The night had been one of the best and worst nights of sleep that Jules had gotten. After returning to the bedroom, Jules had been restless all over, remembering the feel of Flynn's soft lips on hers in such a hard and passionate fashion. She'd spent at least an hours laying there, imagining the touch of his finger tips all over again. And she hated how ridiculously needy and vulnerable and invigorated that made her feel. She ached for something, but what? She was too innocent to know.
Jules had finally slid under the sheets into the surprisingly comfortable bed, snuggling and disappearing into the blankets in her normal fashion. Jules was a much sweeter and softer being when asleep, as her brother had commented once long ago, when they were less hostile than they were now. She curled up into the bed amongst the pillows, the blankets puled up to her chin and her dark hair curling about the pillows in a most becoming fashion. The lines of arrogance or concealed hurt were gone from her face and her lips softened into a pleasant look, her countenance looking much younger and less jaded than it did in the day time.
Jules was often a nightmare laden woman, though that night she felt too tired to even move, and she hardly did move throughout the night. Morning came and passed and midmorning reached her without Jules even so much as stirring, which was odd for her. Generally Jules was an early riser, as her sister and mother were not and she often took to the morning hours to seek that seclusion in her house without the trespassing of her family on her thoughts.
However, the past days had been ridiculously tension-filled and threatened her good sense and her sleeping patterns in turn. And so Jules slept, peacefully for the first time in ages, curled in the large, empty bed of her husband. How exactly did she even get there, she would have wondered in retrospect. She would have marveled at the rapidity of her decisions and the flightiness of her ideas. But for that moment, she was thinking of nothing, save for the distant thought as to how warm and comfortable the bed was, and she curled into herself a little tighter when she heard the door open and close through the dregs of her sleep.
Oh Grace, just hold me in your arms
And let this moment linger,
They take me out at dawn and I will die.
With all my love I place this ring upon your finger,
There won't be time to share our love
For we must say goodbye.
His voice seeped through the door, along with the smell of sausage, but it was broken by the sharp whistle of a teapot. There was a short period of silence wherein he scrambled to shut up the contraption, lest he wake his snoozing bride, but the song caught up again momentarily.
Now I know it's hard for you my love to ever understand
The love I bear for these brave men
My love for this dear land
The door slid open, and in creeped Flynn, the melody he entertained reduced to a mere hum--temporarily. He set the tray table down on the window seat before moving to gently tug the bedsheets over Juliet's shoulders. After peeking through the curtains, he reconsidered opening them, examining the torrential downpour with a dismal expression. He had hoped their first full day together would be--at the least--a sunny one, but it seemed as though the fates were not on their side.
No matter. Flynn was determined to make it work--to make them work, as demonstrated through the impressive array of breakfast foods he set out for her. Tea--because he didn't very much like the effect coffee had on him, and reckoned she wouldn't either--and toast--because, goddamn, who doesn't like buttered toast?--along with a hearty serving of sausage links and eggs, over easy. He should have asked first, how she liked her eggs and her tea prepared, but he just couldn't bear the thought of waking the poor girl up.
And out Flynn went again, taking his leave to fix his own breakfast and to continue his haunting Irish warble. His voice was not anything impressive, but it had an easily likable quality about it, as though it were coming from a place deep inside him no one had ever been privileged enough to see.
Oh Grace, just hold me in your arms
And let this moment linger,
They take me out at dawn and I will die.
Flynn's voice hadn't woken her at all, not at first. She was vaguely aware of his hands tucking the sheets around her a little tighter, and her body instinctively took to the closer position of the blankets and she smiled a little subconsciously in her sleep, snuggling deeper into the bed.
Jules had yet to spend such a peaceful night of sleep anywhere, at least since she had returned to her family's possession. Insomnia had often plagued her, even when she'd been in the peaceful country of Wales, and she often walked the gardens at night, or wnet out to the balcony or the hills or the stables and tugged her knees to her chest, gazing up at the stars and having her own private conversation with her father (because she believed in that sort of thing) or reading her books by candle or moonlight. But not this night.
