Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

on the apartment door, tentative raps that gained speed and force until I was banging my fist against the wood. Abruptly the door swung open, making me stumble forward across the threshold with the momentum of my next blow.
    Luke caught me in his arms.

Chapter Thirteen
    “What’s wrong?” Luke said. He pulled me all the way inside and shut the door.
    When I opened my mouth nothing but a rasping noise came out. I dropped my shoulderbag on the floor and hurled myself against him.
    “Hey!” he said, surprised. But he hesitated for only a second before he enclosed me in his arms. “What’s going on? Huh?”
    I buried my face in his neck, drawing in the scent of his skin. “I’ve missed you so much,” I whispered. “Don’t let me go.”
    His arms tightened around me. I felt his heart thudding, answering mine. “Oh, God, Rachel,” he groaned, his breath warm against my ear. “I want you all the time.”
    He covered my mouth with his and pushed me against the door, the length of his body pressed to mine. I tasted salt on his lips. Heat flooded through me and all that mattered was our connection, the here-and-now reality of him, my anchor in a whirlpool of fear and confusion.
    He drew back for a moment, breathing heavily, his eyes drugged with need as he searched my face. “Are you sure?” he asked, just as he had the first time.
    “Yes.” I nodded. “Yes.”
    We undressed each other where we stood, fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers, lips brushing bare skin, his tongue flicking over my nipples. He was stiff in my hand and I would have drawn him into me there against the door, but he stepped away and said hoarsely, “Come to bed.”
    We fell onto the bed and I clamped my legs around him, thrusting with him in a rough, urgent rhythm. I was aware that I was crying, the tears bathing my face. When I came a ragged moan tore from me, and I sobbed against Luke’s shoulder as I felt him shudder and heard the breath catch in his throat.
    He rolled onto his side, gasping, and pulled me against him. “Rachel. God, Rachel, I love you.”
    He held me until my sobs diminished to silent tears. At last I lay quiet, covering my swollen eyes with the back of my hand. I stayed that way for a long time before I lowered my hand and opened my eyes to let the light back in.
    Luke’s face swam in my tears. He’d pushed himself up on an elbow. I reached to smooth his disheveled hair, then brushed my fingertips over his cheek. His skin was hot and moist with sweat.
    “I’m surprised you didn’t slam the door in my face,” I said.
    “I can’t see that ever happening.” He nudged my chin up and lightly touched his lips to mine. “Okay,” he said, “tell me what brought this on. You didn’t come here in that kind of frenzy just because we haven’t seen each other for a while. What’s wrong?”
    I pulled away from him, sat up so that I couldn’t see his expectant face. “I’m afraid to tell you. You’ll think I’m losing my mind.”
    “Aw, come on.” He sat up beside me and tried to look in my eyes, but I averted my head. “Rachel. Give me some credit, okay? You came to me. That says a lot.” 
    I couldn’t imagine what words to use. Here in the ordinariness of his apartment, every idea I had about my family seemed too crazy to speak aloud. “Could we get up?” I said. “I feel like I need my clothes on for this.”
    He laughed. “Okay, go sit down in the living room and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
    He pulled on his jeans and tee shirt and padded out in his bare feet. I dressed more slowly, dreading what I was about to do and sick at the risk I was taking. I wished I could forget everything else and just go on from here with Luke.
    In the living room a mocking swath of sunshine fell across the space where the stack of packing boxes once stood. They were gone at last; Luke had settled in. But the mere thought of the boxes brought back the memory they’d awakened, and it hit me like a glancing blow, leaving me momentarily disoriented.
    It was a memory of our move from Minneapolis to McLean, I was suddenly sure of that. I’d cried about it, but that was normal for a child. I’d been leaving behind all that was familiar, and I was still grieving for my father. Michelle had played on the boxes, giggling, unaffected by loss. She was too young to absorb anything more than the excitement of upheaval.
    A neat explanation, produced by my rational mind. Why didn’t it dispel the alarm and panic