"Rye ..." his wife moaned, her body beginning to quake around him, her tight pussy pulsing and shivering against his erection. "Rye," she called out as she soaked him in honey. Called out his name as her body shook.
And that was all. She was everything. Her body gripped him. Closing his eyes, he roared as he let himself go, releasing into her. She held him, her hands soothing the straining muscles on the back of his neck, her body arching and accepting.
Come pulsed from his body. He was drained, but completely renewed. Rye held his wife's shaking body in his embrace, pressed between his chest and the oak tree. He was shaking with release, floating in pleasure. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on her lush chest. Her breaths were sharp and short, but she held him tight as she gasped for air.
Every muscle in his body quivered, the tension finally released. Holding onto her thigh, he pulled her from the tree and spun them, collapsing into the grass and clover bed, settling her on top of him.
"I've always loved you," she whispered.
He grinned. "I'm glad."
She nipped his ear.
"I've been in love with you since the moment we met." He smacked her on the ass. "Nothing's changed, baby."
"I'm glad."
He felt her body go slack as she relaxed into his embrace. There was still so much that needed to be said, so much that needed to be talked about. But all he wanted to do now was hold her. To be enveloped by the love that had always been so strong between them. The rest could wait. They had a lifetime to make it right, and he meant to enjoy every moment.
The burning sun was gone now, set on the pain of their past. Holding his wife's limp body to his, he inhaled the sweet scent of her. He smiled. They were together again, and the sunset brought the promise of their second chance.
Renee Luke has been writing poems and stories since she first learned to write. After getting a box of Harlequins delivered by mistake, her love of romance novels blossomed from an obsession of reading into the desire to write her own stories of the heart. She writes keeping-it-real erotic romances featuring funky (sub) urban characters who get their groove-on and give up their hearts. She strives to write stories that both stimulate physically and satisfy emotionally. She's a believer in happily-ever-afters and definitely found her own, living in Northern California with her children and her real-life hero, her USMC husband.
THERESE LEONARD STARED AT the spot where her breasts used to be. Back before the crazy began. Before Gary had left and the tests had come back positive and the seemingly interminable rounds of treatment had started. Back when she was just a pretty woman in love with a handsome, successful man.
She turned sideways to the mirror, lifting her right arm so she could stare at the unfamiliar profile of her upper torso, then prodded gently at one of the newly inflated pillows they'd tucked under her skin to replace the poisoned, traitorous flesh. Inflated. The exact opposite of her ego, which had barely survived the dual defection of her longtime boyfriend and her lifetime breasts. Or was that a triple defection, technically? One ass, two boobs?
She sighed and turned forward again, then gently cupped the foreign globes, testing their weight, marveling at their unnatural symmetry. Even the nipples looked real if she squinted a little. Not that anything about the process had been natural. Not the surgery that had changed her life or the treatments that had stolen her hair or the long series of appointments in which they'd blown up the implants a bit at a time, something like going to the orthodontist as a teen, though far more humiliating than having her wires adjusted. Surreal. That's what the whole thing was. Completely and utterly surreal. Except it had really happened. And it was really over, the intense part, anyway. She'd had her final post-surgery follow up this week and then hit Goodwill and her therapist to drop off the last of the crap Gary had left behind. It was time to start rebuilding her life again.
But was she ready to live? Live, live? Not just survive? Because she'd pretty well have to start over a
gain. Her savings and 401K were gone along with the man she thought she'd spend her life with. The house she loved was about to go on the market. A surprising number of the people she'd once called friend had drifted away, too busy or too afraid to cope with the threat of mortality Therese now represented. Her body wasn't the only thing she barely recognized. She still had her job, at least, and she'd always loved that. Besides, she could hardly hang out in limbo until the magical five-year mark passed by. She'd missed too much already, wasting most of a decade with a man she'd always known didn't quite love her. Funny how obvious that fact seemed now--and how easy it was to face. Looking death in the eye had a way of clarifying one's vision, she supposed. Then there were the skipped girls' trips to Las Vegas and the Bahamas, adventures that would have interfered with her determination to pay off the house before they had kids. That foresight, at least, would come in handy once the house sold. They'd been almost there, after all. She supposed she could have bought Gary out. But, somehow, she didn't want to. She liked the idea of being debt free. Stuff free. Free.
She'd missed her fifteenth high school reunion for her final chemo treatment, but she didn't mind. It wasn't like there was a "most likely to be diagnosed with cancer the week after your boyfriend elopes with another woman" award for her to win. Besides, she'd quickly learned that no one knew what to say to a woman her age with breast cancer--not even the other young women with breast cancer. She couldn't imagine spending an entire evening with her old classmates, all of them wondering what was safe to ask. With the big C hovering silently in the background, no one wanted to talk about the other Cs: college, careers, and children. They'd forget she'd had the first two and assume she'd never have the last one. They'd be unable to stop thinking about how it could be them. And how she might die. Just that short time ago, she didn't think she'd survive, either, though her odds were good. Now, she was pretty sure she would. Which made the question she'd posed to herself that much more significant. Given the number of women--and men--who didn't get the option, could she justify not giving her all to the rest of her life? Even if it wasn't the life she'd imagined.