Jules was finally stirred by the scent of the food in the room, in its spot on the bed, and she groggily sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She smiled at the steaming plate of breakfast foods and the cup of tea, and she reached for that first. Jules was not used to such informal comforts. Breakfast at the Farthingdale house was a spectacle at best, though much later in the morning to accomadate her sister and mother. But it was a quiet time. No one spoke, but really watched each other circulate in their particular way, to the point of making Jules not even want breakfast any more. And damn, she did love breakfast.
Jules began picking through the eggs and the sausage that Flynn had prepared for her and she let herself indulge in having the food in bed, a huge travesty in her mother's book, unless one was deathly ill. Jules enjoyed the indulgence like a surpressed child. She smiled as she listened to Flynn's voice carry through the small apartment, and she let herself enjoy that for a moment. He was no great singer, and Jules had met great singers before. But he held that wavering, haunting tone of old folk songs, one that reminded her of the old Welsh lullabies her father used to use to lull her to sleep.
Jules was no so far removed from her delicacies that she remained abed, not indulging in sifting through the rooms to find Flynn in her nightgown and robe. She was still that much of a lady, to stay in her room until she had a chance to dress appropriately. But she sat in the bed, indulging in breakfast and listening to the tender melodies of her husband singing. And for a moment, things didn't seem quite as complicated as they were.
Flynn, that poor old fool, he was still singing when he pushed open the door to his bedroom--er, rather, her bedroom, now. And she, as his crappy luck would have it, was awake.
Durp.
"Oh." His blush moved faster than light, all the way down to his collarbone, and the sheepish smile that followed did not do anything to alleviate his embarrassment. "Good morning, Missus Donovan." His accent was particularly thick when he was nervous, and he happened to be quite nervous right then.
"Did you enjoy your breakfast?" He wasn't a particularly...observant man, to put it kindly, so he did not stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, she would rather be talking to him fully clothed. Then again, maybe he was deliberately ignoring that thought because he was enjoying the view. It's hard to tell with Flynn.
"Hm...uh, Jules?" An extended silence, and he rubbed at the back of his neck anxiously, while averting his gaze. "How long have you been, uh, awake?"
Missus Donovan. Jules stifled a small chuckle at that and she took the cup in her hands, leaning back against the pillows of the bed and looking at him. She was in a very intimate state of dress, and in the light of day she had to work from covering her chest childishly, but he was her husband. She had no reason to be so prudish.
"Good morning," she replied with a soft smile, her voice sleep-laden and hoarse from the deep rest she'd acquired the night before. She sipped her tea and watched the blush cross his countenance, and she stifled laughter at that. He looked so... boyish. It was the only word to describe it. He did look handsome though, particularly so in the groggy light of morning. Jules gave a slight yawn, covered by a dainty hand and she shrugged lightly.
"Not for very long," she offered. "I generally am an early riser, but I must have been much more tired than I thought." Jules took another drink of the tea before setting it down on the tray and scooting the tray and herself over, making a place for him.
She patted that place on the bed and smiled, leaning back into the pillows again and curling into the blankets. Jules was forever getting cold. "You may sit down if you like, Flynn," she offered with a good natured smile. "I don't bite. At least not this early in the morning." Jules looked very much uninhibited in the mornings, as was her typical nature. Her long, curly and dark hair spilled over her shoulders in wild waves, and her icy blue eyes held a fuzzy haze of sleep to them that made her features sfoter than they were in the day. She looked much less intimidating and much less arrogant when stripped of the tools of her position. Indeed, she was just Jules rigt then and there. And a deep part of her wante to forever just be Jules.
Flynn was pleased to see that she was drinking the tea. To be quite honest, he was pleased that she seemed pleased. He scooted from his place at the bottom of the bed to sit closer to his wife (god, the word sounded so strange in his head) and he offered up a sheepish smile. "Well I hope you slept well. Were you cold? I'm generally very warm at night, but I have more comforters if you need them." He listened to himself babble and flinched inwardly, wondering if this is what he always sounded like when he was anxious.
And anxious he was indeed! There were butterflies in his stomach and what felt like a rock in his throat, impeding any normal breathing patterns and giving him a light headed feeling.
