
“You are. You always will be.”
“Go to bed, hey?”