"Shit," I echo the sentiment and know what I'll see before I look. There's Rory, with an armload of shirts, talking to the boys.
"Later?" Cole kisses my cheek and the sound of his zipper closing is loud. "I guess I'll get to the wood pile after all."
I nod. "Okay."
Yes, later. After I've cooked dinner, cleaned up and seen to homework. Later. After he's been chopping wood all afternoon and is asleep on the couch before the boys are even tired.
While Rory takes off his coat, I try to look cheerful and hope the disappointment eating into my heart doesn't show.
~:~:~:~:~
Monday
It's late, quiet except for the muffled creak of fresh snow on the roof. I slide into bed next to my favorite heater and snuggle tight. It was a long, long, day and bed is heaven.
"Sleep good, baby." I peck Cole's cheek.
"C'mere." He pulls me back for a real kiss. Our tongues play and his hand slips under the covers to stroke my hip. Very nice, but I'm so tired it doesn't raise a spark.
"I'm sorry," I say softly, "the spirit is willing but the body's beat."
"That's okay," he says, "I'm about dead, too."
"This is ridiculous." I suddenly want to cry.
"No, this is just life, Darla," he says with a smile meant to comfort. "Don't worry, we'll get around to it."
~:~:~:~:~
Tuesday
The creases in his forehead say it's been a rough day. The gruff “hello” means it was worse than usual.
I ask, "What happened?"
"Damn tourists, skiing where they shouldn't and with a horse in tow, if you can believe that kind of stupidity."
"Ah." I let him be. It's the best thing to do or we'll be scrapping like infants in no time, because he'll take it out on me. Not that I don't use him the same way sometimes. I know it's not personal, it's just you're there, y'know?
He eats dinner in silence, occasionally acknowledging the boys' yakking. Every time he looks at me, I smile, encourage him to unwind without words.
I keep Bryce and Joel occupied with Scrabble while he reads by the fire. By the time I've checked behind the boys' ears and am sure they're tucked snug, the living room is empty and the fire banked. I find Cole already in bed, blankets to his ears.
Easing in, I kiss the curve of his shoulder, stroke his arm. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm just worn out—and cranky."
"How about a little stress relief?" I kiss his neck, slide a hand under his sweats to play with the springy curls below his abdomen. "I'll even do all the work." I brush the root of his penis for enticement.
"Darla," he rolls toward me with a frustrated huff, "I'm sorry, I really am. I'm just not up to it. Tomorrow?"
"Town meeting."
"Oh. Yeah, I forgot."
I explore a little more to see if I can get any rising indication he isn't as worn out as he thinks. He lets me try, I'll give him that—but when he said he's not up to it, he wasn't lying. Which makes me feel guilty for pushing. With a sigh I pull the blankets around us in cocoon comfort and listen to his heartbeat until I fall asleep.
~:~:~:~:~
Wednesday
Rory smiles. "Thanks, Darla. Are you sure you only want ten bucks?"
"I'm sure. It wasn't anything too involved."
"You have the most beautiful hair I've ever seen."
What? Did the kid say what I think he said? Even though Cole is a few feet away, I see his attention snap toward us, ears practically sticking out of his head.
"I'm sorry," I try not to laugh like a nervous school girl, "but pardon me?"
"Nothing, never mind." He's blushing again. Don't tell me he has a crush. It's nice to know I'm not as much of an old bag as I feel these days, but I don't need any puppy adoration right now.
Two steps and Cole is beside me, brawny arm draped around my shoulders. He is so full of presence when he wants to be—and right now he's all Dr. Garber. "Rory, are you trying to sweet-talk my wife?"
"No, I just—" Rory stammers, "I mean, yes, but—my mother always said a gentleman should compliment a nice woman if she—I meant no offense, Cole."
"Your mom's right," Cole says with a grin. Devilish bastard. I can tell he's pleased with himself, having made his point so easily. "She does have beautiful hair," he adds, kissing the top of my head like I'm his pet woman or something.
I narrow my eyes. If Rory wasn't still standing here, I'd stick my tongue out at the boy I'm married to. "Thank you," I say to Rory and accompany it with a polite smile, "it's sweet of you to say."
As Rory retreats, Cole says for my ears only, "Yeah, he wants you."
I thump his chest. "Like you have anything to worry about, stud."
He angles his head and studies me, gaze denim-blue and serious. "Are you sure about that?"
My chest aches with love. "Yes, I'm sure."
But his eyes are troubled. He feels the undercurrent, too. And he doesn't know what to do about it any more than I do.
He keeps hold of me for half an hour—a possessive strangulation that makes me antsy. While it's also nice to know he still wants to make sure everybody knows who I belong to, it's pretty annoying when he thinks he has to prove it to some young buck.