If this was the beginning of their marital bliss, he could do without. It was too scary, too strange for his tastes.
"I didn't know what you prefer for breakfast, so I just tossed...that together." He rubbed his hands nervously along the tops of his thighs as he examined the contents of the tray table. Suddenly, the display of food he had once considered to be quite impressive was no longer as endearing as he thought. Perhaps he should have tucked a rose beneath her tea saucer...no, that would be tacky--
Flynn sighed, knowing that if he wanted to put his mind at ease, he would have to ask.
"I hope that I do not incite your ire by inquiring, Juliet, but..I, er." He turned his eyes up at her guiltily and winced, tentative. "I wanted to be sure that you aren't yet reconsidering our...arrangement...or that you are not terribly homesick, for I would like to do anything in my power to put your mind at ease." D'awwww.
Jules felt the bed shift and she offered a bit of a sheepish smile, taking another sip of her tea and shifting to face him. She leaned casually on a pillow, and surprisingly enough, she didn't feel terribly awkward sitting there. A little innocent, a little nervous, but comfortable.á
"I wasn't cold at all," she offered softly. "In fact I was quite comfortable." Jules reached to set the cup of tea down and she chuckled softly, curling a piece of hair behind her ear gently. "Breakfast was perfect, Flynn. Thank you." Her blue eyes conveyed gratitude, though she didn't speak her thoughts, and even if she were inclined to, she felt they wouldn't have made sense anyhow. They were a jumbled mess of apprehension, happiness, fear, anxiety, and more.á
Flynn's apprehension in his low Irish tone made her smile fondly, satisfied that this marriage was not of a terrible nature. Of course fiscal reasons were not the best reasons for marriage, but Flynn was a caring soul. He didn't seem like he would be one to make her life miserable, and that was confirmed by his concerned questioning. To which she rewarded with total honesty.á
"This is perhaps the happiest I have felt in a while," she said softly to him. Jules swallowed against her thickening throat and reached for his hand, her slender fingers taking his hand and turning it over, tracing the skin thoughtfully. "I will not lie and say I am completely comfortable yet, as my life has been so different up until now. But you have already proven much more compatible to my nature than any other suitor I have tangled with before." Jules' hand clasped his gently ad she smiled and looked up from her employment finally. "I hope that we may come to a close bond of friendship between us."á
Oh, he was attractive in the morning. And his warm, inviting skin rough against hers...well it sent her entertaining less gentle thoughts. Thoughts of a much more carnal path. Thoughts that made her cheeks rush to blush as she tugged her slender hand away.á
"Good. That's...that's good." He was glad that his sheets were enough to keep her warm. And, uh, that wasn't a metaphor for anything. I promise. ...well okay it was a little but I hope you can appreciate it as much as I appreciated writing it.
"And...tomorrow you can tell me how you like your eggs--" Flynn's words broke off abruptly when she began to speak, because--to be honest--he was much, much, much more interested in what she had to say. He also was interested in the gravelly quality of her voice so early in the morning and the perfectly disheveled curls that rested angelically upon her shoulders.
When she first began speaking, in fact, he was distracted by those saintly curls, but to be fair, the way her lips moved and the chemise she had on was not helping any. But then she was taking his hand, and that strange rock from earlier was once again lodging itself in her throat, constricting his air passages and he couldn't breath oh good her skin was so soft Jesus--
"I...hope so too. Really. I can't imagine us any other way." However beautiful and heavenly and clever she was, Juliet was off limits. In spite of her marital status which granted her the title of "middle-class," she would always be the untouchable, wonderful creature that was raised in a different world than he. And as adamantly as she argued otherwise, they both knew that she deserved better. She had to know.
He knew that he would rather have her as a friend than nothing at all. It was the most he deserved, and the best he was going to get.
Her hand was moving away--as he knew it eventually would--and he sighed, softly, a sound of contentment rather than frustration. His smile eased into a quiet expression of joy, and he nodded at the doorway. "Perhaps once you are dressed, I might show you around the shop?" Then again, he sort of preferred that she didn't get dressed. In fact, why didn't they just stay in bed? All day. That sounded good to him!
