July Thunder

by Rachel Lee

  Not that he wanted to dive into all that right at this moment, but Mary had made him aware of how much a product of his past he was, and just how much he was clinging to it. That wasn’t moving on. That was refusing to move on.

  So one of these days he was going to have to look it all right in the eye. But that could wait, because right now Mary was turning to him, smiling, and saying, “How about lunch? I’m famished.”

  He had kind of hoped they could eat on deck, but with the smell of smoke getting thicker, he led the way below.

  The galley was small, the little booth table just large enough for two. The vee-berth, which had always looked small to him before, now seemed to loom like the hugest thing in the universe. He looked quickly away from it, trying to ignore the growing weight in his loins and the way Mary’s delightful scent seemed to fill the small cabin, all the more acute because of the contrast to the smoke outside.

  Even with the curtains over the portholes drawn back, the cabin was dim, so he turned on the light over the table. The battery could keep it going for several hours without any problem. When he and Beth had come out at night, they’d often lit the propane lantern on the gimble overhead, but he didn’t want to do that now. They didn’t need that much light or heat. Just the little electric light over the table would do.

  Mary had packed potato salad, fried chicken and cheese-stuffed celery, a far cry from the cold cuts and loaf of bread he’d stuffed into the cooler. She’d even thought of paper plates and plastic utensils and—this really made him smile—a small red-and-white checked tablecloth. He left his own offering at the bottom of the icebox and brought out frigid cans of soft drinks for them.

  They sat facing each other and dug in.

  “This chicken is fantastic,” Sam told her. It was succulent, crispy and flavorful. “The best I’ve ever had.”

  “It was my mother’s recipe.”

  “Are your parents still living?”

  She shook her head. “My dad was fifty-five when I was born, and Mom was in her mid-forties. I was an unexpected blessing, they liked to say.”

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  “No. I was an only.”

  “Me, too. But I guess you figured that out.” He tasted the potato salad and pronounced it wonderful. “Sometimes I think life would have been easier if I’d had some brothers and sisters.”

  “It might have spread your father’s attention around a little.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I didn’t mind being an only child. I had lots of friends. And to be honest, I’m not sure my parents would have been able to cope with more than one kid. They were great, loving, all that. But…they were older.”

  “There must have been times when that bothered you.”

  “I suppose. A lot of people thought they were my grandparents. And I can remember a few times when I envied the kids whose parents could play baseball with them. But my dad already had a heart problem by the time I was five. His health had seriously deteriorated by the time I was ten. It wasn’t bad, though. It really wasn’t.”

  “How old were you when he passed away?”

  “I was a freshman in college.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She nibbled at her chicken for a while, her head turned so she could look out the nearby porthole. He let her be, suspecting that she was thinking about something important. When she spoke, it was about a subject he’d been afraid to broach.

  “Sometimes,” she said slowly, “I think I married Chet in reaction to my dad’s death. And Mom’s illness afterward. I was suddenly very much alone in the world. Chet was somebody I could cling to.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Maybe. It still wasn’t the right thing to do.” Her gaze drifted toward him, and she gave him a pained smile. “He was the wrong choice to lean on, and if I’d been using two brain cells at the time, I would have realized it. He was the last person on earth who could give me the security I was missing. He was too…needy.”

  “Maybe that’s why you picked him. Because he made you feel strong.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, and her gaze drifted back to the porthole. “I never thought of it that way. Maybe you’re right. In retrospect, I’d always thought I was just looking for something to cling to. But you might be right. That would explain why I picked him. Because heaven knows there was no way to cling to him.”

  “He must have had some redeeming qualities.”

  She gave a little laugh and scooped up some potato salad on her fork. “Sure. He was handsome. He was charming. He had a great sense of humor. And he played on the varsity baseball team. He was a pitcher, and he was going to the majors someday. Only the majors didn’t want him, and he had to take a job selling insurance. And then…” Her face darkened, and she looked down. “He didn’t handle disappointment or hardship very well. Sad to say.”

  Impulsively he put his fork down and reached for her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “I’m over it. I just don’t like to think how foolish I was.”

  But he had a strong feeling there was more to it than that. A lot more. There was something she wasn’t telling him, something that kept her bottled up inside in a way no mere divorce from a guy like Chet could do. He tried to find a way to ask her, not because he was curious, although he was, but because he wanted to help her. To make her feel better.

  But she squeezed his hand, then let go, and resumed eating. “How about your marriage?” she asked presently. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

  “It was great.” Then he added honestly, “For the person I was then.”

  Her head came up sharply. “How so?”

  “Well, I was thinking this morning…. I loved Beth with my whole heart and soul. But I’m a different person in a lot of ways now. If I met her today, I’m not sure it would have worked.”

  “But if she’d lived, you would have grown together.”

  “That’s the idea.” He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s also something nobody can guarantee.”

  Then, realizing how that might have sounded, he hastened to say, “It’s not that I didn’t love her. It’s not that her death didn’t leave a gaping hole in my life. It’s just that…I’m beginning to feel like a different person.”

