The Bride of Willow Creek(91)

Her fingers fumbled at the buttons on his shirt while he kissed her eyelids, her nose, her cheek, the trembling corners of her mouth. He caressed her breasts and felt her stiffen, then lean into his palms with a shudder of pleasure. His shirt parted and her hands, warm and eager, slid across his chest. She made a sound deep in her throat that made him feel wild inside.

Feverishly they tore at each other’s clothing until they were naked in the darkness, discovering each other by touch and small gasps and murmurs of pleasure.

When Sam would have risen above her, she surprised him by pressing him flat on the ground. Then she kissed his throat and chest, and her lips burned nips and kisses down his body until he writhed beneath her attention and sweat slicked his brow.

“Angie. . . ,” he whispered, then sucked in a hitching breath as her hand closed around him.

She lifted her head. “Shh. You did this to me.”

A shudder of deep pleasure rippled down his body, and he stroked her naked back with his fingertips. In the darkness with innocence and anxiety no longer a factor, she shed all inhibitions in the delight of exploration and discovery. Using lips and hands, she found his greatest pleasure and her own power and reveled in both.

When he finally reared above her and plunged forward, she lifted to receive him and whispered his name. And it was as if they had been together always, attuned to each other’s needs, to each other’s rhythm. He knew the moist inner heat of her, the way her eyes would shine up at him, the way her lips parted and her breath emerged in small gasps. He knew her, and yet he had only begun to discover her.

One thing he understood without doubt. Afterward as she lay in the crook of his arm, panting to catch her breath, he knew he would never have enough of her.

Good Lord A’mighty. Sam’s eyes widened in astonishment. He was falling in love with his wife. Correction. It had already happened. He loved her. Damn.

Closing his arms around her, he buried his nose and mouth in her tangled hair. He wanted to hold her forever, but it wouldn’t happen.

When he awoke in the morning, lying on the ground next to his cot, Angie was gone. She came into the kitchen as briskly as always, with her hair pinned up, wearing an everyday skirt and a high-collared shirtwaist.

“Your shaving water is on the back of the stove,” she said, as if nothing momentous had occurred between them.

Lucy poked her head out of the girls’ bedroom. “Since there’s no school, can we wear our wrappers to the table?”

Sam started to answer, then realized Lucy had addressed the question to Angie. His eyebrows rose and a smile of pleasure curved his lips.

“No,” Angie said, an answering smile twitching her mouth. “Get dressed, please. Do either of you need help with your hair?” For summer play, the girls had been wearing braids.

“I can plait Daisy’s hair, but I have trouble with mine.” A shy, almost apologetic expression stole across Lucy’s face. “Would you help me?”

In the past, Lucy had been more likely to reject Angie’s help than to request it. Sam studied the long look the two exchanged. Something was happening here, something good.

“I’d love to do your hair,” Angie said softly, walking toward their room.

Breakfast was Sam’s favorite meal, even if he had to cook it himself. He liked starting a brand-new day where the dawn shimmered with promise and anything could happen. Most of all, he liked sitting down at the table with his wife and daughters. He’d rather eat bacon and eggs with Angie and his girls than dine with the crowned heads of Europe. He smiled at his daughters and realized the flyaway days had ended. Since Angie’s arrival his girls looked neat and tidy, and their clothing fit.

Lucy and Daisy stared back at him with puzzled expressions.

“What?” he asked.

“You two keep looking at each other funny,” Lucy said. Daisy nodded, swiveling her head between Sam to Angie.

“Funny? I don’t know what you mean.” But he had a suspicion.

Lucy gazed at Angie, who kept her gaze demurely downcast. “You both have, I don’t know, soft eyes. Don’t they, Daisy?” Daisy nodded. “And usually you complain about the way Angie eats her eggs, but you haven’t said a word.”

He stared at the godawful mess on Angie’s plate, then she raised dancing eyes, and they both burst into laughter.

Sam couldn’t have explained what was so wonderfully funny about Angie’s stirred-up eggs and him forgetting to comment. He only knew he had loved ending yesterday with her in his arms, and he loved starting a new day looking at her across the table. He loved knowing she’d be here when he came home tonight, tired, dirty, thirsty, and longing for the softness of a woman’s voice.