Jules looked at him for a long moment, letting her eyes trace the features with a little more determination than usual. It was the first time she saw him really in the uninhibitied light of day, when she wasn't seethingly angry with him. And the first time she was free to look upon him and free to do what she wanted, if she wished. She was curious about him, curious about the pure masculinity that he possessed, yet did not use against her. Curious about the way he felt as a man, and curious about the way his bare skin looked. Mostly because of all things, Jules was an innocent woman. At three and twenty, she was more innocent than most her age. But she'd had her tastes of intimacy, however fleeting, clumsy, and unromantic they had been.
As he suggested her putting on clothes, she felt a strange determination not to. As surprising as it was, had they spoken their thoughts, hers would have mirrored his.
"For twenty three years, I have been dressed as a lady by ten in the morning and gotten up to do nothing but look pretty," she said in that morning hoarse voice. "I think I deserve a few days of doing nothing but looking...natural. One of those should be today." Jules timidly reached for his arm and shifted in the bed, reaching to trace his skin gently all over again. She felt her heart racing at the thrill of her curiosity all over again, and she shifted closer to him.
"Don't panic," she whispered softly. "I'm just curious. I have never...been so unchaperoned with a man before. Neither have I seen one so..." She broke off with a blush, but instead of looking down, she darted her eyes up towards his own. She reached to lay a gentle hand on the muscles of his chest and her breath quickened as she felt the rises and falls of him, the thudding heartbeat, the power under her finger tips. She traced her fingers up to his collarbons and traced the defined bone there, sighing softly before whispering to him. "Will...will you take your shirt off?" she asked timidly, her fingers tracing the skin on his collarbone. Her wide, curious eyes measured his expression as she waited for a moment, a flush creeping across her cheeks.
She wasn't sure what she'd do if he rejected her again.
Oh...oh Miss Farthingdale. From one woman to another, I have just got to tell you: your aspirations aim too low. Do you have any aspiration in this world? Do you have any drive, any passionate motivation to get what you want, to just go for it?
In other words: why didn't you go straight for his pants?
Some people just don't learn.
"I know what you mean. N-not...not dressing like a lady, I mean...I know what a hassle it is to wake up so early and be forced to make yourself presentable on a daily basis." He rubbed at the back of his neck a little anxiously again, his smile almost apologetic. "Of course, if you are serious about wanting to take an active role in the bookshop--a promise which I would never dream of holding you to--waking up at ten will become a precious luxury, reserved mainly for holidays and sometimes Sundays." If they were lucky.
Gosh. It had never occurred to him to tell her all of this before she jumped into partial-ownership of a business, but he had been living in the business-class his entire life. It had become the norm for him, and imagining another lifestyle was exceedingly difficult.
These thoughts, however, were tossed out the very second he saw one of those delicate hands reaching for him again. Flynn felt her fingers slide gently over his arm, and his breath caught in his throat, a reaction only outdone by the heart hammering away in his chest. His wide, doe-like eyes slid slowly up to meet hers, and once their eyes met he lost track of what she was trying to communicate with him.
But, erm, not for long.
Wordlessly, his hand moved to cover her hand on his bicep, enveloping it in a cage of strong, calloused fingers. He hadn't the new, lineless skin that pervaded in the upper class. He had seen enough socialites to know that the majority of the upper-crust legion hadn't ever experienced an honest days work in their pampered lives, while each and every day of his labor left its mark--literally. There was a story in the unrefined cadence of his grasp, and he was dubious in her ability to understand the language with which it was written.
Before he knew it, however, he had relinquished his hold on her hand and was standing, smoothing his hands over the top of his dirt-brown trousers a bit nervously. He hadn't ever been without even a vest in front of a woman who was not of his family, let alone before a woman while he sported a bare chest, and yet there he was, literally stripping for her.
My, how did she do it?
