Authors: Stephanie Fournet
“You need to lie down, Malcolm.” Her voice was soft, but insistent. She pulled him by the hands through the living room and down the hall. They were headed for his bedroom, so he was not about to put up a fight. He would lie down, but sleep held no interest for him.
“I will if you will,” he murmured as they entered his room.
Maren ignored him. She dug in his dresser drawers and came up with a white undershirt and a pair of boxers that she tossed on the foot of his bed. Malcolm had put on his now-ruined suit before they’d left the hospital, and without a word, Maren placed her hands on his chest and, with the slightest pressure, guided him until the back of his thighs hit the mattress, and he sat on the bed.
Maren’s eyes were faux innocence when they met his, and she stepped between his legs, unbuttoning his shirt, which now bore lurid blood stains along the collar. His hands found her waist again as she undressed him, and he slid his fingers under the hem of her sweater to graze her taut abdomen. Her warm skin convinced him that he could live in a world without words.
“No,” she whispered, stepping back again, and this time she pushed the shirt past his shoulders, so for the moment, he could not reach her body. But she had the nerve to skate her fingernails down his chest, giving him over to a delicious shudder.
“Oh, God, Maren,” he panted, pulling his arms free. “Please...”
She slowly shook her head.
“Nurse Walters made it very clear that sex was out of the question tonight,” she said, seeming to admire his abs as her fingers played over them before settling onto his belt buckle.
“Then you’re going to kill me.” He gave a laugh that turned into a gasp when she tugged at his belt. He stilled her hands with his, shaking his head. “I mean it. You can’t undress me if I can’t undress you.”
Maren gave him an even-keeled smile and slowly stepped back.
“Okay, then, Malcolm,” she granted. “If I can trust you to change for bed without further injury, I’ll go find us something to eat.”
Malcolm frowned, which hurt, and the wince that followed hurt, too.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much,” he said, gently pressing the heel of his hand between his brows and willing his face to relax. “I haven’t felt all that hungry lately.”
Maren surprised him when she brought her lips to his cheek and gave him three honeyed kisses, sending a thrilling tingle down his spine.
“Neither have I,” she said. “I’m suddenly starving. Be right back.”
And she sprang away before he could say another word. Malcolm kicked his shoes off and unzipped his pants.
I’m not dreaming
, he told himself.
She’s really here.
He was grateful that he could hear her clanking around in the kitchen as he finished undressing and pulled on the boxers she’d set out. Malcolm decided that he’d save the t-shirt for her.
“Ricardo is being very forward with my ankles!” Maren shouted from the kitchen. “Should I feed him?....Don’t you dare get up, Malcolm!”
A grin of epic proportions took over his face. Malcolm loved the way she yelled across the house. It was so familiar and so foreign at the same time.
“Yes! Please,” Malcolm hollered back, bracing against the condensed ache in his head. “Pantry. Bottom shelf.”
He listened a moment to the click of cabinetry.
“Found it!”
And then Malcolm heard the distinct mewling of impatience that marked Ricardo’s dinner routine. He could also hear, to his heart’s delight, Maren’s cooing words as she told his feline that he was such a good boy.
He heard water running, and more encouraging tones that left her lips, though the words were lost to him. Malcolm pulled back the covers and slipped between them, relishing the way his house had come to life again with her presence. He leaned against the headboard, gave a great sigh—a contented sigh—and felt sleepy for the first time in days.
His drowsiness fled as soon as Maren returned with a small feast. In one hand she held a plate of sliced apples, pears, and Havarti cheese, centered around a mound of smoked almonds. A bottle of water in the other. Balancing these, she climbed onto his bed, kicking her shoes off and reigniting his smile.
“I hope you don’t object to a picnic in bed,” she said, smiling back and setting down her dish.
“I do object,” he countered. “You need to put your pajamas on first.”
He tossed her the t-shirt, and she eyed it with suspicion.
“Wasn’t this supposed to be yours?”
“We’re sharing, right?” he asked, pointing to the little repast. “Food. Drink. PJs. Now, get changed before I have to get up and help
you
.”