He should let it go. But alone in the truck, wedged among his traveling vet gear, he has to bitch about it. Like it's some kind of personal affront to his masculinity that another man finds me attractive. I bite my tongue. I know this 'tude. There's nothing to be gained by contradicting him and I'll tease him for it later. But he's still glowering as I open the front door and huskily asks if I'm coming to bed as soon as I check on the boys—and that ticks me off.
I let him go ahead and I'll wait until he's asleep. It has been too long, but I'll be damned if he's going to make love to me just to prove I'm his. I've never given him any reason to doubt my fidelity—and I resent having to prove it with sex on demand.
~:~:~:~:~
Thursday
"...so I don't know when I'll be home."
Cole sounds tired even through Mr. Bell's wire filter.
"Where are you meeting him?" I ask.
"Bill's. You know the sheriff, it's his night out. And I really have to—it's the only day this week I can talk to him about something."
"Okay. Be careful—and don't let him get you too drunk."
"I will. Be careful, I mean." He pauses. "I love you, Darla."
"I love you, too."
"Very much."
"Yeah, me too."
I hang up the phone more adamantly than necessary—and find Carol and Lindsey frowning at me from the table.
"You guys really are in a slump, aren't you?" Lindsay says sympathetically.
"Look," Carol takes charge, "you need to do something about this right now. Send the boys over tomorrow after school. Brian's coming home from college and the four of us will have a great weekend. You can pick them up Sunday afternoon. That will give you and Cole plenty of time to work on things."
Lindsay looks me over critically. "Maybe you should wrap yourself in Saran Wrap or something..."
Carol strangles a laughing snort. "Oh that'll work, Lindsay, squash her boobs flat as a pancake—that's sure to turn him on."
"No, seriously."
"I am not wrapping myself up like hamburger."
"I'm telling you, drop the boys off, don't tell Cole the house is empty—and when he gets home, jump his bones. Then you have two days to go at it until you get it right."
"She has a point," Lindsay agrees, "no quality time is your worst enemy here. He worships the ground you walk on, Darla—and you damn well know he does."
"But having time doesn't really help." I'm whining but can't help it. "It's still the same old thing—do this, do that, rub this, rub that, slam-bam, over and done, what do we got to eat in the fridge?"
"Crisp on a cracker," Lindsey barks, "then do something outrageous! It's sex, woman, not physics. Do something Darla Miller would have done that Darla Garber's forgot
she likes."
"But I can't think of anything we haven't done a hundred times!"
"No," Carol smiles faintly, "I guess you've probably covered all the bases—lucky thing. So do something unexpected then. Even if it's stupid, just so it's out of the ordinary. Put a note on the door. Tell him to strip in the mud room, that you're both going to be naked for forty-eight hours."
Lindsey agrees. "She's right, you know—it's the effort. It might be all the jump start you need."
"Right," Carol says. "What you guys need to do is talk about this honestly—and there's something about being naked and silly that makes it easier. Do it, leave him a note. But for God's sake, do something proactive or else stop crying about it!"
I gape. They're talking good sense and my mind is flooded with ways to improve upon their suggestion. I have to laugh. "You guys are so smart, sometimes I want to kiss you both!"
"Well control yourself, please," Lindsay says with mock indignity, "'cause baby don't play that way."
~:~:~:~:~
Friday
I'm standing in the middle of the Garber Love Shrine. Cole is going to laugh himself sick. I can't even look at it without grinning like an idiot. It's silly, but it's romantic. I think so anyway, because I can safely say there's not a picture taken of us before we were thirty left in the crawlspace—they're all here, taped to every available vertical surface.
I check my scene. The wine is cold. I tried to wedge it into the refrigerator, but it wouldn't fit, so I put it in a bucket of snow—and it looks a lot nicer than I thought it would next to the bed. Although dragging the mattress down the hall wasn't as easy as I thought it would be, it's in front of the fire and dressed to the nines in fresh, air-dried sheets. I even aired out the down comforter and used the Egyptian cotton duvet I was saving for next winter.
I spent all day getting ready for Cole to walk through the door and I can't remember the last time I was this excited about him getting home, so I went a little overboard.
Well, no—make that a lot overboard. The present condition of my living room says I've probably started at least one rumor that will be all over town tomorrow. Other than the bed and the pictures, the source of possible Rumor Number One—the world's biggest bottle of baby oil that I doused with a bit of eucalyptus—sits warming by the fire. Possible Rumor Number Two has to do with what's stuffing my fridge. And the source of possible Rumor Number Three is that Mrs. Garber bought six bottles of wine—I really hope Cole hasn't gotten wind of that one already.
Oh my God! I hear the truck! Okay, okay, I should be in bed, blanket like this—where's my wineglass? Got it. There's the outside door! He sees the note...in a minute I'll hear the inside door.
I wriggle, picture him reading:
The boys are gone for forty-eight hours. I'm naked and in such dire need of professional medical attention, I'll take any vet I can get. So you better take off your clothes where you stand, Doc, and get in here and examine me.