In all of his well-defined glory, he folded up his shirt--not out of habit, but rather as a distraction so that he might avoid eye-contact--and set it aside on the window seat, his back to her. The sharp, straight lines of his torso, leading down to a narrow waist was even better with a front view, which he eventually granted to his wife. Flynn felt terribly awkward, simply standing to be gawked at and what have you, so he resumed his place on the bed, still not mustering up the courage to fully meet his gaze.
"I...feel as though the playing field is level now, hm?"
His nervous words made Jules smile and she chuckled softly, a breathy little chuckle as though she thought a loud one would break the comfortableness to the morning moment. "I enjoy getting up early. Oftentimes, I would do so to read or think or write before. And...I want to be involved in the shop..." Her thoughts trailed off as Flynn stood and shed his shirt, and Jules felt her heart slid up to her throat almost, thickening as she watched him.
The strong lines of his back threaded a sliver of heat straight to her core and she swallowed again, watching his muscles shift and move with power and yet gentility to them. The expanse of his back was tempting, moreso than Jules had ever imagined a man's back being. But there she was, discovering herself. And that was was all she wanted: to discover what she wanted, what she liked, and what it was about him that made her just want to crawl into his arms.
Jules rose on her knees and moved to the edge of the bed, placing a firm hand in the middle of his chest to keep him standing there. There was something about the light, from the window, that spilled over his beautiful skin that just made Jules want to admire him. She looked up at him, her dark lashes framing the icy eyes that were wide with curiosity.
"The playing field is hardly level," she teased with a grin. Jules traced a finger along the ridges of the muscles on his front side, then she ghosted her hands up his shoulders and down his arms. She picked up one of his hands and traced the palm, the callused and lined palm of rough skin. It was so different to the oiled hands of her upper class society. So natural, so masculine. And she felt a shred of embarrassment flood her and send rosey blush to her cheeks as she deemed mentally that she wants to feel those hands elsewhere. But that wasn't gentile or feminine. At all.
"There's something about you Flynn," she continued in a whisper. "Something that just makes me want to know you." Intimately, which she didn't have to add. The wide look of her eyes conveyed that.
Jules ran her fingerstips along his arm once again, and then spread her hands over his shoulders, leaning forward slightly. She leaned in to press her face gently to his collarbone and inhaled deeply, the masculine scent of him intoxicating her. She pressed her lips there timidly, gently, and then breathed out against the skin before trailing downward. She pressed tender, tiny angel kisses to his skin, her hands gripping his shoulders firmly to keep herself from trembling. But she was still ever so curious.
It wasn't that she only wanted him for that. There was no reason for innocent Jules to ever want a man for only sex. But he was her husband now, and Jules found herself lonely. And cold. In more than one way.
Jules kissed back up to his collarbone and she turned her face, laying her cheek against him and bringing him in closer, her arms sliding in about his narrow waist now, bringing his front to match up to hers as she continued to kneel on the bed. He was incredibly warm, and Jules savored the feel of him against her, smiling subconsciously.
"You know, I lied earlier," she said softly. "I was cold last night. At least a little. I get dreadfully cold at night." And I wouldn't be so cold with you, she added mentally, but didn't speak the words. For she was not so removed from her delicacies to eschew them all in the matter of a day and a half.
She touched him, and he shivered, his forehead dipping to rest against her crown as she explored and lay claim to what he was more than happy to surrender to her. Her lips were moving, and the moment came when he could hardly even believe that he existed then, in that moment, shirtless with a former debutante. He could not believe his good fortune, that he might have chanced upon a beautiful woman--who was proving to be gorgeous inside and out--who actually fancied him.
Or, rather, his body.
That thought was disconcerting.
And all it takes is one thought, really, to send everything else toppling. The carefully constructed facade of unconditional tenderness was giving way to something much more selfish and raw, a hunger which could only be described as stone-cold ambition.
He wanted something more.
Something neither of them were quite ready to surrender.
Urf. Stupid brain and rationale. Always gettin' in the way of gettin' some.
His hands slid from her waist to her shoulders, before gliding down to the delicate lines of her wrists. Calloused fingers circled the bone and before he knew it he was gently pulling her hands away, licking his lower lip in anxiety and averting his gaze. Why, oh why, did he take his damned shirt off? Not only was it a bad idea to tempt themselves, but if nothing was going to come of this increasingly raunchy interaction, then he just went and got chilly for nothing!
