She brushed his chest with her fingertips, dropping her eyes to follow the movement instead of meeting his frown. “Brian, there’s something I haven’t told you about my surgery.”
In a split second a dozen fledgeling fears spiraled through him, all dire: the surgery had somehow taken away more than met the eye, and they’d never have the babies he was dreaming of.
“Oh no, Brian, not that.” She read his trepidation, soothingly bracketed his jaws. “I can have babies—all I want. And I do want them. But ...”
Again she dropped her eyes while her fingers rested against his chest. “But I’ll never be able to nurse them. Not after the surgery.”
For a moment he was still, waiting for the worst. Suddenly he crushed her tightly. “Is that all?” he sighed, relieved. She hadn’t known he was holding his breath until it rushed out heavily upon her temple. Her lips were on his warm collarbone as he secured her fast and rocked her in his arms.
“It doesn’t matter to me, but I thought you should know. I thought in case you had any feelings about it we should talk about it now. Some men might consider me only ... well, half a woman or something.”
He pulled back sharply. “Half a woman?” He sounded gruff as he squeezed her shoulders. “Never think it.” Their eyes locked, and she read in his total love and approval. “Think about this.” He drew her into the warm curve of his body as he rolled aside and snuggled her so near, his heartbeat was like a drum beneath her ear. “Think about everything we’ll have some day—a house where there’ll always be music and a gang of little redheaded rascals whose—”
“Brown-haired,” she interrupted, smiling against his chest.
He went on with scarcely a missed beat “Redheaded rascals whose freckles dance when—”
“Oh no! No freckles! If you give me freckled, redheaded babies, Brian Scanlon, I’ll—”
The rest was smothered by his kiss before he grinned at her, continuing. “Redheaded rascals whose freckles dance when they play their violins—”
“Guitars. I won’t have anybody hiding under any violins!”
“Mrs. Scanlon, will you kindly stop complaining about this family of ours? I said they’ll be redheads and I mean it. And they’ll play violin in the orchestra and—”
“Guitars,” she insisted. “In a band. And their hair will be deep brown like their daddy’s.”
She threaded her fingers through it and their eyes met, heavy-lidded again with resurgent desire. Their bodies stirred against each other, their lips met, tongues sipped, and hearts clamored.
“Let’s compromise,” she suggested, scarcely aware of what she was saying, for already his hips were moving against hers.
He began speaking, but his voice was gruff and distracted. “Some redheads, some brown, some with freckles, some with guitars, some with vio—”
Her sweet seeking mouth interrupted. “Mmm-hmm ...” she murmured against his lips. “But it’ll take lots of practice to make all those babies.” Her breasts pressed provocatively against his chest. She writhed once, experimentally, glorying in her newly discovered freedom. “Show me how we’ll do it.” Their open mouths clung. His strong arm curved beneath her and rolled her atop him, then he settled her hips upon his, found the soft hollows behind her knees and drew them down until she straddled him in soft, feminine flesh. He pressed her hips away, and ordered thickly against her forehead, “Love me.”
Her heart surged with shyness. Then love moved her hand. Hesitantly she reached, found, then surrounded.
Their smiles met, faltered, dissolved. Eyelids lowered as she settled firmly upon him. A guttural sound of satisfaction rumbled from his throat, answered by her softer, wordless reply. Experimentally she lifted, dropped, warming to his encouraging hands on her hips.
Drawing back, she found his eyes still shuttered, the lids trembling.
“Oh, Brian ... Brian ... I love you so much,” she vowed with tears beginning to sting.
His eyes opened. For a moment his hands calmed the movement of her hips, then they reached to draw her face down as he kissed the outer corner of each eye. “And I love you, sweets ... always,” he whispered, drawing her mouth to his to complete the promise within it. “Always ... always.”
In the living room a forgotten record circled, circled, sending soft music down the hall. To its lazy rhythm their bodies moved. At the windows, sheets rippled, and beneath two lovers the soft swell of confined water rose up as an afterbeat to their rhythmic union. They would build a repertoire of sweet memories throughout their years as man and wife, but as they moved now, reaffirming their love, it seemed none would be so sweet as this moment that bound them in promise.
When their bodies were gifted with the manifest of that promise, when the sweet swelling peaked and the shudders ceased, they reaffirmed it once again.
“I love you,” spoke the man.
“I love you,” answered the woman.
It was enough. Together, they moved on toward forever.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
LaVyrle Spencer, Sweet Memories
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