Authors: Nancy Frederick
"Oh I don't think it will be so bad," said George Healy, opening the door of his car and helping her inside before Annabeth could insist once again that she was fine.
"Where to?"
"Old Magnolia Bayou," she said, wishing she could exit the car and run up the street to her own vehicle.
Without comment, George pulled into the street and drove smoothly toward her house.
He reached over and turned off the radio, then turned the air conditioning up.
"The cold air ought to help you."
Annabeth nodded.
"You know, I've never seen you in the bar before."
"I've only been a few times for supper.
I'm really not a drinker."
"Celebrating something?"
Annabeth shook her head, then feeling herself rude for being so unresponsive to this man who was going out of his way to help her, she added, "Nothing to celebrate today at all.
Horrendous."
"I've had a few of those."
Turning onto her street, George slowed down, then pulled smoothly up to her door.
"Say.
You have all the original gingerbread."
He turned off the car, pocketed the keys, opened the door, then walked to Annabeth's side to help her out.
"Thank you so much for the ride.
But really, I'm fine."
George silently steered her to the porch, then stopped to examine the railings, the shutters and some other details of the house.
"I've restored a few of these myself.
Talk about a labor of love.
But what a fine job you've done here.
And the embellishments are charming."
Annabeth fumbled with the key, turning to answer him, "Oh you mean my little designs.
Thanks.
Some think they're pretty eccentric."
George ran his hand along the wood of the door frame.
"I'd love to see the rest of the house."
Annabeth was searching for the excuse she needed to refuse him entry, but her mind was foggy and while she fumbled, the clouds above crashed together in a mighty clatter and then from them came the torrent that she had predicted earlier.
She had no choice; she couldn't send him off in a downpour.
"Come in for a minute then.
The rain won't last long."
George followed her into the house, waited while she fed the cat, retrieved a bottle of aspirin from the kitchen and downed a couple.
"And you painted all the designs inside as well?"
Annabeth nodded.
"Could I offer you some coffee?"
"Love a cup.
Probably do you good as well."
While the kettle heated, Annabeth led George through the house, answering his questions, stopping as he examined a piece of molding or built-in and then moving forward until they were back in the kitchen where she prepared two mugs of coffee and set them on the table.
George remained standing, sipping his coffee as Annabeth asked him, "You're a builder?"
"No, real estate."
"Oh, I see."
George walked toward the stairway.
"Let's finish the tour."
Without waiting for Annabeth, he climbed up to the second level, forcing her to follow along behind him and do the same routine she had done downstairs.
When they came to a halt in her bedroom, Annabeth stood nervously, both hands clutched around the mug she had brought with her.
George seated himself comfortably on the bed and looked toward her.
"Recently separated, huh?"
She nodded.
"Well, thanks for seeing me home," then walked toward the door, hoping he would arise and follow her down the stairs.
"How's the headache?"
"I'm sure it will be fine in a bit.
You've been very nice."
"I know a little accupressure," he said, rising from the bed and walking over to where Annabeth stood, putting his hand on her arm before she could exit the room.
"Trust me, Annabeth, you're safe."
He led her toward the bed, pressed her down against it so that she was sitting on the edge, facing out.
His hands massaged the knotted places in her shoulders and neck.
"Just relax," he commanded.
Not knowing how to leap up and eject him without being terribly rude, Annabeth sat, tensely at first, but in a short amount of time she allowed herself to relax as he expertly massaged her shoulders.
His hands were strong and smooth and his motions controlled and comforting.
Breathing deeply, Annabeth let go of the headache, of the various events of the day which had pounded at her like a series of strokes on an anvil, until all she was aware of was the healing presence of his hands on her shoulders.
"So many knots," he said in a voice that was knowing yet patient.
"Been a long time, hasn't it?"
She nodded, although she did not stop to think to what he referred.
"Here, lie back."
His hands guided her gently back against the bed, but she stopped, reaching to sit up once again.
"No, no," he said, "I can't reach your back properly that way.
Don't worry."
So Annabeth lay, face down, and George kneaded her mid-back, releasing the kinks that had been there since the summer.
She sighed now and then, floating inside her body, her mind at peace.
Relaxing his grip to a sensuous stroking, George slid first one hand then the other along the bare skin on her back, beneath her blouse.
Almost before Annabeth realized it, he had unhooked her brassiere and had pushed the blouse up as far as it would go, his fingers gently kneading each little bump of her backbone.
Unhooking the button closing the waistband of her skirt, he was able to push it down a bit so he could massage the base of Annabeth's spine.
Very relaxed, yet aware she should make him stop, Annabeth stirred.
"Thank you.
That was so nice.
But..."
"Not yet.
Don't worry.
You're fine.
Your feet."
He reached gently inside Annabeth's skirt, along the outside of her hips and grasping both panties and panty hose, pulled them down, down, down, until she was naked beneath the skirt.
"No, no," she said.
"Relax, you're fine."
In hands that were strong and sure and very practiced, he took each foot, pressing deeply with confident thumbs that knew exactly where each spot in need of attention lay, rubbing gently, sliding up and down and back again until all pressure points were activated.