Before I even process the sound of his footsteps, he's in the doorway—clutching a handful of roses, naked as requested, but wearing a shit-eating grin—which falters at the sight of the shrine.
"Hi," I purr.
"Hi, Beautiful." He's amused. "Looks like you had a busy day."
"Mmm-hmm. What's with the roses?"
"I'm taking them home to my wife," he says, studying the pictures, "as soon as I finish this house call."
"I see." Leave it to him to think of flowers. That we're actually in tune even when things don't seem quite right makes my throat thick. I swallow rapidly as he roams around the room, looking at where we began—considering each frozen moment like a symptom. I forgot how much I like to look at him when he's not covered in layers of clothes, and I take the opportunity to see him as my friends wish they could.
He's an oil-painted vision in the firelight—solid yet soft, muted yet sharp, subtly shaded by flickering flames. His hair curls against his bare shoulders, bringing attention to arms thickened from chopping wood and strong enough to support half-ton livestock. Skiing seven months a year does keep his ass as scrumptious as any underwear model's and it fits the trunk-like legs so well. No young stallion maybe, but still all mighty male. And all mine. Yep, he's a banana split all right—and that observation aside, the way I feel about his soul alone is worth every penny of effort I can muster.
He stops at the earliest shot—us laughing after a ski meet—and touches it reverently.
"Well, Doctor G.," I almost hate to take his attention away from the picture but I need to touch him, "I suggest you start with a kiss to get the patient's confidence."
I hear a moan, his lips are on mine—and I don't think the roses have hit the floor yet. He holds my head and I tangle my hands in his hair. We kiss like the starving people we are and need of air is the only reason we part.
He searches my face. There's an indigo heat in his eyes that I haven't seen in a long time. He licks his lips but doesn't say anything.
"What?" I ask, unable to read his eyes for once and curious to know what he thinks of my preparations.
"I'm trying to find the words to tell you how much I need you, but I can't think of any that are enough."
"There aren't any, I know—so show me."
Kisses scatter over mouths cheeks eyelids, and lips tease throats. Without purpose other than love, without intention other than mutual need, we explore curves and slopes too long ignored, and I find myself hyper-aware of things I take for granted: Capable, enduring shoulders flexing under my hands. A shivering rasp of beard as he kisses my neck. His taste when it's mixed with mine. His heavier smell when he's aroused. The solace of his greater weight. The unconscious sounds he makes as our hearts beat faster and his cock rises against my thigh.
The room is a mirage outside the few feet we occupy.
With a groan, he rolls away. "I hate to say this, but I have to pee. I had to go before I got home," he chuckles, "but I didn't think you'd want me doing that first."
I smile. "No, I guess not—I would have died thinking you thought the note was stupid—that all this was..." I take in the room with a sweep of my hand.
"No, no," he says seriously, casting a quick look around. "It's great." He takes a deep breath and says in a rush, "I was starting to think—I mean, I even—"
"Shh." I press my finger to his lips. "We'll talk later, after we've—go, before I make you stay."
"Is that wine?"
"I'll pour you some—now go!"
He scoots into the bathroom. I grab a glass and he's back before I finish filling it. "That was quick."
"It's cold in there." He slips under the blanket, accepts the wine gratefully and takes a few healthy swigs. Setting it aside, his cooled hands stroke my waist. "Now where was I?"
"Examining me, if I recall."
"Mmm, yes, I was about to take more invasive measures."
His hands trace my breasts, his lips following behind with moist murmurs of appreciation. Darting thumbs brush the tips of my nipples and his delicate ministrations turn them into ceramic conductors of pleasure. Although I'm easily wet enough to go straight to the point—I've been wet just thinking about him for most of the afternoon, in fact—I'm in no hurry. Tonight I will take my time and revel in his body next to mine, relish his love nestled deeper inside my heart than any surgeon's tool could reach.
His radiating heat warms me more than the fire and I tickle down his spine, goosed-flesh rippling in the wake of my fingers as they slip into the deepening cleft created by his clenched ass. His hairy torso rubbing against my body's fine-spun down is a gratifying reminder of how much I rely on his masculinity to complement my femininity. As unliberated as it might be to believe it, together we form a whole and without him, I would be so much less.
Gems of happiness seep from the corners of my eyes—tears of thanks for my man, my love, my world—and quickly evaporate as Cole's sweet foreplay ramps up a notch. Gently plucking one hard-budded nipple, he tests the readiness of my circuits. My respon
ding groan earns a grunt of satisfaction from my perceptive mate, and his lips swiftly seize the prize.
He holds my aching nipple captive for his taunting, lashing tongue, which seems intent on sending me to paradise. Turning his attention to the other peak, he enslaves it as well, and my breath catches as the soldering current courses from his mouth, streaks through my belly, transforms my clit into a burning filament that sheds its glow into my deepest recesses—recesses that gush with moisture, ready to embrace the coming flames.
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