by Mallory Rush
"Exactly what I want, that's what," he mouthed against her, then nipped the inside of her thigh. "Making love to my wife and loving every minute of it, because you want it as much as I do. Don't move, don't think. Just relax and enjoy what we're sharing." He put his mouth back where it had been and let his actions do the rest of the talking.
Disbelieving, Mariah watched him. Could this really be her? Moving and moaning and witnessing this act? It was her, she realized, a part of her that she hadn't known existed but had emerged with a ferocity that matched his. A ferocity fueled by want and passion. Passion for him, for life. Wasn't that the secret longing that had driven her to flee from home and into a stranger's arms?
The realization came to her with startling clarity. This was the journey, her chosen path. She was her own person, free to stumble and fall and triumph with this mate she desperately loved.
"I love this," she whispered fervently. "I love you. And I do want it too. Anything. Everything."
He claimed her with his fingers and she took his offering with abandon. This was hers, theirs!
Her head fell back, her arms stretched up, her fingertips reached for heaven, and she knew the sheer giddiness of flight. Laughter rolled from her throat and emerged as a victory cry that was throaty, triumphant, sublime.
Chapter 6
In answer, he spurred her on with loving words and tender strokes.
"Enough," she finally cried out. "No more, Sol, please."
"Please," he repeated with a lusty growl. "Such a lady in a wanton's body. You couldn't be more perfect for me. Take off my shirt—it's time we got serious."
She'd never undressed a man, never dreamed she would be so eager that she'd tear buttons loose. And she hadn't imagined that this demanding lover—her beloved, her husband—would call this wildness up from her.
"I love your chest, the way you're made," she said as she cast aside his shirt. She stroked through the coarse thatch of hair, then kissed the vivid scar in the middle. "And I love this. Without it, you wouldn't be here, and neither would I."
"If you can love it, then I can live with it." He hooked his thumbs into his pants waist, but before he could pull them off, Mariah stopped him, covering his hands with hers. She'd cut through the obstacle of his patch; now she wanted it all.
"Let me. If you don't mind my help."
His internal struggle showed in the sudden tautness of his features, and she knew a sinking regret that he would refuse her for the sake of false pride.
He traced her cheekbone with an aching tenderness she didn't expect, then cupped her chin and slid his lips back and forth against hers.
"It's not that I don't want your help, Mariah. Never again will I refuse you that. The problem is, I'm not a pretty sight underneath, and I wish that I was. For you. God, how much I wish that—as much as I resent not being able to pick you up and carry you to bed." He rubbed his thumb over the moistness he'd left on her mouth. "Shut your eyes while I take my pants off and pretend I'm what I was when you first cared."
"I can't do that. I care too much. What you were, what I was then, are memories. I want what you are, what we both are. Deny me that and you deprive us both."
A long sigh sifted through his lips and he fell back on his elbows. "All right then. Do it."
She could feel his intense gaze on her as she carefully, gently worked the pants down. The sight of him released was mesmerizing, breathtaking. Temptation and curiosity made her stop undressing him, and she gave in to the need to touch, to stroke, to take this wondrous prize that came to life in her hands.
Holding him tightly, Mariah slid her fingers down velvety-soft skin and was rewarded with an anguished groan. She did it once more, and again he made that beautiful, bestial sound.
What he'd done to her, obliterating her modesty and making her writhe, she was doing to him now. Nothing she'd ever read had mentioned the thrill of power that came with pleasuring a man.
Mariah glanced up to verify that she was actually capable of this remarkable feat. Sol appeared to be in the throes of torture. How... curious. Intriguing. Absolutely delightful.
"You like this, what I'm doing to you, don't you?"
"Sweet heaven, Mariah, what kind of question is that?"
Mariah wasn't about to tell him it was the question of a genius who'd unexpectedly found a wealth of knowledge that she now intended to explore to her heart's content.
"You do," she said decisively. "You like it a lot! And so do I."
"Well, thank God for that."
