This is Not a Love Story (36 page)

When I can stand it no longer, I let my fingers become my tongue.

He watches through slitted eyes as I stroke him to hardness, pulling me up and kissing me before I can take him into my mouth.

“I want you to fuck me, Remee. Make me come, then fuck me.”

I’ve never
—

“I know. It’s okay. I just… I need you this way…. And it’s safer for you too.”

I bought condoms,
I sign indignantly.

And he laughs, the sound resonating through me like a million brilliant lights, like sparks of a fire that will never die.

Please,
he signs.

M
Y
NAME
is Remee Lavelle. And I am no longer running. My ghosts are gone with the wind blowing in from the sea, their whispers lost in the trees.

There is a man I still dream of, a shadow, but now also a reality too. His name is Roman Danilov. My father. He wants to make a difference in my life, to change things for me. It’s been a year, but I’m still not sure yet. We have a long way to go, and I no longer make my decisions on a whim. I still won’t see him without Julian, or Kay, or Crash, by my side, but strangely he doesn’t mind.

The boy I love has a gift for making things grow. He still wonders at it, that he never knew before now. I tell him it’s the light inside him. Things can’t help but be drawn to it. And although it can’t take away the darkness, I know it brings him peace when nothing else can or ever will.

This is our second summer in our two-room home. It’s a signaler’s cottage. The same house I saw that day, near lost to the green by the side of those narrow railway tracks, that long-out-of-use line that leads down to the sea. It belongs to the farm Julian worked at before they realized he’d be better landscaping gardens than shifting bales of hay. We rent it off them for next to nothing, showing it off proudly when people come to stay. And they do. Even though it has no running water or electricity. But there is an old well in the garden, and I bought a little generator that runs off petrol with the money from the first drawing I sold.

I deal with London in small doses. But I can’t pretend I have two homes. My heart will always be here, with him.

The first night I was back after being away that first time, Julian walked me to the railway house. I didn’t know it was ours then. It was still damp and full of vines. But he sat me in the garden he had cleared and wove me a crown from the leaves all around. He had made one for both of us—and with the garden as our church, we made a thousand promises without saying a word.

S
UKI
F
LEET
currently lives in the heart of England. Her childhood was quite unconventional and she spent some time living on a boat and travelling at sea with her family. Since she was very small she has always dreamed of writing for a living, but though she has written original fiction online for years and encouraged many new writers to keep going and follow their author dreams, it is only recently she got the courage to make her own dream a reality and actually send something off to a publisher.

By day she runs her own business selling fabric (her second love) and juggling family commitments, by night she weaves the stories that the characters in her head dictate. These stories often start with pain or longing but always end with love.

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https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7919609.Suki_Fleet

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http://sukifleet.wordpress.com/

http://www.harmonyinkpress.com

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