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“You do glow in the moonlight,” his low voice rumbled.
I opened my mouth. “Gus, there’s no moon tonight…” I began, but he moved his hand to my jaw and rubbed his thumb over my lower lip. A moan slipped out from under my breath and one corner of his mouth turned up in a sly expression, not quite a smile.
“Your lips are so full. This bow, right here. I love this pouty upper lip. It’s slightly bigger than the bottom. I’ve always been fascinated with your lips.” He straightened his face, giving me the non-expression study-face again, only this time it was slightly starry-eyed. “I didn’t know what to expect with you, Decca, but it wasn’t this. I—”
He moved in again, this time kissing me more fully. He forced my lips apart and peppered kisses over the top one, the one he seemed enamored with. His tongue slipping out to discover my taste with a moan. His or mine?
My own mouth moved against his, my tongue flicking over his lips, gently nibbling before moving in farther, seeking out his tongue to entwine it with mine.
I was ravenous for his kisses, but it wasn’t enough. Under my thigh, I felt him grow hard, and I didn’t move away. I needed more.
We grew frantic. Every touch was harder, deeper, stronger. His hands slipped up the bodice of my dress, gliding over the satin fabric. The only layer between his hand and my breast. I didn’t need any support and the back of my dress was so low, a bra would never have worked. His fingers found my hardened nipple and teased it through the glossy fabric.
“Unzip it, please,” I begged. He stilled for just a moment before carefully, too slowly, reaching both hands behind me for the zipper of my dress.
Slowly, he pulled, the teeth unzipping smoothly, inch by inch.
Then he stopped.
Something changed in his eyes. His mouth clamped shut and his jaw tensed.
“Gus?” I put my hand on his cheek. He winced under my touch before looking down.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” he said into his lap. He lifted me off him and stood. He didn’t even look back as he strode into the house.
Decca
My hands slipped betweenthe cool cotton sheets, feeling for a warm body.
Maybe he’d snuck in sometime during the night. Maybe he’d changed his mind about the guest room.
Nothing.
I told myself it was only my fingers that were disappointed to find air instead of a solid block of Gus next to me. It was only my senses that craved the satin of his skin and the rough stubble of his beard. But I didn’t quite believe my own lie.
There was a moment last night when I might have imagined Gus and me waking up together this morning, finding each other after the separation of sleep, spending hours lazing in bed, discovering each other’s bodies, talking about everything from the mundane to the magical in between long slow sessions of tangled lovemaking and exploratory kisses—after we’d both brushed our teeth.
Then something had snapped inside him and he’d run away so fast, I couldn’t even ask himwhat I’d done.
I didn’t understand it. He’d been so flirtatious, so confident. In the weeks before our wedding, it had reached a fever pitch, and he was the one in the lead. I was sure it would escalate to something more than kisses last night, the way he was groaning into my mouth.
Probably better this way. Go slow. That’s what we said we’d do.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t help things along.
I pulled on my new-to-me, peachy pink vintage silk robe—a wedding gift from Bethany, who thought I needed a proper newlywed lingerie trousseau, which ended up being a steamer trunk filled to the brim with her hand-me-downs. The ones that fit, anyway. She was about seven inches taller than me, with curves and huge boobs. Any garment that could accommodate her proportions would probably drown me. Most of the items—garters, chemises, robes, stockings, corsets—she wore once (or never) on a past shoot from her modeling days. Too pretty to throw away, but lingerie was not her style.
That suited me well, since my stupid ethical compass rarely allowed me to purchase anything brand new, whether it was a car or an item of clothing.
I could virtue signal and claim it was all in the name of lowering my carbon footprint, but in all honesty, my frugality and resourcefulness were probably more holdovers from my childhood. Before Granny got custody of me and moved us to middle Tennessee, so that I might escape the same drug-and-poverty riddled plight that took my parents, my family lived in Culver’s Hollow, in East Tennessee, and those roots were planted deep in Appalachian culture.
Granny was the daughter of the daughter of the daughter of Scots/Irish and German immigrants that lived off the bounty of the mountain and the goodwill of their neighbors from a timegoing back to the 18thcentury. That meant—well, a lot of things—but chiefly, that nothing went to waste. Not a hog tail, not a broken hoe, not the last slice of stale cornbread or spoonful of beans.
Certainly not exquisite Parisian silk from the 1930s.
I cinched the belt, shivering as the silk slipped against my bare skin. I hadn’t bothered to put anything on underneath it. Maybe Gus would take one look at me in this, hoist me onto the counter and christen the kitchen.
Probably not, but I’d be ready just the same.