She continued her exploration, growing braver and more inventive, and each manipulation resulted in increasingly ragged groans from him and answering sighs from her.
Her wings were new, and she was completely intoxicated with the rush of first flight and the realization that she was the master of her fate. In this moment, this room, she could be a fledgling sparrow or a soaring eagle. She made her choice.
"If you liked that," she murmured seductively, "I'm sure you'll love this." She lowered her head and discovered him anew with her mouth.
Suddenly, she felt his hands on either side of her head and heard a hoarse command to stop what she was doing. Refusing to let Sol clip her wings, she bravely continued, only to feel his hand twist into her hair and tug firmly. He gently pulled her up.
"Mariah," he bit out, "get the pants off before I decide to leave them on and find out what else you learned from Pat Pong's. Or elsewhere."
His stare was heated, raw, and unmistakably possessive. She realized Sol apparently thought she'd had a lot of experience at this, and didn't like it. Her husband had a jealous streak and he didn't want to share her.
Mariah ducked her head to hide a satisfied smile, then worked the pants down. She beheld the desecration of a masterpiece. Once perfect, now permanently marred, his legs were a patchwork quilt of muscles that had been torn apart and pieced back together. How could he even walk with the crutches and bear it? she wondered, fighting quick tears of compassion.
"Damn, don't you cry."
"I can't help it," she whispered brokenly. "I hurt for you." She tenderly kissed his ravaged leg while she caressed the other, which had seen less abuse. "And your strength humbles me. How much pain you must have gone through to come this far." She raised her head and was greeted by a blue-eyed gaze that reflected passion, steely control, then surprise... and relief.
"Come here." He reached for her and she clung to him. Nestled in his arms, Mariah buried her face against his neck and wept.
"Save your tears for someone who needs them, love," He rocked her back and forth. "I've got all a man could want."
"You do?" She sniffled. His pat on her back became a long stroke, which ended in a massage of her buttocks.
"I've got you. Now if you really want to ease my pain—" Sol rolled her over. Lying atop her, he pressed himself against her. "This is my only need. To be inside you."
"Then be there."
He pressed harder and she gasped at the invasion, the too-full invasion that somehow wasn't enough.
"Mariah?"
"Don't stop." Her fingernails dug into his shoulders and she arched up.
He retreated. "You should have told me." His rebuke was as gentle as the hands that stroked her hair. "No wonder you... God, I must be blind in both eyes. Here, love, hold my hand." He kissed her wedding band and said solemnly, "With this ring, I thee wed."
He wed his body to hers, wooing her with measured thrusts. But she wanted all of him. She loved him, felt it so strongly she breathed the vow again and again. And the words wouldn't stop coming. She was telling him her deepest thoughts, saying he was so tender she wanted to cry, and that she loved him and all his facets, even those she had yet to learn. She'd come so close to losing him. The nightmare of his dying was upon her, and then she was beseeching him. Sol. Sol, make it go away.
"Come home to me, Sol." Her entreaty was frantic, as were her undulating hips. "Please, come home."
"For you, gladly." Sol crushed her lips a
nd entered her mouth with the sleek heat of his tongue.
Pain, such beautiful pain, because he had given it, and in that pain they were sealed shut and made one.
His mouth took the small, sharp cry she couldn't suppress, swallowed it, and sought more. With each crush of chest to breast, each stroke to the tip of her womb, she climbed a dizzying spiral. Then suddenly she was falling, falling into darkness with the rush of hot wind that was his breath and the swirling liquid that was their ecstasy.
They had died, she thought blissfully, died together and emerged entwined in this new life that was full of wonder and promise.
"Home," she cried softly. "I'm finally home."
"Damn if I'm not too." His cracked voice was the sound of a man crying, but without tears. Cradling her face in his hands, he kissed her again and again, tenderly, passionately. "Glory be, if God hasn't cut me some slack and doled out a miracle. He does indeed move in strange and mysterious ways."
"Tell me the miracle." She traced his lips with shaking fingertips. He caught one in his mouth and nipped it.