Well, that latter bit was not entirely true; he was going to savor these past few moments in his memory. After what he was about to say, he would be lucky if he ever came within a foot of her again, so he knew he ought to cherish the memories.
"You're beautiful, gra." Crap. He said it. When the Irish petnames start flowing, you know the situation is becoming dire. Flynn's fingers curled over hers, and he lowered her hands away from his torso, to her sides. "Please, do not think for a second that..." More anxious lip licking. He relinquished one of her hands to take a step back and run a hand nervously over the top of his hair. When he finally met her gaze, his features were contorted into a expression of grief. "We ought to give ourselves some time, Juliet. We can't afford to rush into anything and...and not do it right."
Above all things, Jules was an innocent debutante. A jaded and skeptical one, but an innocent one. And so, upon asking him to take off his shirt and touching him so intimately, she hadn't had those thoughts in her head. Or at least, they had not been her intentions. Of course, one would have to be a stupid woman to not notice how well defined her husband was, and one would have had to be dead to not feel a thread of passion between them. But Jules was nervous and innocent for the older woman that she was, and ultimately timid.
But then he raised her ire again as he took her hands and placed them at her sides, like she was a child to be taught a lesson. In that single moment, that single movement, he more than hurt her. He lived up to the ever looming view of marriage that Jules had and she balled her hands into fists. His warmth that she felt even then was intoxicating, so she hardly shied away from him, but he looked up at him with sharp, icy eyes, anger on the edges of her persona.
"Don't," she said sharply. Regardless of how pleasing the petname sounded rolling off his Irish tongue, she would not be demeaned in such a manner. "Do not take my hands and force them away as though I am a child. Do not patronize me so." Jules pressed a firm hand to the middle of his chest, pushing him back as she slid off the bed to stand before him. It did very little to their positions, as she was still a near foot shorter, but now on her feet she felt more equal to him. As bare and scantily unclad as her dainty feet were.
"I will not be treated like a pretty little porcelain doll to adorn your self with, Flynn," she continued in that achingly hurt, sharp tone of voice. Tears almost threatened her eyes, and she hated him for it. Never had she been so emotionally strung out by a man, at least since Richard. And never had a man caused her to feel such a multitude of emotions in the span of such a short time.
"And I will not be held above you in such a silly manner," she added desperately. "Your words are romantic but your actions are controlling. If anything, I want to be your equal. I'm not a Farthingdale anymore, and nor do I wish to be. I married you for less than honorable reasons perhaps, but i had thought I chose wisely. You didn't seem to be a man to put so much stock in class hierarchy." But of course everyone did. The hand that Jules had left on Flynn's chest tightened in anger and not intimacy the time and she gritted her teeth, feeling the tears threaten her composure. She was so mixed up, so strung out, and so...vulnerable. She hated it, and hated him for making her feel so. But like a moth to a flame, she was beginning to crave his company and that Irish lilt of his voice. The grave seriousness of his composure. The odd joking moments. In such a short time, she found herself so vulnerably attached.
"All I wanted," she began, her voice strangely steady as she turned up her icy eyes that held little gleaming tear tracks down her cheeks. "...all I want, is to be allowed to have a safe little place to find myself again. One where the matter of money doesn't expose itself. Where my pretty features are not the decoration to a rich man's social lapels. To be honest, all I want is someone to curl up against when I'm cold. Or when I want to talk. I have hated being alone, in the silence, for o many years. My family has disowned me, long before my most recent transgression. And my world has been a parade of hideous dresses and frivolous gossip for years." Jules paused and stared up at him, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "All I want is to be happy again," she added in a whisper. She let her hand fall and turned from him, walking to the window. She slipped her arms up around herself to hug herself and she swallowed hard. The tears subsided, and really only a couple silent ones had fallen. But she strengthened her resolve, rebuilt the breach in the wall again.
