Julia Spencer-Fleming - I Shall Not Want

He looked up at her. "Clare, the last time I was with someone new I was twenty-three years old. I'm not worried about diseases, I'm worried I've forgotten what to do."

She laughed, then gasped. "That's okay. I've forgotten what you're supposed to do, too."

He laughed against her belly, a low rumble that sank into her bones. He got off the floor and half sat, half sprawled onto the sofa. She climbed onto his lap. Leaned forward. Kissed him. Teased him, with her mouth and breasts and hands, until he was clenched and trembling. "Now, please." His voice was heavy. "Please, now."

He looked into her eyes as she took him inside her. "Oh, God," he breathed. "Clare…"

"With my body I thee worship." She didn't know if he recognized the words.

"I do," he said. "I will." Then she moved, and he moved, and every thought fled like sparks up the chimney as he kissed her and licked her and stroked her with his long, clever fingers, over and over and over again. Her slick-wet skin felt taut, fever-hot. She clutched at him, closed her eyes, opened her eyes, watched his face glazed with pleasure, a face she knew like her own and had never seen before.

He slid down, braced his legs, thrust hard into her. She cried out.

"Tell me." Rough and hard.

"I love you." She didn't recognize her own voice.

"No. Tell me you'll come back."

"Russ-"

"Promise me. Promise me you'll come back."

He battered at her. Fingers moving. So good. "I can't-"

"Promise. Me."

"Oh, God!" She broke, snapped, arched, tore open to him. "I promise, I promise, I'll come back to you, I'll come back to you, I'll come back…"

Russ woke up in his lover's bed alone. He sat up. She was at the other end of the spartan room, kneeling at her prie-dieu. Morning prayers.

"I was that good, huh?"

Without looking at him, she raised her voice. "Bless, also, O Lord, the aged and infirm, especially your servant Russ Van Alstyne…"

He threw a pillow at her. She laughed but continued on silently. He tossed the covers back and padded downstairs to get the coffee going.

Her duffel bag was already by the door.

After he put Clare's fancy French press to work, he went back upstairs, hip twingeing as it always did these days, and got dressed. Her shower was running. He cracked open the door, letting out a rush of steam. "I'm going to get my truck," he yelled.

"Okay."

For the past two weeks, he had parked his truck overnight in Tick Solway's lot across from the church, in the driveway of a couple of snowbirds, and on Washington Street, two blocks up and one block over. He guessed more than one of Clare's congregation had an idea she hadn't been spending these last nights alone, but no one seemed inclined to judge a woman headed for a war zone.

His stomach twisted.

He brushed a dusting of snow off the window as the engine warmed up and then drove the three blocks to Clare's. He left the truck running. Kicked off his boots and entered the kitchen. "You ready?"

Her hair was seal-slick from her shower, already pinned up. She was going to get it cut at Fort Drum, she'd told him. She poured the coffee into a travel mug. "Ready."

They were quiet on the drive to Latham. The sky was sheet-metal gray, promising more snow by noon. She looked out the window, watching the Northway roll by, and it felt like she had already left him.

"I'd like you to just drop me off at the depot," she said, as he threaded his way through the Albany traffic.

"Okay."

"They're going to have one of those send-offs, with a band, and the young wives dressed up in red, white, and blue, and parents trying not to cry. I hate those."

"Okay."

She rubbed her hands along her BDUs. Past Albany, now, coming up on Latham. Had Linda felt this way when he had deployed to the Gulf and to Panama? How did she stand it? He shot a fierce apology to the place where he kept her memory.

Clare turned to him. "What are you thinking?"

"I've changed my mind. I don't think women should be anywhere near any combat zone at any time."

She laughed.

And there they were, at the gate, showing her ID, pulling onto the tarmac outside the depot. Gunship gray buses were lined up nose to tail, waiting to take the battalion to Fort Drum. They both stared at them.

He moved first, getting out of the truck, hoisting her rucksack, opening the door for her. She jumped down. "Thanks."

She looked up at him, like she wanted to say something but didn't know where to begin. He knew how she felt. He was afraid if he started talking they'd be there all day, he had so much stuff in his head. Instead, he pulled her into a hard embrace. They stayed like that for a long time. She pulled away first. He had always suspected she was stronger than he was.

She dug into her pocket. Pulled out something silver. "I want you to keep this for me until I get back." She placed it in his hand. It was the cross she always wore with her clericals.

He tipped a one-sided smile. "I can see it now. I'm going to wind up going to your church just to be where you were, like some old dog circling back to an empty chair."

"Well." She shouldered her rucksack. "They did want me to increase attendance. Old dog."

He caught her hands. Squeezed hard. "I'm holding on," he said. "No matter where you are, no matter what you're doing. Don't ever doubt it. I'm holding on."

She ducked her head. Leaned against him for a moment. Took a deep breath. Stood straight. Her eyes were liquid-bright, but she managed a smile. "Not letting go," she said.

Then she did just that, releasing his hands. She turned and walked toward the depot. He watched her cross the tarmac, an average-sized woman in desert camo and army boots. He watched her until she disappeared inside. She never looked back.

He dropped the silver cross over his head. Tucked it beneath his shirt. Climbed into his truck. By the time he reached the Northway, the snow had started. He flicked on the wipers and turned on his lights. A lot more winter to get through, he thought. A long, long year to go.

My first serious attempt at writing a novel wasn't Romance. It wasn't Mystery, or crime fiction, or suspense, or however you want to characterize what I write today.

It was science fiction. Space Opera, to be precise. My other great, youthful love. I'm not sure why I decided on trying my hand at sf, other than the fact I had fallen in with a cheerful and enthusiastic writer's group all pursuing that genre. My knowledge of science derives largely from watching NOVA on PBS. The then-current trends in sf publishing left me cold-I didn't want cyberpunk and nanotechnology, I wanted rocket ships and Thuvia, Maid of Mars. And finally, my world-building skills, in a word, sucked. I wrote half an entirely derivative novel, copying Lois McMaster Bujold's style so slavishly it's a wonder I didn't name my lead character Viles Morkosigan.

I workshopped it with pros, and was told:

I had great characters

My writing was of publishable quality and it was clichéd, unoriginal and unlikely to sell in the current market.

If this were an inspirational tale, this is the part where I would have gone home, clenched my fist, vowed to never, ever abandon my book, and then segue into accepting a Nebula Award for my space station romance.

Or not. What I really did was reread my 50,000 words, looking for what was salvageable. Two things stood out. First, a lot of the energy in the story came from the relationship between the two leads. They had been lovers, briefly, years before during the war, and, rediscovering each other, had to overcome distrust, baggage, and two distinctly opposite agendas. Maybe I could write a romance instead?