"The miracle, Mariah, is you."
*
Sol stroked his eye patch as he studied his sleeping bride huddled against his chest on the bed. He'd thought he knew Mariah from the letters, but it seemed the letters had sold her short. She'd gone from blushing bride to wanton sensualist to sweetly passionate virgin. He felt as if he'd made love to three different women.
If it wasn't for the paralyzing pain in his left leg, he'd take each woman again and again, separately and then collectively. Reaching for the second bottle of champagne, Sol spied his duffel bag. The pain pills were in there. He needed them to silence the stabbing pain the booze had only temporarily dulled.
His lips thinned as he remembered the shock of Mariah's fingertip beneath his patch, followed by his grudging respect for her foolhardy courage. She had struck the invisible wall that had kept him insulated in his private prison, had shattered the brittle shell.
Mariah's strength had managed to summon his own. Where had it been? How had he let himself fall into the trap of self-pity she had zeroed in on with unerring accuracy?
Thrusting the sheet aside, Sol was careful not to waken her as he grabbed his crutches and headed for the bag. His grip tightened around the vial of pills when he found it. Before he could change his mind, he went to the toilet and flushed his supply of borrowed relief with a decisiveness that marked the person he had once been and was now reclaiming.
With a sense of resolve, he watched the medication make its swirling voyage into the sewer.
Returning to Mariah, he shut his mind to the pain and gritted his teeth in determination. He would walk again, tall and sure in his steps. He gave himself six months to burn the crutches and carry Mariah to bed.
"Thank you," he said to her sleepy murmurings, then settled her questing hand over his groin. "You gave this back to me, and more. Whatever makes you tick escapes me, but you're in a league of your own."
Sol was more than a little confused and a whole lot intrigued. As he continued to study her, he puzzled over an unexpected element in their relationship. Despite her innocence, she'd forged heedlessly forward, as if embarking on a brave new world she couldn't get enough of. Their lovemaking had sucked him in with her, and there he had regained his footing.
As he tucked the covers around her, a niggling suspicion escalated to an affirmation.
He was falling in love with his wife.
Chapter 7
"We're home," LaVerne announced.
Mariah craned her neck, eager for a view of the farmhouse, but all she saw were rolling green pastures and cornfields as far as the eye could see. Huge trees lined the road, forming a lush tunnel of green. The scenery was breathtaking, picture-postcard perfect. With a rush of excitement, she sent a silent prayer of thanks for this serene haven that was now her home.
"Where is the house?" she asked.
"Down the road a piece," Herbert answered.
Sol leaned closer and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "This is our land." His breath tickled her neck and warmth trickled through her. "Yours too, Mariah."
She turned and was greeted by his watchful gaze. His words flowed through her while the silence sizzled with shared intimate memories. Invisible fingers of heat stoked the fire neither seemed able, or inclined, to bank.
His arm brushed her breast as he reached past her to lower the window, and she felt an immediate spark ignite from the contact. A sensual cast darkened his features and his arm lingered to subtly press possessively against her.
Anticipating a kiss and suddenly in dire need of one, Mariah moistened her lips. Sol's attention was on the flick of her tongue when the car hit a bump. He grimaced.
He was hurting, she knew, just as she knew he wouldn't admit to the pain. Mariah laid her hand across his leg and soothingly stroked, wishing more than anything that she could take his pain into herself, or at least share it and lessen his burden, just as he shared his body and his home with her.
Sol's hand covered hers and squeezed. This they shared too, this closeness that didn't need words. And longing. She felt its forceful pull and she gazed at him with desire. There was a small nick in the strong, shaven jaw that carried his marvelous scent, and the capable fingers interlocking with hers were strong. Lord, he was sexy. And all hers.
"I can't wait to see the whole spread," she said as anticipation heightened. "Will you show me all the places you played in while growing up?"
"After I show you around our house and all the places I'd like to play in now that I'm grown up and have a playmate."
"Sol, shhh." Mariah glanced anxiously at the front seat.
