Saturday Mornings (The Mississippi McGills)

by Peggy Webb

  “I guess you bring all your women here.”

  “No. Only the special ones.”

  For a moment she pretended she was special, and she was there with Andrew under very different circumstances. She draped her arms around his neck.

  “Show me how special.” Her eyes closed as she lifted her face to his.

  He skimmed his lips across her eyelids and down the side of her cheek. Her head tilted back, and he took her lips once more. He'd always heard that practice made perfect, but he'd never known such perfection as the sweet hot kisses from Margaret Leigh's lips. All the fires she'd kept banked for years smoldered to life.

  The kisses became a prelude to love. If she had been any woman except Margaret Leigh, he'd have taken her in the truck. The intensity of his passion shocked him. How could it be possible that he was rasping for breath and fogging up the windows over a woman he merely intended to save? He drew back from her and tried to see her face in the darkness. It was a pale shadow.

  “Margaret Leigh, you can back out. Any time you want to, just say so, and I'll take you home... or wherever you want to go.” He traced her cheeks with his fingers as he talked, hoping to calm her, hoping to keep her from thinking he was rejecting her. “It's not that I don't want you. You are a lovely, desirable woman. But I want you to know that you're in control. Tell me no, and I'll stop.”

  “Don't stop.”

  Without another word, he got out of the truck and came around to her side. He lifted her out and carried her into the house. Not a single lamp burned to light their way to his bedroom. His footsteps were loud as he walked down the hallway.

  It was the longest walk of Margaret Leigh's life. Wrapped in Andrew's arms and shrouded by darkness, she felt as if she had begun a long journey into a far and mysterious realm. Sounds were magnified for her: Andrew's footsteps hammering on the wooden floor; his breathing, heavy with passion; her own breathing, tight and labored; even the blood pumping through her body sounded loud in the cool, dark quiet of the cabin in the woods.

  She clung to the front of his shirt. Feeling his solid flesh underneath grounded her in reality. Otherwise she might have thought she was in the middle of one of her most vivid romantic dreams.

  Andrew kicked open his bedroom door. The room was dark except for a patch of moonlight leading from the window to the bed. He lowered her into that circle of brightness. Bending, he traced his hands down the sides of her face.

  “You look like you belong here.”

  She couldn't say a word. Now that she was actually in his bed, she was almost paralyzed. Not with fear, not with anger. She had expected both those emotions. What surprised her was that her paralysis came from anticipation of the unknown.

  Andrew leaned closer. The moon spotlighted his eyes, and they were so clear and bright, it almost hurt to look at them.

  “I'm going to teach you, Margaret Leigh.” His hands traced her face and throat as he talked. “When a man and a woman come together, it is not just a meeting of bodies; it's a meeting of the heart, the mind, and the soul.”

  His voice was achingly tender. It almost made her forget her plan. He was weaving a spell over her, and she was caught up in the enchantment.

  His hands were on her coat buttons. “Love is best when savored. I'm going to savor you, pretty one... and teach you to savor me.”

  She let him slide the coat off and watched while he carefully laid it on a chair. How far should she let him go? How much undressing would it take before she had Andrew in a state of unbridled, uncontrollable passion? Right now he was totally in control. She'd thought sex would be different. She'd imagined that he would push her skirt up and start a frantic exploration of her body. She had thought she could lie back, unfeeling, until the time came to walk out and leave him panting.

  She was the one panting. His voice, his eyes, his touch—she was bewitched by them all. He was back again, unzipping her dress and sliding it ever so slowly down her shoulders, and she felt as if her body had suddenly become a violin and Andrew was the maestro. Only his fingers skimmed over her, tracing the lines of her silk slip, and yet every inch of her was vibrating with the music of his touch.

  He whispered her name, “Margaret Leigh,” ever so softly. She glanced into his eyes and she knew she could not turn away. Not tonight. She had to have what he offered under any conditions. It didn't matter that he was only teaching her a lesson. It didn't matter that she had vowed she would never make love with him. Nothing mattered except the moment and the beautiful symphony created by the magic touch of the maestro.