Jules dug her hands into her own arms and took a deep breath, the silver tears still clinging to her porcelain cheeks. She was infuriated with herself. Infuriated with the upheaval of all her good sense. Perhaps this was why women of her ilk were taught to be aloof. To feel too much was to ultimate get hurt, as she felt she was doing now.
Oh, Grace. What has he done now?
Her monologue was unexpected, but it roused a tear from his eye that--thankfully--did not fall. It was with a heavy heart that he took another step from her, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing at his forehead, his lower lip bitten. He was so intent on not butchering his next few words that he neglected to make eye contact with her, which may have already demolished any chance he had at soothing her mind.
"I do not think you are a child. I-I don't want you to think I do, please. Don't mistake me." Back to that careful, drawling whisper, saturated in his Irish roots and soaked in his remorse.
He peered up at her through his brows, his eyes heavy with the sort of grief that only comes with age, and a lot of years of not getting what one wants. This grief was the same that sagged his shoulders and weighed down his feet, reducing what was once a man to a hopeless animal fighting for survival.
"You're going to be disappointed with me, Juliet. I will try my best, but you are going to be disappointed." And he knew this to be so; he knew that he could never live up to the expectations attached to being a middle class man in the eyes of those bred in riches. Hell, he was already letting her down, already making her cry.
At this realization he reached forward and brushed away her tear with his thumb, the rest of his hand cradling the gentle curve of her jaw. "I am a man of my word, and I intend to see this through to the end, if you'll have me. I want to see this through. If we want to make this work, we cannot rush into it any more than we have already. We've got years, Jules." Years that will be spent trying to prove to her that he wasn't her greatest mistake.
Jules felt his gentle hand on her face, wiping away the tears, and she felt a very sudden jolt back to a time when she had last cried before a man. Even the last few times. Her brother had made her cry, and he regarded her with sarcasm and told her to take her petty issues somewhere else. Richard had given her a look and told her not to cry, as though that would help. And Richard never touched her in comfort, she now realized. She had been so deluded into the moments that he had regarded sweetly that they made her forget his lesser moments, the red flag moments.
Jules ran her hand up and covered Flynn's with her own, opening her eyes and looking into his. For the first time, she saw a bit of altruistic grief in his eyes as he spoke in that solemn lilt of voice that incensed her feelings and broke her heart a bit all at once. Since when did Jules become such a romantic? she thought. Or perhaps Flynn was just reawakening that romantic. And it scared her. But for a moment, Jules wondered if Flynn needed his own comfort in this marriage.
"The end?" she teased in a light tone, "Oh don't speak too soon. I've been mellow since you've met me. You have yet to become intimate with all my irritating habits. Perhaps you'll off me in some tragic accident soon enough. I shouldn't blame you." She chuckled good-heartedly and rubbed her hand gently along his forearm, looking up at him in earnest. Her expression sobered, but her eyes still held an affectionate warmth.
Jules, despite all her scars nd defensive tendencies, had a warm spot in her heart for any person that was kindly to her. And Flynn had proven moreso. Afterall, how many men would take to such a crazy plan of marriage? She owed him much more than just those favors the marriage vows concerned.
"Oh Flynn," she whispered with a certain solemness to her own eyes, her lips turned up in a sad smile. "I'm certain that I'll spend all of these years proving that I'm not a disappointment to you. You have been nothing but kind and willing to me. And yet I've been an emotional wreck." Jules stepped closer to him, taking both her hands to frame his face gently, giving him a serious look.
"With one exception to my record, I'm a decent people reader. And dear, I could read you as easily as one of my favorite books when I first met you," she chuckled gently, giving him one of her signature looks, a mix of amusement and lofty thoughtfullness. "Kind, but not easy to push around. Handsome, but I'm not sure you quite realize how handsome you are. There's strength about you, but you don't toss your weight around like some over-sized child. And...wounded. I'm not sure why. But someday, maybe you'll trust me enough to let me know. Because a man like you hardly deserves to be so wounded."
The words just began tumbling out before she could stop them, and normally she would have blushed and tugged herself away, like she had time after time before that moment. But instead she stood there, still gazing up at him, hoping to ease his mind. Ease something.
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