  “Of course you are. Something would be wrong with you if you weren’t growing and changing. I’ve changed a lot, too. I know I’d never give Chet a second look today if he walked into my life as a stranger. Yet I was madly in love with him. Or at least I believed I was.” She shook her head abruptly. “That sounds bad. I’m not implying you weren’t in love with your wife.”

  “I know.” To his own amazement, he felt himself smile at her. “It’s okay. I didn’t misunderstand you. I was in love with Beth. No question. My situation was different from yours, that’s all.”

  She smiled back at him. It was the most beautiful smile, holding so much warmth that he felt it all the way to his toes. And for once the klaxon in his head didn’t start blaring a warning. Instead it remained silent, and a beautiful, almost forgotten kind of peace settled over him.

  Maybe the gentle rocking of the boat was soothing him. Or maybe it was being with Mary. He couldn’t say for sure, and he damn well wasn’t going to question it. Not right now.

  “It’s getting darker out there,” Mary remarked. Apparently she wanted to lighten the conversation for a while. He could handle that. In fact, he wouldn’t mind that at all. Except the fire wasn’t exactly light subject matter, except by comparison to their personal lives.

  He turned to look out the porthole and was surprised to notice that the day had turned dim, a deep gray. “It must be burning worse.”

  “I hope it’s not burning on this side of the mountains.”

  “Well, I can find out. I never travel without my handy-dandy police radio.”

  She laughed, as he had hoped she would. Instead of using his handset, however, he used the radio in the galley. Charlene, the part-time dispatcher,
answered his call.

  “Negative, Sam. It’s not burning anywhere around here. The wind’s kicking up, though, and from what I gather from eavesdropping on the fire teams, it’s blowing up over there. The calls are starting to sound really frantic.”

  “Thanks, Char. You need me for anything?”

  “Hey, it’s your day off. Enjoy.”

  Sam turned off the radio and faced Mary again. Her expression had turned grave.

  “Those poor men,” she said.

  “Yeah.” The smoke had cast a pall over them, and he guessed that was just as well. They were in danger of getting too comfy-cozy with each other, and he wasn’t sure either one of them wanted that.

  They finished eating in relative silence, and Sam knew the outing was over. As soon as they cleaned up, he would head them back to shore. With the air full of gritty ash and the sun all but blocked out, there was no joy to be had on the lake today. Most certainly not when he thought of the men out there fighting that fire.

  Cleanup was easy. Everything went into the trash except the leftovers, which he tucked into the icebox. Time to go above and hoist anchor.

  But the galley was confined, and the boat was rocking rather strongly—some other boat’s wake, he thought—and while he braced himself with practiced ease, Mary was not so fortunate. She fell to one side against the counter and cried out. Without thinking, he reached for her.

  And then she was in his arms.

  After that nothing else mattered anymore. Not the fire. Not the darkening day. Not the growing rocking of the boat. Not the past. Not even the future.

  Just now. Only now.

  15

  She looked up at him, her green eyes at first startled. Then smoky mists began to swirl in them, and he felt her soften. An instant later his mouth was clamped over hers, drinking from her hot, moist depths almost desperately. When he felt her arms wrap around him, he knew it was all going to be okay.

  She kissed him back just as desperately, tongues dueling in an ancient ritual, seeking to learn places where others weren’t allowed. The tastes of their lunch mingled, until finally they gave way to the intoxicating scents of musk rising from their eager bodies. Hands grasped, arms clung, and Sam felt there was no way on earth he was ever going to get Mary close enough.

  He knew an instant’s surprise when he realized he had backed her up against the berth. But then he was reaching for her shirt and she was reaching for his with fingers every bit as impatient and eager. She was meeting him move for move and hunger for hunger, and he was sure he’d never been higher in his life.

  The boat rocked again, tumbling them onto the berth. He managed to cushion her fall so she didn’t crack herself against anything, and then they were in that most magical of positions, lying side by side, face-to-face, loins to loins. Her shirt was gone. His was gone. He had no idea where they were, and he didn’t care.

  But he did care about the next minutes. He didn’t want them to be a race to the finish line. Drawing a deep shuddering breath, he caught her eager hands in one of his and held them over her head. Instantly she stilled, looking up at him from heavily lidded eyes.

  His gaze swept over her, lingering at delicious curves and hollows. Her breasts, cased in simple white, were full and rounded, though not overly large. They seemed to beg for his touch, but he withheld it. Her tummy was flat and her waist narrow at the band of her shorts. The V between her legs was only a hint now, covered by layers of cloth. He toyed with the idea of stripping away the barriers, then decided to wait. His own sense of anticipation was too pleasurable. He wanted to make this last forever.

  Her legs were, as he had noted before, perfect. Firm. Shapely. The prettiest ankles he could ever remember seeing. And all of that was offered to him. He must be the luckiest man on earth.

  The vinyl covering of the vee-berth was cold and a little sticky against his skin. He thought of going to the locker for a blanket, then decided he didn’t want to risk shattering this incredible moment. In fact, he didn’t want to think at all.

