Dead Reckoning (Sookie Stackhouse #11)(45)
Author: Charlaine Harris

So I was hopping from foot to foot mentally when it came to deciding whether I’d done the right thing.

But I was upset and worried pretty much nonstop, no matter which foot I was standing on at the moment.

Bob and Amelia had a consultation in their bedroom, as a result of which they decided to stay another day to "see what happens." I could tell Amelia was worried. She thought she ought to have eased into the idea a little more slowly before encouraging me to take the plunge. Bob thought we were both being silly, but he was smart enough not to say so. However, he couldn’t help but think it, and though he wasn’t as clear a broadcaster as Amelia, I could hear him.

I did go to work the next day, but I was so distracted and miserable, and business was so light, that Sam told me to go home early. India kindly patted me on the shoulder and told me to take it easy, a concept I had a lot of trouble understanding.

That night, Eric came an hour after sundown. He drove up, so we’d have warning. I’d hoped he would come, and I’d been pretty sure he would have cooled off enough. Right after supper, I’d asked Amelia and Bob if they’d like to go to a movie in Clarice.

"You sure you’ll be all right?" Amelia had asked. "Because we’re ready to stay with you if you think he’s still angry." If she’d been pleased before, it had vanished now.

"I don’t know how he feels," I said, and I was still a little giddy at the thought. "But I do think he’ll come tonight. It’d probably go better if he didn’t have you here to make him madder."

Bob had bristled a little at that, but Amelia had nodded understandingly. "I hope you still think of me as your friend," she said, and for once I didn’t see her thoughts coming. "I mean, I think I’ve screwed you up, but that wasn’t my intention. I intended to free you."

"I understand, and I still think of you as one of my best friends," I said as reassuringly as I could manage. If I was weak-willed enough to go along with Amelia’s impulses, then it was my problem.

I was sitting alone on my front porch in that gloomy kind of mood where you remember all of your mistakes and none of your good decisions when I saw the headlights of Eric’s car zooming up the driveway.

I didn’t expect that he would hesitate when he got out of the car.

"Are you still mad?" I said, trying not to cry. Weeping would be craven, and I was forcing some steel into my backbone.

"Do you still love me?" he asked.

"You first." Childish.

"I’m not angry," he said. "At least, not anymore. At least, not right now. I should have encouraged you to find a way to break the bond, and in fact we have a ritual for it. I should have offered it to you. I was afraid that without it we would be parted, whether because you didn’t want to be dragged into my troubles or because Victor found out you were vulnerable. If he chooses to ignore the marriage, without the bond I won’t know that you are in danger."

"I should have asked you what you thought, or at least warned you what we were going to do," I said. I took a deep breath. "I do love you, all on my own."

And he was up on the porch with me, and then he was picking me up and kissing me, my lips, my neck, my shoulders. He held my feet off the ground and lifted me high enough that his mouth could find my br**sts through my bra and T-shirt.

I gave a little shriek and swung my legs until they latched around him. I rubbed against him as hard as I could. Eric loved monkey sex.

He said, "I’m going to tear your clothes."

"Okay."

And he was as good as his word.

After an exciting few minutes, he said, "I’m tearing mine, too."

"Sure," I mumbled, before I bit his earlobe. He growled. There was nothing civilized about sex with Eric.

I heard more ripping, and then there was nothing at all between me and him. He was inside me, deep inside me, and he staggered backward to land on the porch swing, which began rocking back and forth erratically. After a moment of surprise we began working with its motion. It went on and on until I could feel the increased tension, the almost-there feeling of impending release.

"Go hard," I said urgently. "Go go go . . ."

"Is . . . this . . . hard . . . enough?"

And I shrieked out loud, my head falling back.

"Come on, Eric," I said, when my aftershocks were still rippling through me. "Come on!" And I moved faster than I’d imagined I was able.

"Sookie!" he gasped, and gave me one last huge thrust followed by a sound that I might have thought was primal pain if I hadn’t known much better.

It was magnificent, it was exhausting, and it was completely excellent.

We stayed on the swing for at least thirty minutes, recovering, cooling off, and holding each other. I was so happy and relaxed I didn’t want to move, but of course I needed to go inside to clean myself up and to put on some clothes that didn’t have the seams ripped out. Eric had only popped the button off his jeans, and he could hold them closed with his belt, which he’d managed to unbuckle before we’d gotten to the tearing stage. His zipper was still workable.

While I arranged myself, he heated up some blood and fixed an ice pack and a glass of iced tea for me. He applied the ice pack himself while I lay on the couch. I thought, I was right to break the bond. And it was a relief not to know how Eric was feeling, though simultaneously I was afraid there was something wrong about my relief.

For a few minutes, we talked about little things. He brushed my hair, which was in a terrible tangle, and I brushed his. (Monkeys searched each other for salt crystals, I believed. We groomed each other.) When I’d made his hair all smooth and shiny he draped my legs over his lap. His hand ran up and down them, from the hem of my shorts to my toes, over and over. "Has Victor said anything to you?" I wasn’t looking forward to reopening the conversation about what I’d done, though we’d opened our meeting with a bang.

"Not about the bond, so he doesn’t know yet. He would have been on the phone instantly." Eric leaned his head against the back of the couch, his blue eyes at half mast. Postcoital relaxation.

That was a relief. "How’s Miriam? Did she recover?"

"She recovered from the drugs Victor gave her, but she’s sicker in body. Pam is as close to despair as I’ve ever seen her."

"Did their relationship come on kind of slowly? Because I didn’t have a clue until Immanuel told me about it."

"Pam doesn’t often care for anyone as much she cares about Miriam," he said. His head turned slowly, and his eyes met mine. "I only found out when she asked for some time off from the club to visit Miriam in the hospital. And she gave the girl blood, too, which is the only reason Miriam’s lasted this long."