Sol's sudden laughter made LaVerne turn around. "It's good to hear you laugh, son."
"Feels good too, Ma."
LaVerne smiled approvingly at him, and then at Mariah, before turning back. With a wolfish grin, he murmured, "But not half as good as you feel under me. Or beside me."
Color bloomed in her cheeks, from pleasure and mild embarrassment. Heavens, but he was direct, and obviously amused by her discomfort. Miss Lilah would be shocked out of her finishing-school finesse. And her parents, the epitome of propriety, would be horrified if they knew that their daughter, instead of getting ready for medical school, had gone wild over a man who made lewd remarks.
After three days, three glorious days, during which she'd blocked out everything but honeymoon passion, reality had finally intruded on her bliss. Staring out the window and glimpsing the high roof of a barn, Mariah mentally shook herself. So what if something foul was eventually due to hit the fan? This was her home now. Sol was her husband. Life was what she made it, and she would seize it, wallow in it, and relish each experience.
The wind caught at her hair and she shook it out. Turning her face to the sun, she felt its rays in every pore of her skin. One barn became two, then three, and beyond those she could make out several tall cylindrical buildings and a huge white house. It was almost palatial in size, old but well maintained and seeming to breathe with a life of its own.
She felt the tug of Sol's fingers in her hair, and swung around to face him.
"I'll always be beside you," she vowed fiercely. "And I can't wait to see the cottage, to make it our home."
"You won't have to wait." He gave her a quick, hard kiss. "We're here, babe. Welcome home."
The car rolled to a stop across the street from the house, and Sol reached past her to open the door. She scooted out, feeling the rise of great expectations. She didn't let herself look right away, but closed her eyes and mentally drew the picture Sol had painted—a modest cottage on a small lot used by foremen past. Nothing impressive, but sufficient.
Feeling the pressure of his palms on her shoulders, Mariah opened her eyes. She blinked, then blinked again. No, she hadn't imagined the carefully tended lawn teeming with flowers blooming in a riot of vivid colors, or the house that sat like a sparkling gem in the middle.
"Sol." She breathed
his name, then inhaled the heady mixture of flowers, grass, and pure country air. "It's absolutely beautiful."
"Beautiful?" He sounded surprised. "It's been here for as long as I can remember, and I never thought the place more than a hideout when Dad had a list of chores I didn't want to do on Saturday mornings."
"You're wrong. It's so much more than that." Mariah moved one of his hands from her shoulder to her waist. Sol brought both arms around her and hugged her close, his chin nuzzling her head. "You're too close to it, that's all. I wish you could see through my eyes."
"So do I. Tell me what you see."
A lush smile brimmed from her lips to her eyes, which were suddenly moist. Mariah spread her arms, then hugged herself as if she were embracing the vision before her.
"I see lacy gingerbread fretwork dripping like snowflakes from a gabled roof. The wraparound porch looks like a floating oasis, and that white wicker swing is just begging me to curl up in the middle with an icy glass of tea and a book. The awnings are like sleepy lids over pane-glass-window eyes. And the picket fence looks like Tom Sawyer's dupes just put on the last coat of whitewash." She pried her gaze from the house to beam up at Sol. "I half expect Hansel and Gretel to come out any minute. That was always my favorite illustration in the storybooks—and you just gave it to me."
Sol studied Mariah's intent, glowing face, and felt something stir in his chest. He was taken aback by her reaction; Desiree had always turned her spoiled nose up at the thought of living there when they'd been kids pretending to be married.
Tilting Mariah's chin up, Sol absorbed her beatific expression. His wife had class, brains, a tender heart, and a body that wouldn't quit. Which only made him wonder why she sidestepped certain questions. How much was she hiding from him?
He found it hard to imagine her capable of deceit as he felt himself sinking deep, drowning in those doe-brown eyes that glistened with openness, gratitude, joy. Why, she looked as if he'd just given her Buckingham Palace. Strange, since she came from purebred stock. Not that she'd told him, but he'd put the signs together and figured that out. Among other things.