Thatletter,he''''''''dwrittenitlongago.Thewordshadbledoutofhimlikeafessionheneverdaredtospeakaloud.Buthecouldneverbringhimselftodeliverit.
Lately,withthehauntedhouseunderrenovation,themanagerhadn''''''''tofferedhimotherwork.Therewasn''''''''tmuchhecoulddoanyway.Withtheburnsacrosshisskinandthelossofsweatgheplushmascotsuitsweredangerous—trappihreateningseizuresinthiskindofweather.
Sohestayedhome.Dayafterday,nightafternight,eating,sleeping,wakingonlytofiillthere,etchedintohismindlikeafeverdream.Buteveninhiswildestfantasies,hehadneverdaredtoimagihismoment.
Hishandwasrge,andunderhispalm,Reya''''''''sbreastwassmall,barelyenoughtofillhisgrasp,butsoft,resilient,astonishinglyreal.Thetexturealoteredallthevague,distantimaginingshehadoertainedinsilence.
Inallhisyears,hehadouchedanyonelikethis,certainlynotawoman,andneversomeoneyoung,warm,alive.
Reya''''''''sboldnesslefthimspeechless.Thelingerinessofhertastestillgtohistongue,herweightsettledonhisthighslikesomethingunshakablyreal,andbeforehim,herskin,paleaspor,feltimpossiblysmoothbehhistremblingfingers.
Itwastoomuch.Toooverwhelming.Hismindreeled.
Maybethiswasadream.
Maybehisoverheated,restlessbrainhadfinallyiedanillusiontoobeautifultobetrusted.
Becausesomeonelikehim—scarred,silent,strange—howcouldsomeonelikeReya,soradiantandkind,everwantto...
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