He loved the way that her eyes lit and her cheeks blushed, even as she tried to contain her smile. She pushed the plate toward him, and Malcolm absently grabbed an apple slice, but he never took his eyes off her.
Maren then slipped off the far side of the bed, and he watched her shimmy out of her jeans. She let the weight of her hair fall over her face, and Malcolm saw it as mark of her shyness, her self-consciousness. He found it utterly unbelievable that she did not understand that every glimpse he had of her was a gift. Malcolm vowed then to never let her forget it.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asked her, undisguised awe in his voice.
Maren rolled her eyes, grabbed the hem of her sweater and peeled it over her shoulders, leaving her in matching beige bra and panties. The landscape of shoulder, sternum, navel, hip, thigh delivered him from rational thought.
Still shy, she turned from him to unhook her bra. The sight of her spine, the curve of her waist made him sigh with longing.
“God, I love you,” he murmured.
Maren smiled at him over her shoulder before pulling on the t-shirt. She crawled across the bed to him and tucked herself under the covers.
“I love you, too,” she said with equal warmth.
The picnic plate sat between them, but their feet seemed to find each other, intertwining under the blankets. Malcolm raised the apple slice he held to her mouth. She took it with a smile and replied in kind.
She was too far away. In one motion, Malcolm lifted the plate that separated them and pulled her against him. He tucked her under his arm and resettled the plate in his lap.
Maren accepted his demand with only a startled smile, and she leaned her head on his shoulder, letting him trace his fingers up and down the length of her arm. She plucked a slice of pear from the plate and fed it to him, laughing when he sucked her fingers.
The delight in her eyes deepened to something more soulful as she looked into his. He watched her, marveling. As strong as he knew she was, she seemed so small and vulnerable cradled against him. She had been through hell in the last week. It was evident in the shadows beneath her eyes. Even the angles of her face looked sharper; she had lost weight.
The primal protectiveness that she always evoked in him flared again. It was suddenly necessary to layer an apple slice with Havarti and press it to her lips. He decided that he would spend tomorrow cooking for her. When they weren’t making love, of course. Surely, she did not think that she could keep him still for that long.
The cast of her eyes turned pensive.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked, accepting another bite from him.
“Making plans,” he said, vaguely, squeezing her to him. Maren brightened again.
“Like?”
“Banana pecan pancakes, for starters. For lunch, maybe a spinach and mozzarella Panini with a tomato bisque—I have some in the freezer.” They needn’t leave the house. He pictured the deep green of the seared spinach and the vermilion of the soup, and he could see her more restored with every bite. “And for dinner, I was thinking pan-fried tilapia with a vegetable curry.”
Her eyes had grown wide as he had detailed the menu.
“You’re that hungry?” she asked, astonished. Malcolm grinned.
“That’s for you. You’re far too thin.” He eyed her again, noting for the first time the prominence of the collarbone that disappeared under his t-shirt.
“You’re always feeding me,” she said, softly.
Malcolm hesitated for two heartbeats, but then he decided to let her in on the secret, the sacred truth of what it meant. He felt a tugging in his chest as he spoke.
“It has always been my connection to you,” he said, hoping she sensed the depth that was beyond words. Maren pressed her hand against his heart in response.
“It’s real...and it’s metaphor,” he struggled to explain, encouraged by the growing warmth and wonder in her eyes.
“It’s sensual. It’s pleasurable. And more. It’s...life,” he held his breath. The tugging in his chest, just under her palm, seemed fit to burst. Malcolm could hear the humbling rawness in his voice, but he surrendered the words anyway. “Even with all the ways that I am awful, all the ways that I fail, if my love turns harvest and heat and labor and time into
your life
, then I am found,...not lost.”
Maren gazed at him for a moment before her mouth crashed into his. He was dimly aware of the plate clattering to the floor. Her breasts pressed against him as her hands locked behind his neck. Maren’s honeysuckle tongue came home to his mouth, and he moaned.
Her kiss was yin and yang. Her mouth demanded of him and surrendered to him; her tongue desired him and fulfilled him. She was the lover and the beloved. With her kiss, Maren did more than claim him; Malcolm felt as though he was being handed up into sunlight, delivered from underground depths. Humbled and exalted, he understood without words that he was her choice, just as he was.
