If Not for My Baby

by Kate Golden

Halloran and I kissed three nights ago, which means for the past seventy-two hours the memory of his lips on mine has distracted me from every single thing I’ve attempted to do. I’m amazed I can successfully put one foot in front of the other, let alone sing “I’m sheltered by the warmth of my baby’s breath, hot and quiet on my neck” to him before a rabid audience of thousands.

“Because I think of you nonstop. You’re legging it through my mind daily, Clem. You were long before I kissed you.” “What?” I think I physically stumble backward. “You’re not interested in me.” “I’m not?” A slight smile twists at the corner of his mouth. “You should tell my dreams that.”

“Just because you don’t let yourself dream doesn’t mean you don’t have any.” When he speaks again, his voice has dropped an octave, and I know the creature’s lost. “And you’re as much a formidable, gossamer-draped, apocalyptic witch-goddess as any I’ve known. Your ferocious kindness, those devastating eyes…” He trails off with an exhale. “The songs will write themselves.”

I’m dripping between my legs—he could slide right in. I can’t resist telling him as much. “I’m so wet,” I tell him, voice shaking. “So wet for you, Tom.” His fingers tighten in my hair. “Yeah?” I nod pathetically. Insatiable. “Show me,” he instructs. His voice has never been this deep.

Nothing has ever felt as good as being kissed with reckless abandon by Tom Halloran. His kisses are like his music: passionate, thoughtful, devastating.

There’s a new quality to this kiss, too, though. As if we both know we’re on the precipice of something. Higher than a cliff or bridge. This kiss feels like falling at warp speed through the stratosphere.

“Baby.” His eyes darken. “I’ll take care of you, I swear it.”

“You’re perfect,” he says faintly. “I can hardly stand it.”

with his mythic hair and Adonis body and coarse beard. I can’t even look at his hands, or think about the tender way they caress my skin. I’ll pass out. “Remember what I said about instant gratification?” I purr. “I’m going to show you what all the fuss is about.”

“I’ve nothing for you to worship, Clem. If anything, I’m the acolyte. I certainly think of you each night like one.”

“I think it’s because you’re so wise…” I study the thin shadows on the ceiling. “You don’t feel of this world.” At that Tom turns to face me. I do the same and our noses nearly brush. My heart skitters away.

“Don’t worry,” I manage. “I’m not going to fall in love with you.” “Clem”—he sighs like I’ve pained him—“that’s just what I’m afraid of.”

Tom doesn’t kiss like kissing is a mere prelude to sex. No, he kisses me like I am something sacred and he is the most devout of disciples. Like I’m ruining him.

“You’re so beautiful I can hardly make sense of you.”