“Amanda?” he whispered in her ear.
“Hmm.”
“I thought we were going to have dinner. You said you were going to cook tonight.”
“Oh! I forgot all about that.” She chuckled. “Are you hungry?”
He nodded.
She sat up. “Okay. Let’s eat!” She pulled on a robe and trotted downstairs. He hadn’t mentioned living together. Maybe she should say something. But while they ate, she couldn’t seem to find the right time, the right words. Maybe later.
Sometime before dawn, she woke him and made him promise not to move while she wandered all over his lean, muscular frame with her hands and her tongue. After she had brought them both to a peak of heat and desire, he said, “My turn,” and reciprocated.
The next morning, she snuggled next to him, imagining what it might be like to wake every morning like this, sheltered in his arms, warmed by his presence, by his touch, after a night such as they had just spent loving one another, sleeping, and then loving some more. If they were married, she would have this. But she shied away from the possibility. She sighed and then murmured, “Marcus, we have to stop meeting like this.”
He rose up on one elbow, his blue eyes darkening as he gazed at her. “Hey, you started it, asking for a back rub. And why do we have to stop—meeting—like—this?” he asked, kissing first one breast and then the other.
She delighted in his attentions. Finally, she replied, “I don’t know how many times the Girl Scouts will be having field trips, and I’m not sure I can stand waiting for them to occur so we can be together—like we are now, like we were last night.”
He chuckled deep in his throat as he moved closer. “How long is Cecelia going to be gone?”
“I pick her up on Sunday at the train station at seven—p.m.” She luxuriated in the feel of him.
“We have time. Let’s worry about that later.” He resumed his kissing explorations of her body.
When they finally rose from her bed, they enjoyed a joint shower. Over breakfast, she gazed at him, his hair still wet and curling at the nape of his neck. No doubt about it. She loved being with him. But was that the same as loving him in a forever kind of way? A part of her refused to contemplate it, afraid of what might happen. Like what had happened with Dylan, her future all planned and then those plans shattered so suddenly, so completely, leaving her bereft, floating on a dangerous sea in a boat without oars.
He reached over and brushed his hand across her cheek, his gaze warming her. “You about wore me out last night,” he murmured.
“That was my intention,” she replied coyly. “But you didn’t act worn out. Perhaps you just needed to eat breakfast. Men seem to need more food than women.” She handed him an apple turnover warm from the oven.
“Could be. I have a question for you.”
“Ask away.” She poured them each a cup of coffee. Was he going to ask her what she couldn’t agree to? She sucked in her breath.
“How many articles have you finished in the last few weeks—since we started going steady?”
Relieved, she replied, “Not as many as I’d like. How about you—and Ernie Pyle?”
“Two and a half chapters—not enough if I’m to get it done before the end of spring quarter.” He pulled the skin off an orange, popped a segment into his mouth, and offered one to her.
“Then perhaps we should stop seeing one another—no more dates and, uh, other stuff—until each of us can get more work accomplished.” She arched a questioning eyebrow in his direction.
He groaned. “Now that I know how insatiable you are in bed, I’m not sure I can stand to wait that long.” He looked over at her. “Your mouth is too luscious not to taste again.”
Before she could finish her turnover, he reached for her and they took turns bringing each other to the lip of exquisite anticipation before tumbling over the edge together. They spent the rest of the day in bed.
Toward evening, she handed him an oversized robe. “The pizza guy’s going to be here soon. Could you get it?”
“Sure.”
While he nibbled on his second piece of pepperoni, Amanda gazed at him. Her pulse rose as the words she’d been holding back finally tumbled out. “You’ve never told me about your tattoo, its significance. When did you get it?”
Marcus stiffened in his chair. “Felicity—a woman I used to know. She talked me into it.”
“You must have loved her to have done that. Don’t they hurt—you know—when they insert the needles with the ink?”
His lips were a thin white line, his jaw working sporadically as his hands surrounded his coffee cupin a death grip. He swallowed and then choked out, “She didn’t love me back.”