For the first time in memory, Malcolm felt worthy. It was almost painful, this happiness.
Maren wrenched her mouth away, panting, and pinned her hands against his shoulders.
“Don’t. Move.” She gave this order, and before his eyes, she yanked off the t-shirt, tucked out of her panties, and knelt next to him.
Malcolm was still leaning against the headboard, and he had only to lift his hips when she grabbed the waistband of his boxers. His cock sprang free, tight with desire, and despite her warning not to move, he gathered her in his arms when she climbed on top of him.
Malcolm pulled her to his mouth and smiled through his kiss. With her astride him, his hands were free to feel all of her, every exhilarating inch. Her long back arched under his touch, and he kissed his way down her neck, lingering in the spot where neck became shoulder. Malcolm sheathed his teeth with his lips and bit the tender flesh, something he already knew Maren loved. She collapsed against his chest with a little cry.
He could feel her wetness against him, and when he took a nipple in his mouth, Maren sighed and began to slide up and down the length of him. He shuddered in ecstasy.
“You’re going to kill me,” he groaned, fighting for control, stiffening beneath her.
“Be still,” she whispered against his mouth before running her tongue over his lips. “You are not allowed to bump your head against the headboard. Do you understand?”
He nodded, still kissing her. He would have said yes to anything, but she clasped her hands protectively behind his head anyway. Malcolm took the opportunity to reach down for her, and she raised her hips to give him room.
“Oh, God, Maren,” he swore when his fingers found her slick with desire. Maren’s breath caught as his fingers swam over her, into her, and Malcolm feared he would come just looking at her. There could be nothing sexier than her arousal. And there it was, splashed against her chest in the loveliest of blushes.
She swiveled her hips in response to his touch, and her half-lidded eyes met his. Wordless, they peered into each other. Without breaking her gaze, Maren reached between them, took him, and held him beneath her.
When Malcolm entered her, he gasped at the depths. Her eyes. Her body. Her love. She watched him for a moment and then began to drive them to the precipice. Malcolm had to shut his eyes; just the sight of her on top of him threatened to send him over the edge. For an age, they moved together, and to keep his composure, he became his hands and lips. His whisper was a caress against her ear.
“Madreselva, tu eres mio.”
He lapped at each nipple, and lapping became biting and suckling as the tempo of her breath instructed him. He gripped her thighs, and all the while his thumb rolled against her.
“
Malcolm.”
His name was a sob in her throat, and he chanced to open his eyes to see her climbing, climbing, the agony of her pleasure etched across her face. She was so beautiful.
Without a shred of restraint left to him, he bucked beneath her, driving deeper and igniting her cries. The shock of her climax closed around him a first, a second, a third time before he was lost in the maelstrom of his rapture. She was the sea in which he drowned, gladly, eagerly.
When his blood calmed and his breathing slowed, Malcolm could feel the thump of his pulse at the roof of his mouth and the breath of his beloved against his chest. Maren placed a kiss on his sternum before meeting his eyes. She ran her fingers down his cheek.
“I love you so much.” She said it with such conviction that his heart quivered. He squeezed her against himself.
“You are my love. Mine,” he said, his awful happiness growing at an alarming rate. “And I am scared to death, Maren.”
Maren smiled at him in her righteous, self-assured way and hugged him more tightly.
“You should be scared, Malcolm C. Vashal.” A quizzical frown overtook her brow. “Wait. What’s the ‘C’ for? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
She looked so adorable, he rolled her down to the bed so he could lie on top of her. He’d slipped from her body, but it didn’t matter because he was going to hold her all night.
“Charles,” he said.
A wistful smile came to her eyes.
“After your mother?” she guessed. He nodded.
“Well, then, you should be scared, Malcolm
Charles
Vashal,” she said, locking her arms behind his neck and her legs around his hips. “Because
you
are
mine,
and I am never letting you go.”
“Thank God,” he said, staring down into the warm maple of her eyes that claimed him and welcomed him all at once.