* * * * *
Hers
She knows he's watching from the bathroom doorway even as she concentrates on blending her eye shadow. She picks up her mascara. How he can think there's ever a time she's not aware of his presence, that she can't sense his arrival? After she checks her eyes one more time, she turns to him and smiles.
"What?"
A flush rises to his cheeks. His right hand is touching his wedding band again. Does he know she does the same thing countless times a day? That she rejoices in the smooth feel of the gold, in the sparkle of the solitaire diamond that once belonged to his grandmother? She wonders how she found him, an artisan in her world of corporate conformity. Someone so transparent, buried in the throng of men who hide their feelings behind masks of neutrality. She remembers how the first time they made love, she could hold back nothing of herself, and he accepted all of her, and gave all of himself in return.
"Nothing," he says. His blush deepens and spreads to his ears.
Her breath catches for a moment as she thinks of running her fingertips behind their velvety smoothness. Such a contrast to his calloused carpenter's hands. Those hands that can transform a piece of solid oak into a magnificent piece of furniture. That can reduce her to jelly. She glances at her blouse and slip. She is only half-dressed. Or is she half-undressed?
"You've seen me put on makeup before." Her casual tone belies the throbbing of her pulse.
"Seen, yes. But I never really gave any thought to the process."
"Well, the natural look takes a lot of work." She stares at him, willing him to go listen to the news or read the paper or just go to work. If he stays, she'll be late. A lock of hair falls into her face, and she tucks it behind her ear and turns back to the mirror. Her gaze is on his reflection now. He folds his arms and remains where he is, and his eyes, the charcoal gray of a gathering storm, move up and down her body.
"You've got that funny look on your face again. What are you thinking?" The answer is obvious, as there is no hiding his desire, but she keeps her eyes fixed on the mirror. He swallows, and his tongue glides over his lips before he speaks.
"Nothing. Just wondering how long you'll be."
She lifts her tube of lipstick, twists the bronze cream upward, and stares at it as if it will say what he does not. She loves this man, this newcomer to her daily routine, who fits as if he's been part of it for two decades, not two months. She loves the cleft of his chin, the way he can lift one eyebrow. She loves the way he knows when she needs her neck massaged and when she needs to be held. The way he helps her on with her coat and takes the bags of groceries from her arms when she comes home from shopping. The flowers that appear on her desk. Everything he does says he loves her, and she can be patient. When he initiates the words, it will be from his love for her, not because he feels an obligation to utter them.
She retracts the lipstick, clicks on the cap, and replaces it in the caddy on the counter. Her secretary can handle things for an hour—or two. She shakes out her curls and faces him. "I can be late."
Her hand hangs in the air between them for an extended moment before he takes it and starts for the bedroom. A glance at the chair holding the rest of her clothes makes her smile. Half-undressed, most certainly. She begins to unbutton her blouse, keeping her gaze fixed on his strong, squared fingers as they work the disks of his own shirt through their buttonholes. Does he have to control the trembling as she does? Inch by inch, he reveals the silken hair on his chest that points downward to his navel—and below.
His fingers are at his waist now, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his jeans. She insinuates her hands under his and works his zipper down. She hears one intake of breath, then nothing but the sound of metal parting. When he is free, she reaches for him. His heat sends waves of desire through her. He presses against her, and she meets his lips with hers. As she probes his mouth, she tastes coffee and smells the blend of her perfume with the musk of his aftershave. Their passion grows as he returns her kiss, and it is here, she thinks, that their souls begin to merge. Two equals, both giving and receiving, neither dominating, becoming more than the sum of their parts.
Clothing disappears, and they sink together as one onto the pale blue sheets. And when she takes him inside her, and he takes her breath away, she knows again how much he loves her. She gazes into those storm-cloud eyes and, before she can speak, his fingers are on her lips. For the first time, he is the speaker, not the echo. He brings his lips close to her ear. "I love you."
He kisses away the tear that rolls down her cheek, and she smiles in contentment.
"I know."
* * * * *
About the Author
Terry Odell began writing by mistake, when her son mentioned a television show and she thought she'd be a good mom and watch it so they'd have common ground for discussions.
Little did she know she would enter the world of writing, first via fanfiction, then through Internet groups, and finally with groups with real, live partners. Her first publications were short stories, but she found more freedom in longer works and began what she thought was a mystery. Her daughters told her it was a romance so she began learning more about the genre and craft. She belongs to both the Romance Writers of America and Mystery Writers of America.
Now a multi-published, award winning author, Terry resides with her husband in the mountains of Colorado. You can find her online at:
Her website - https://www.terryodell.com
Her blog - https://terryodell.blogspot.com
Facebook -https://www.facebook.com/terry.odell
Twitter - https://twitter.com/authorterryo
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