Jennifer Greene - Wintergreen

She was dry before he nestled her on top of the comforters and pillows. All her life she would associate the Château Frontenac with pale rose brocade and cream, with a mattress too soft and a comforter of down. So much softness, so much pale romance in the old hotel…while Matthew next to her contrasted to that. No part of him was soft. He was sure and male and vital, a primitive, lusty lover.

He didn’t believe in inhibitions. All her life she believed a woman had a right to a few inhibitions. He was totally unreasonable…

“How I love the feel of you, Misha…”

She shivered violently. The contrast from languid, sensual warm bath to cool silken sheets was a minuscule excuse for that, nothing of any consequence. Matthew was working, very hard, to make sure she became warm again, beginning with the one small nub of a nipple he had between his teeth, dark and smooth, swollen and pouting for him.

He propped himself up long enough to study her breasts in lazy detail. “The other one has been neglected,” he pointed out to her.

She flushed. There really was something disgraceful about the way her body responded to his touch. He worked on the other breast, while she practiced clenching and unclenching her hands on his shoulders. Then she spread her small fingers and stroked in slow circles down his sides to his hips, trying to pull him to her.

He was still angry with her over the scene at the airport. She could tell by the way he had made love to her over the past three days. Where she had the fierce need to be taken, he had languorously taken his time. He nibbled when she wanted him to bite. When she wanted to touch, he had selfishly given her all the pleasure. She wanted to drive him out of his mind with wanting. He had driven her out of her mind. Deliberately.

It did seem to even out at the end. She loved him far too much to let him always have his own way. She traced the muscles in his thigh with her fingers, applying pressure as she slowly worked the tense sinews. He groaned, most unhappy with her. His lips chased back up from her breast and captured her own lips again, scolding, paying her back with a tongue that flicked inside the warm softness of her mouth and drank from her sweetness.

Those hands of his! He never stopped. Palms cradled her bottom and pressed her to his hips. He was utterly possessive, and he knew exactly what she wanted. One would think he owned her hips. One would think it was his privilege to mold them exactly as he wanted, as if he actually believed he had some sort of sensual power over her…

No, he hadn’t understood how she could have panicked at the airport. He was so sure that by spoiling her he could convince her of what they had. He was so wrong, her Matthew. He didn’t have to spoil her into loving him. Perfection wasn’t the key. He was a bear first thing in the morning; he had yet to discover how impossible she could be on the first day of her period. She didn’t know exactly what had driven out the fear that love couldn’t last, that her ability to love wouldn’t last. Part of it was being with him, day and night, knowing what a complex man he was, knowing she could never uncover all the layers… Seeing the light in his eyes when he looked at her, never wanting that to be extinguished. Knowing he loved her. Really loved her. Not an image, but the woman with disheveled hair in the morning who loved sandals and Christmas and, yes, who occasionally needed privacy, whose temper flared up when she was tired, who absolutely resented not being mechanical… She loved him the same way. The champagne and the candles mattered, but they were the frosting. She knew Matthew. She knew the way he looked in the morning, and how he hated standing in lines, how he despised bullies, injustice and cold roast beef.

It would last. They had love; they had trust; they had respect for each other. They knew each other as people. They knew each other’s faults, as well as strengths.

And her heart lifted, defying gravity, when he touched her. She wasn’t interested in gravity. Her blood sang when his hands stroked her hair, when his dark eyes bore into hers, cloudy with passion, glittering with need. Dammit, you asked for this. I wanted it to last all night …

From some distant world, she heard a ringing sound. His lips had captured hers, and their bodies were clinging, reluctant for the slightest separation. She arched toward him, an abandoned insistence that she simply wasn’t going to take much more play. Since he was determined to marry her, she had certain rights… Her eyes were glazed and silvery gray.

Matthew was smiling as she heard the ringing again.

“Misha. You’re going to have to answer it,” he whispered. “I won’t be responsible for anything I might say right now…” He was positively gloating that she had to wait longer.

Her fingers fumbled for the phone beside the bed, her eyes never leaving his.

Desperately, she strove for some sanity as she spoke into the phone. “Mr. Whitaker?”

Her whole body stiffened, hands raking rapidly through her hair as she tried to listen. Matthew wasn’t helping matters. And she knew he’d heard her speak his father’s name.

“Chicken pox! But I thought Mr. Rudowsky…”

Mr. Rudowsky was a very capable, kindly, grandfatherly man whom Johnny had taken to instantly. He also wasn’t really sure that Lorna needed to be called. He had decided that Mr. Whitaker should make the decision; the number for Richard Whitaker, Sr., had been one of the emergency phone numbers on the list Matthew had given Mr. Rudowsky. Mr. Whitaker had made the decision. Johnny was now at his house, with nurses around the clock. His temperature at the moment was ninety-nine. His doctor had been called and another physician had been consulted for a second opinion.

“Mr. Whitaker-”

Mr. Whitaker was disgusted with the entire medical profession. Johnny itched. There must be something they could do. In the meantime, he refused to stay in bed. In fact, he was right by the phone and wanted to talk to her now.

“Hey, Mom? Mr. Whitaker moved the electric train up to the hall here. Listen, I don’t know what all this fuss is about. I don’t feel bad. Did you know Mr. Whitaker could play chess? I already beat him once. He says I have a computer mind. Are you having a good time?”

“I…”

Matthew had the most devilish gleam in his eyes. Suddenly, his hands were seductively caressing her breasts. She tried to bat him away with one hand, while holding the phone with the other. She was fighting a losing battle.

“Listen, Lorna!” Mr. Whitaker was on the line again.

Matthew’s leg pinned hers. His chest just teased the hardened tips of her breasts as he grabbed the phone. “Dad? Give me Johnny.” That was evidently accomplished. “Johnny, if you want or need us at home, we’ll be on the next plane.”

Lorna watched Matthew’s face for a long time. But then, it was a long time before he hung up the phone. When he did, he settled over her, his eyes filled with laughter, her body filled with his, and her heart just as full of loving and concern as his was.

“Your son,” he said softly, “has chicken pox. A very light case.”

She knew that. She kissed the hollow in his shoulder.

“My father is beside himself.”

She knew that, too. Her fingers chased themselves down his back, and played a blues rhythm on his hips.

“I’m sorry, Misha, but he doesn’t want you home. He’s got three adults waiting on him hand and foot. A TV in his room. The train. Chess players. He’s got my father writing to someone he knows on the Supreme Court, something to do with whales. He’s going to be perfectly unmanageable when we get back, Misha…”

“Your father,” she suddenly said seriously.