Glasshouse - Charles Stross [130]
“We need.” His voice is congested with emotion. “Reeve.”
“Come with me,” I say.
He stands up. “Where? What is this about?”
“Come on.” I reach out and take his necktie and gently tug. He follows me into the hallway. “This way.” I take the steps slowly, going up, listening to his hoarse breathing deepen. He doesn’t try to pull away until I reach the bedroom door.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says hoarsely. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but we mustn’t.”
“Come on.” I give him a little tug and he follows me into the bedroom and I finally let go and turn to face him. I feel a looseness in my innards as I look up at his face, a warmth at my crotch. “Kay. Sam. Whoever you are. I love you.”
I freeze, my eyes wide as I see his pupils dilate and he looks puzzled: I realize he didn’t hear me! “The magic phrase, Sam.” And I realize that I mean it. This isn’t the stinger-ampoule side effect of Jen’s malice, it’s something more profound. “What you said to me the other day, I’m saying it right back to you.” His expression clears. “Come here.”
He looks confused, now. “But if we—”
“No buts.” I reach over to him and tug at the knot on his necktie. It unclips from his collar, and I fumble at the top button. He chews his upper lip, and I can feel him trembling under my fingers, warm and immensely solid and reassuring. I take a step closer until I’m leaning up against him, and I feel through his clothes that he’s as excited as I am. “I want you, Sam, Kay. I don’t want to have any barriers between us, it hurts too much. I’ve nearly lost you twice now, I’m not going to lose you again.”
His hands on my shoulders, huge and powerful. His breath on my cheek. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to work, Reeve.”
“Life’s frightening.” I get another button undone, then I look up to see his face above me, and I stop. I was about to stretch up to kiss him, but something about his expression isn’t right. “What is it?”
“What’s wrong with you?” he hisses. “This isn’t like you, Reeve, what’s happening?”
“I’m doing what I should have done last week.” I wrap my arms around him and lean my forehead against his shoulder. But he’s started a train of thought going, running on rails right through my lust simple: “I’ve had a bad experience. It put a lot of things into a new perspective, Sam. You ever had one of those? Done something stupid and crazy and maybe a bit evil and only realized afterward that you’d jeopardized everything you ever cared about? Been there, done that—more than once—most recently the day before yesterday, and I don’t want to be defined by my mistakes. So I’m walking away from them. I want us to work, I don’t want to—”
“Reeve, stop it. Stop this. You’re scaring me.”
Huh? I pull back and stare at him, offended. It’s like a bucket of ice water in the face.
“This isn’t you speaking, is it?” he asks. He sounds certain.
“Yes it is!” I insist.
“Really?” He looks skeptical. “You wouldn’t have thrown yourself at me like this last week.”
“Yes I would! In a moment, if I wasn’t so conflicted.” Then what he’s trying to tell me without actually saying it in so many words sinks in, and I jam one hand across my mouth to keep from screaming in frustration.
“So you’re not conflicted now,” he says, gently leading me over toward the bed and pushing me down on the edge of it, sitting next to me so we’re shoulder to shoulder. “But you were conflicted when you went into the hospital, Reeve. You’ve been conflicted as long as I’ve known you. So you’ll pardon my momentary suspicion when, the moment you get home, you throw yourself at me? After swearing off sex entirely