  She lifted her arms to him.

  “I'm here, Andrew.”

  Until that moment Andrew had thought he was rescuing her from the clutches of an uncaring stranger. He had thought the session in his bed would be like so many others, a brief exchange of pleasure between two people. He hadn't counted on his feelings. Suddenly, he knew. He wasn't being noble. He was nobody's hero, nobody's knight in shining armor. He was in love.

  The shocking revelation made him motionless. He could do nothing except bend over her, looking deep into her beautiful eyes and wondering when he'd fallen in love and how he could have been so blind.

  He pulled her up and cradled her in his arms. With his face in her fragrant hair, he crooned to her. “Until you, I never knew the meaning of the word special. I never knew what it was like to cherish merely a glimpse of a woman, to watch across a crowded room and feel delight at the sight of dark mahogany hair or the soft curve of a cheek.”

  He rocked her on the bed, gently, back and forth, her silk-clad body pressed tightly against him. “I never knew that a woman in a blue taffeta dress would fill all my dreams. I thought nothing would ever satisfy me again except the taste of a pair of lush lips.”

  He was silent for a while, holding onto her and the wonder of being in love. There had never been a moment in Andrew's life when he didn't move with absolute certainty. Now he was filled with doubts. How could he make love to her under the circumstances? She was using him to forget, and she believed he was teaching her a lesson. Ahhh, but how could he let her go? She would consider it another rejection, or worse. And if he declared his love, she'd think it was only a ploy, a part of the game she thought he was playing.

  He caught her right hand and twined their fingers together. Then he squeezed very tightly, as if he could never let her go. And he couldn't. He wouldn't. If he refused her now, even if he offered an explanation, she would flee into the arms of another man.

  He closed his eyes briefly and prayed for the wisdom to make this night beautiful for Margaret Leigh. She lay against the covers as he stood up and undressed. When he was naked, he settled down beside her.

  “Touch me, Margaret Leigh.” He took her hand and guided it over his chest. “Know my body.”

  Her breathing quickened, but she didn't pull back. Her fingers curled into his chest hair, and his heart hammered with a force that surprised him. He had thought there were no surprises left for him in the bedroom. He had been wrong. As her hand moved timidly over his chest, he felt like a schoolboy about to receive his initiation into the joys of the flesh.

  “See what you do to me.” He covered her hand with his and moved it lower. Her hand trembled then steadied. “You have this power, Margaret Leigh. To make me an instrument for your pleasure—” his hands skimmed over the curve of her hips “—and for mine.”

  He traced the line of her hips again, talking softly all the while. “Let me touch you. Let me know your body.”

  Her head arched back, and as the pleasure of being touched spread through her, she began to move.

  He removed her slip. She had an elegant body, small waist and breasts, long legs and hips molded with feminine curves. He bracketed her tiny waist then moved one hand upward to span her chest. Andrew smiled with appreciation. Margaret Leigh was a woman designed for love. She had an innate sensuality that many women tried for and never achieved.

  With a great force of will, he held himself in check. If he
skipped the preliminaries, he would destroy any chance of truly giving her pleasure.

  “You are beautiful, Margaret Leigh, every inch of you.”

  He moved his hands lightly over her, letting her get accustomed to his touch. With the tenderness of a man amazed by love, he tasted all her secret places and reveled in her soft sounds of pleasure.

  “I never knew,” she whispered.

  “When a man and a woman love, there are many ways to give each other pleasure. Do you want me to continue, my love?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Slowly, ever so gently, Margaret Leigh came to life. Feelings she'd never known coursed through her. She felt both tightly strung and as liquid as hot honey pouring from a jar. Every nerve ending, every muscle, every fiber in her body awakened. Until that moment she'd been a sleepwalker, going through the motions of being alive. With Andrew she was alive, vibrantly, vividly aware of every small movement of his skin against hers, of their mingled scents, lavender and leather, roses and pine.