  The boat was rocking them steadily now, the darkening day outside seeming to lock them into a cocoon. Reaching out with his free hand, he traced the line of her ear and jaw, enjoying the little shiver that passed through her, loving the way her eyelids fluttered, then closed.

  She was as lost in these moments as he was.

  Her skin was soft, smooth, like finest satin. A little down, invisible, sprinkled her upper lip, and he noted it as his finger slid that way, feeling the added softness. Tenderly he traced her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, then her other ear. She shivered again, and there was a hint, just a hint, of her entire body reaching up to him.

  These moments were perfect.

  Gently, with greatest care, he dropped little kisses on her eyelids, then brushed another across her lips. Her mouth tried to follow him, but he teased her, instead kissing her chin, then the base of her throat.

  A little murmur escaped her, a delicious sound that he felt as much as heard. Lifting his head, he watched as his fingers traced her collarbone, the soft curves of her shoulders, then plunged lower, finding the little gap between her breasts, sliding his finger beneath the material. Teasing. Oh, how he wanted to tease her.

  Another murmur escaped her, a little sigh, and a faint smile flickered across her lips. He smiled himself at her response as he slid his finger back and forth, suggesting but not delivering. The clasp was right there, and one little twist would undo it, but he didn’t release it, keeping them both suspended in anticipation for just a bit longer.

  Considering how much he wanted this woman, considering how hard and insistent the throbbing in his own body was, it amazed him that he felt so patient. So reluctant to hurry. So hungry to linger.

  There was, it seemed then, all the time in the world to linger, but much as he wanted to suspend this moment for eternity, he couldn’t stay there forever. He wanted her desperately, and his fingers had ideas of their own, anyway.

  They strayed over the cups of her bra, causing her to draw a sharp breath, a sound that sent a shaft of delight through him. Even through the fabric he could feel her nipples stiffening in response to his lightest touch. Over and over he brushed them, until finally she whispered his name with exciting impatience.

  “Please…” she whispered, and he could no longer deny her.

  He popped her bra open with a twist of his finger and spread the white wings of fabric wide, discovering delights that were as beautiful as any dream he might have had. Her nipples, pink and swollen, were like small strawberries on mounds of whipped cream. Moments later, he found they tasted every bit as good.

  With his tongue he teased them, loving the way she gasped and arched toward him. Tremors ran through her like shock waves, and his own body responded with a tsunami of desire, a crashing, deafening wave that swept him away.

  Lingering became a thing of the past.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered as his teeth gently nibbled… “Oh…more…”

  With her soft cries and whispers encouraging him, he tried to devour her. As helpless as she, he pressed himself to her thigh, needing the touch, needing so much more.

  Downward his mouth trailed, and at some point he let go of her hands. Then she was clutching his head, guiding him, grabbing at her own shorts to get them out of the way.

  Exultant and demanding, he rose above her and tugged. Scraps of cloth flew over his shoulder, but he never noticed as her most precious treasure was laid bare: dewy promises amidst silken thickets of red. Awed, he reached out and ran his finger lightly along that moist cleft. She groaned and reared up, now yanking at his shorts.

  He got them off somehow. How exactly he would never remember. Then her fingers closed around his silky, swollen staff, and his mind exploded. Then it was he who trembled and was weak. His thigh muscles quivered as he knelt between her legs, and he might have collapsed except that he couldn’t bear the thought of this ending.

  Nor did it end soon. Her hands touched him, loving
ly, tenderly, yet very eagerly. Stroking him as if she knew exactly what pleased him most. Slipping beneath to other secrets until he felt as if she possessed every inch of him.

  The boat was rocking more wildly now, but it seemed so much a part of the wild rhythms inside him that he didn’t notice.

  She was sitting before him, her legs wrapped around his, her hands dancing over his tenderest, hardest flesh. Leaning forward, she dappled kisses on the expanse of his belly until he could bear it no more.

  He slipped his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her. Her eyes opened in sleepy surprise, and she clutched at his neck. Moments later, as if they had been made for each other, he settled her onto his manhood, sliding into her slippery depths, filling her and feeling filled all at once.

  Their mouths met, lips and tongues almost frantic now. She had no leverage to move, and neither did he. Microscopic little movements of their loins together deepened the ache, increased the demand of their bodies, built the tension until it was almost unbearable.

  It was torture. It was exquisite. Her head fell back and a low moan escaped her. He had never seen anything more perfect in his life. Never felt anything more perfect.

  But finally, being only human, he could take no more. Lowering her back to the bunk, he stayed within her, propping himself over her on his elbows so he could see her face. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled. Then she moved, begging him for more.

  He moved together with her, not in opposition. The moments drew out and the passion built, their straining bodies reached mindlessly for satisfaction.

  Then it happened, a cataclysm so intense that the blood roared in his ears. He jetted into her and heard her own cry of completion join the moan that rose from the depths of his soul.

  He dozed briefly, feeling secure in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. She curled trustingly against him, and he held her tight, not wanting to let her go—ever. The rocking of the boat was like a cradle, and the peace that filled him was beyond anything he had ever known.