Annabeth sank deeply into a relaxed calm, thinking very little, feeling the power of his hands on her skin, and she let go of the final shred of anxiety that nagged at her.
No longer worried about what she should do or what she was doing, she allowed herself to receive from him the attention that he was lavishing on her.
How wonderful his hands were.
He knew exactly how to touch her, how long, how hard, and when to move to another spot.
Her mind wandered deeper into sensual thoughts of pleasure, and her body was focused on pure sensation.
George worked now on her left calf, his fingers rolling the muscle into blank relaxation, the cramping of hours on foot released, and then he slid his hands along her thigh, caressing gently, sliding his palm up her thigh and against her buttock.
He relaxed back against the bed then, lying on his side, leaning against Annabeth, and reached over and kissed the middle of her back, sliding his lips along her bare skin.
Feeling the heat of his lips on her back, Annabeth thought to herself, I could pretend; she sighed in pleasure, thought I could pretend, I was drunk after all; her breath came faster and she thought I could pretend I'm not in charge; she gasped a bit, tried to right her breathing, feeling his hand slide up deep between her legs, thought I could pretend I didn't know what I was doing; she gave in to the intensity of the moment, as his other hand pressed against her side, turning her toward him, and thought pretend it was just him doing it all, not me; feeling him push her blouse up over her head and off and his mouth capturing her nipple, she groaned with desire, wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing him tightly to her, and thought, oh no I won't pretend, I want it.
Her eyes fluttering open occasionally, looked down at George as he floated above her breast, grazing now and then in many ways, all of them exciting.
Leaning back abruptly he unbuttoned his slacks, reached in the pocket, tossed something onto the table beside the bed, hurriedly unzipped them, and twitching once, divested himself of them.
Wanting to touch him, but too shy to assert herself, Annabeth paused, gathering her breath, her nerve to continue, which he could clearly see, and smiling he pressed her hand to the spot she sought, causing her to grasp him just tightly enough, gasping again at the wonder of it all.
"Oh," she said, and smiled slightly, saying again, "Oh." To touch…a man…to touch…I want to…
"It's always you quiet ones," he answered, wanting to wait no longer, having been ready for a long time.
He reached over and kissed her mouth quickly for the first time, his need and urgency plain, and then reached to the table, opened the packet and removed its contents as Annabeth watched him.
How funny to see a man do that.
She was glad he was doing it, for how would she ever have broached such a subject herself?
Her first condom! But she'd wanted to….
Then he was upon her and soon they moved together.
"Oh," she said again, her breath a short shock of air burning her lungs.
She held him tightly to her, adjusting the rhythm of her thrusts to match his, concentrating, knowing she must hurry if she were to gain her own fulfillment before he found his and stopped, but his pace was constant, his breathing steadier than her own, and Annabeth found there was plenty of time, all the time she needed, and then when they reached the same plane of arousal together, she relaxed deeply and rode with him, feeling his breathing escalate to match her own, his urgency a counterpart of the tensions she herself was experiencing, and then just being in her flesh, sensations like the thunder and lightning that raged outside filling her with joy once again to be alive.
His breath coming in great gasps to match her own, he let go and together they finished, rocking and holding each other tight against the earthquake inside them.
George remained on top of Annabeth, her arms holding him tightly, their skin flushed, dripping, stuck together in heat and the aftermath not of love but of lovemaking.
He rolled then onto his back, and not wanting to let him go, Annabeth slid over, placed her head on his shoulder and let the softness of her hands soothe him in long, gentle strokes along his chest.
"Oh, my," she said.
He smiled sleepily, then relaxed back against the pillow and was soon snoring, leaving Annabeth to her thoughts.
She'd never thought a man could be as exciting as R.J., but what did she know?
She never had a man other than R.J..
She'd thought her life was over, that she would be alone, but here was someone new to love, just like that.
And he was every bit as good a lover as her husband, maybe better.
How about that?
Relaxing into thoughts of a future far less bleak than the one previously imagined, Annabeth drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep, her head pillowed on the shoulder of a man she didn't know at all, except intimately.
The next morning she awakened slowly.
Still groggy, Annabeth glanced at the clock on her bedside table.
Rogers, the cat, blocked her view.
He sat there, placidly staring down at her, a look of wounded disapproval on his face.
She reached her hand toward him, touching his soft fur, but he leapt from the table and ran out the door.
Then she remembered.
George.
Annabeth turned over in the bed and regarded the man sleeping there.
Her thoughts organized themselves in her brain into columns, like people do when they're listing the pros and cons of any situation.
On one side, she put, it was a wonderful night.
On the other, what have I done?
Over and over these two warring concepts blazed in her mind.
Holding her hand to her head, Annabeth hoped that yesterday's migraine would not reassert itself.
It had been years since she'd had those headaches, not since Richard's death and that whole thing with Mother Welner.
George Healy awakened then, his head clear. He smiled at Annabeth and reached his arm out, pulling her close, cradling her head on his shoulder.
"Hello sexy, " he said quietly.