  “Andrew... please.”

  His fingers stilled. “Please stop?”

  “Nooo.”

  Suddenly she tightened, then shattered. She cried out with astonishment. He sat up, taking her with him, and cradled her in his embrace.

  “Ahhh, Andrew.”

  “There's more, pretty one. Ever so much more.” He gentled her, pushing her hair back from her damp forehead, running his hands lightly over her back.

  “I want it.”

  “What do you want, Margaret Leigh?”

  “I want... everything.”

  Even now, even after the intimacy they had shared, he needed her consent to continue. He needed to hear her say she wanted him. It was small compensation for unrequited love, but it was enough. For tonight, at least, it was enough.

  He lay down, taking her with him. She was filled with wonder and magic and music. And questions. The single small part of her mind that still clung to sanity, to reality, screamed, Why? Why had Bertha Adams warned against sex? How could something so beautiful be considered sin and degradation?

  And then the questions receded, wiped out by wonder. Together they danced to the music that only they could hear. And suddenly the dancing wasn't enough. She felt a tension growing within her, a wild beast in need of taming. Her hands clenched into fists and sweat beaded her brow.

  “I know, love. I know.” Andrew's lips grazed her cheek, her brow. “Come with me.”

  “Anywhere.”

  The music became wild, savage, and they danced to its primitive beat.

  When release came, sweet and hot, she cried out his name.

  Andrew propped himself on one elbow so he could see her face. It was dewy with sweat and the glow of a woman who has just been loved. All the love he felt for Margaret Leigh welled up inside. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to say the words I love you. She would never believe him. Not now. Not under these circumstances. He stifled a groan. What had he done? In saving her, he had destroyed himself.

  Margaret Leigh took his silence as disapproval. Had she been that bad? Had she been so clumsy, so inept that she had made him speechless? Her eyelids burned with tears, and she shut her eyes tightly to hold them back. She wouldn't compound her sins by crying. What she had considered wonderful, Andrew considered too awful for words.

  She swallowed hard, then opened her eyes. “I want to go home.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  Heartsick, Andrew as he got out of bed. The pain he saw in her lavender eyes was too much to bear.

  “Margaret Leigh—” He stopped. How could he say, I'm sorry? She would misunderstand. She'd think he was sorry he had brought her to his cabin, sorry he'd brought her to his bed, sorry he'd made love to her.

  “Yes?” She waited, hoping he would say something to make it right, wishing he would say anything to make what they had done seem beautiful.

  His gaze held hers for a small eternity, then he turned away. “Nothing. I'll take you home.” He gathered his clothes and started for the door. “Let me know when you're dressed.”

  The door clicked shut. She clenched her hands into fists and held them tightly against her eyelids.

  “I will not let him see me crying.” She rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow. Andrew's scent surrounded her. She inhaled deeply, drawing the essence of him into her soul. She ran her hands lightly over his pillow. This is where he lays his head. This is where he dreams. Would he ever dream of her? There would never be another night that she would not dream of him. She stifled a groan.

  He had been her first, and he would be her last. Andrew had been right. There was more to a man and a woman than sex. There was love.

  Suddenly she felt physically sick. She sat up and hung her head between her legs until the dizziness passed. What had she done? She had used Andrew to forget, and in the process she had destroyed any chance she might ever have had for his love.

  Her body was heavy as she reached for her clothes. She dressed quickly, anxious to leave the scene of her crime; then she opened the door and peered into the hall.

  “I'm ready, Andrew.”

  There was no response. She left the bedroom and found him sitting in the den in the dark, holding Christine. He looked up when he heard her footsteps.

  “I thought you might as well take Christine home, too. I'm finished with her training.”

  “Are you finished with my training, too, Andrew?”

  She hadn't meant to say that, but the words tumbled out before she could stop them. He stood up, and even in the dark she could see that he was rigid with anger.