Her phone alarm chirped a reminder to take her vitamins, and she blinked, surprised at how long she'd stood pondering her new contours. She needed to get a move on if she wanted to make it to the cancer center's weekly produce market before the best goodies had been snaffled. Her pulse skipped a beat, not at the thought of the farm fresh eggs she'd come to love, but at the sudden mental image of the farmer himself. Tall, broad-shouldered, and deeply tanned from working in the sun, J. P. Taylor had an easygoing manner that soothed her nerves, eyes that crinkled with his ready smile, and a range of knowledge that made her wonder about his past. Lately, she'd been wondering quite a lot. Dreaming occasionally, too. Then, last week, Nurse Turner had made that silly remark about how much he seemed to enjoy helping Therese choose her tomatoes, and now she couldn't stop remembering the way his strong, calloused hands gently squeezed the firm, ripe fruit. What would those doubtless skillful hands feel like on her body--on the breasts she hadn't yet gotten used to? Not much, according to the literature. But that didn't mean his touch would be any less arousing.
Her face flushed as red as her favorite heirlooms, and she shook her head, laughing at the sheer joy of rediscovering her libido. She paused, then slowly shook her head again, her eye distracted by the slight bounce of the short reddish curls that had grown in since her final treatment. She pulled one out to its full length. Three inches maybe? Not bad. She'd worn her hair straight, long, and blond for so many years that she'd almost expected it to come back that way. Her gaze strayed to the wig block on her dresser, and she fingered the high-quality synthetic golden strands as though touching them for the first time. Fake hair, fake rack, fake love. Was anything real in her world anymore?
Her eyelashes. Those were real again, finally, and pale as always. She reached for a tube of mascara, then stopped. Why? Why did she need to gunk on a heavy coat of God knows what? She'd fought for those lashes, dammit, sat through seemingly endless nausea, plowed through seemingly unendurable pain. It was about time she stopped taking things for granted. Her lashes, her hair, her body. Her relationships. She glanced at the wig again, then slowly opened the top dresser drawer to pull out the sparkly green barrette her goddaughter had given her for her birthday. She fluffed her curls, marveling at their softness, and then carefully clipped the barrette into place. Funny, but the emerald stones brought out her eyes almost as much as mascara ever had, and her natural hair color was far less orange than she'd recalled. Or maybe she was looking at herself with open eyes for the first time.
Time! She glanced at her phone again, then scurried into her closet to choose a skirt and blouse, sparing a thought for their looseness for the first time in a year. It might be time for new clothes, actually. To go with her new outlook on life. And maybe new bras. She'd fought for the breasts, too, after all.
HOLY CROW, SHE WAS a redhead! J. P.'s eyes nearly popped from their sockets, and he blinked purposefully to keep from alarming those around him. The color wasn't surprising, really, given the deep green of her eyes and the creamy fairness of her skin. What shocked him was that she'd covered it up to begin with. Not that there had been anything to cover up for most of the time he'd known her, of course. She'd have been hiding bare scalp and then peach fuzz beneath the wig. God, that must have itched. He rubbed a grateful hand across his own dark hair. The growing-in stage was a bitch. His gaze lit on the pep of her curls again, so different from the smooth, controlled style he'd grown used to. So different from the blinding blondness that had covered her bent head the first day he'd seen her seven months earlier, when her hair was her own. Or not, apparently. Today was much, much better.
Her glance met his and she smiled, a genuine expression of pleasure that pushed the half-dazed glaze from her eyes. His face responded in kind, and he wondered if the grin stretching his mouth looked as silly as it felt. He didn't much care if it did. He'd been waiting for the day she came to life, hoping like hell it would happen for her and longing selfishly to be nearby when it did. Therese glowed every bit as lovely as he'd thought she would, and his heart leaped at the idea that a bit of her new sparkle had to do with seeing him. Something vaguely flirty in the way she held herself said it might. He winked without meaning to, then chuckled silently when she blushed and broke eye contact. She lifted a slender hand to her temple as though meaning to tuck her hair behind her ear. His heart froze as he waited to see how it would hit her, but after a short, startled exploration of the curls beneath her fingers, she laughed out loud and met his gaze again, crossing her eyes and poking the tip of her tongue from the corner of her mouth. Silly, apparently, was all the rage at the moment.
Not the only thing raging, he thought ruefully, shifting as his body tightened in response to her joy. He tried not to imagine kissing her rosy lips as she crossed the room, but it was harder than it had ever been, now that he didn't have to feel guilty about lusting after a sick woman. He tried not to stare at the gentle sway of her hips as she moved, but he was harder than he'd ever been, now that all of her was smiling. Once upon a time, barely there curls and nude eyelashes wouldn't have affected him so much. He was damned glad he'd gotten his perspective adjusted before she'd entered his field of vision.
"Hi."
Whoa. Even her voice had gained new life. Always pleasant, laughter now tinged even that single syllable. Always warm, it now invited him in. A rush of camaraderie and affection flooded his soul, filling him with a weird mix of horniness and hope.
"Hi." Oh geez, the unexpected emotion was thick on his tongue, and she wouldn't have any idea why. Pull it together, J. P. You're going to freak her out. He snagged his water bottle and sipped, hoping she'd think he had something stuck in his throat. Something besides his heart, which was doing its best to Grinch-grow its way out of his chest.
The whisper of an exasperated sigh tickled his eardrum, and he studiously avoided glancing to his left. He knew Aleshia Turner was there and didn't need to look at her to see her eye roll. She'd already given him what-for for obsessively checking the clock all morning and then refusing to admit that he was waiting for Therese to show up. Now he could practically feel her willing him to stop being an idiot, just as she used to will his body to accept the chemo.
"I have eggs," he blurted, then tried not to flinch at the disgusted squeak of the nurse's shoes as she walked away.