  “Is that what you call it, Margaret Leigh?”

  “Yes,” she said even while her heart denied the lie.

  “Then consider your training complete.” He strode across the den and handed her the poodle. When his hand brushed against hers, she felt branded. She wanted to catch his hand and hold it to her lips, to beg his forgiveness and understanding. Instead, she accepted her dog in silence.

  “You know all there is to know about sex, Margaret Leigh. But love... that's a different matter.” He started toward the door, calling over his shoulder. “Come. It's getting late.”

  Chapter Nine

  She sat scrunched on her side of his truck on the long drive home. The silence between them chilled her to the bone. If it hadn't been for Christine's small, warm body, she figured she'd have frozen to death.

  When they arrived at her cottage on Allen Street, they sat in the darkened truck, still not speaking. She sneaked a glance at him. His knuckles where white where he gripped the steering wheel, and a small muscle pulsed in the side of his tight jaw.

  A wave of dizziness washed over her again, and she fought the urge to put her head on her knees. Finally he turned to her.

  “Are you ready to go inside, Margaret Leigh?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won't leave again tonight?”

  She turned on him then, fury written in every stiff line of her face and body. “I'm hardly the kind of woman who hops from the bed of one man into the bed of another.”

  He almost smiled. Then he got out on his side of the truck and came around to open her door. He barely touched her elbow as he guided her up the walk and onto her front porch. Bertha had left the porch light burning. The harsh yellow light fell across Margaret Leigh's white face.

  Something in Andrew shattered. He slid one arm around her waist and tipped her face up with one finger.

  “Make peace with Bertha, Margaret Leigh. Make peace with yourself.” She closed her eyes to hold back the tears. “Running away won't solve the problem. It only buries the pain.”

  She bit down hard on her lower lip. The jolt of pain helped her hold back the tears. “Are you through giving lessons for the night, Andrew?”

  “It was never a lesson.”

  “And I'm the queen of Sheba.” She jerked away from him and fumbled with the lock on her front door.

  “Let me.” He steadied her hand a
nd drove the key home. She pushed the door open and slipped through. “Sleep well, Margaret Leigh.”

  She pretended not to hear him. She closed the door and leaned against it. He was still out there, standing on her front porch under the glaring light. She didn't have to look through the peephole to see. She knew he was there. Her whole body was sensitized to Andrew. She would have sensed his presence in a coliseum filled with ten thousand people.

  “It's over,” she whispered. “Everything is over.”

  Christine whimpered. Margaret Leigh scratched behind her ears.

  “We're both home now, little girl. I guess we’ll have to make the best of it.”

  She carried her poodle into the kitchen, retied the dog’s sagging ear ribbons, adjusted the nightlight then tucked her into her basket.

  “We've both been trained by the master, Christine.”

  The little dog snuggled into her covers, a doggy smile on her face, and went straight to sleep.

  Sleep didn't come that easily for Margaret Leigh. Upstairs in her bedroom, she paced the floor. Finally, exhausted by her restlessness, she undressed, throwing her clothes carelessly over a chair. When she was down to her slip, she ran her hands down the length of her body. It quickened at her touch. She moaned his name in the darkness.

  “Andrew... Andrew... Andrew.” In a trance, she walked to her closet and pulled out his chamois shirt. She stuck her arms into the sleeves, hugged it close to her body, and climbed into bed. The sweet remembrance of lying in Andrew's arms washed over her. Her body responded as if he were lying by her side.

  All Bertha's warnings about scoundrels sounded in the back of her mind, and she knew they had been false, just as false as the story about being a loving aunt. And the sex itself... she had wanted mindless passion and raw coupling. What she had gotten was something else entirely. With Andrew, sex had been sweet and tender, hot and torrid, a beautiful symphony, sweeping and majestic.

  And she knew she could never go to Harry Cox or Hooter. She could never go to the carnival and seduce the roustabout. Now she realized how foolish she had been, how childish.