Jennifer Greene - Cupid’s Confederates

He reached for her, but she ignored him. Loving was raging inside of her. A man could call it wanting, a woman never. He’d been so patient, so giving, so gentle through this trying time. Zach was human, not superhuman; it had all taken an effort. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him for it, without wasting any time on words.

Her fingertips trembled over his most sensitive flesh, drawing a shudder from him as they stroked through rough, curling hairs. The lapping of her tongue cooled his overheated flesh. Zach had taught her any number of games to play with her tongue. To tickle, cool, soften, stroke, tease. His six-foot-one-inch frame was a big playground. She raised up and crouched on her knees, her palms slowly caressing the length of his hair-roughened legs. Her mouth was settling in for a new brand of creative kisses she’d just invented when his whole body convulsed.

She sat back, extremely pleased with his reaction. She was even more pleased when he roughly pulled her down next to him. Her body stretched to make full contact with his, sensitive nerve endings igniting like fireworks. “If you were any hotter, you’d be on fire,” he murmured.

“You don’t want to play anymore?” she whispered.

“A serious business, playing. You just went past Go, two bits. Now you get to collect.” His voice changed to a husky whisper as he leaned over her. “Dammit, I’ve missed you!”

Surely he didn’t think he was alone? Her legs wound around him, drawing him in, her hands busy, in long, languid strokes on his shoulders and neck and back, anywhere she could touch. A sweet, sweet wildness kept building in both of them. The front hall of all places; the strange blackness all around them, the cool tile beneath her, the smooth sheen that covered their flesh-all of it induced wanton delights, fresh bursts of trembling desire.

He covered her finally, surging inside of her, filling her. Her whole body arched; his mouth seared on hers; and a rush of hot liquid fire flooded through both of them.

By ten o’clock, the front door was unlocked and the porch light on again. Bett was stretched out next to Zach on the couch, dressed, cuddled and sleepy. Her eyes were closed. “Don’t you think she should be home by now?” Zach asked idly.

Bett opened one eye. “You sound distinctly like an overprotective father with a shotgun across his lap. It isn’t as if we both have to wait up for her.”

“She’s a grown woman. Neither of us has to wait up for her.”

Bett smiled, snuggling closer. “I’m too sleepy to move. You’ve totally worn me out.”

Zach brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead, kissed her and then rearranged her, one of her legs tucked between his, his arm around her waist. Her body was limp, soft, pliant. “I want you again,” he murmured.

“You couldn’t possibly.”

“I do.” His palm cradled her hip, drawing her close enough to prove what he said.

“You have the most endless capacity for fooling around of any man I’ve ever met,” she remarked sleepily.

“Ah. The voice of experience talking.”

She poked him.

“They could have had a flat tire,” he worried.

She chuckled.

The front doorknob clicked open a few minutes later. The two loungers both bolted up to a sitting position, Zach shifting the fit of his jeans, Bett rapidly restoring some kind of order to her hair with her fingers. They were both grinning rather inanely as Elizabeth walked in with a bright smile.

“Well, my goodness, are you two still up?”

“You left at seven. It’s twenty minutes after ten,” Zach informed her flatly, ignoring the elbow Bett poked in his side.

“Really? I didn’t even notice.”

Bett gazed at her mother, searching for signs of mental wear and tear, as Elizabeth hung up her raincoat, describing what she had eaten for dinner right down to the rolls. “How I love homemade yeast rolls. But I’ll tell you, my breaded veal cutlet is better than theirs. I was telling the waiter, you have to be careful what coating you use…”

Elizabeth disappeared into the kitchen. Bett and Zach exchanged glances, and then Bett struggled to her feet, following her mother. “The thing is, did you have a good time?”

“Of course I had a good time. You know how I love to go out to dinner.” Elizabeth frowned as she wandered to the stove and lifted the cover on the stainless-steel pot. “Good Lord. What is this?”

Zach slipped behind Bett. “Spaghetti.”

“You cooked it for dinner and then didn’t eat it?” Elizabeth asked bewilderedly. “What did you two have for supper, then?”

“We…” Bett floundered.

“There just seemed to be a dozen things we were more hungry for than spaghetti,” Zach interjected blandly.

“I should think so.” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the congealing mess. “I wouldn’t like to think the two of you couldn’t get by without me as far as making yourselves a decent dinner goes.” She glanced at both of them, her eyes suddenly widening with rare perception. “You weren’t worried about me?” she asked incredulously.

“Of course not,” they both assured her.

“For heaven’s sake, let’s get some sleep, then.”

All three of them agreed on that.

“…and the continuous use of a specific residual herbicide has traditionally resulted in poor weed control in the orchard…”

The speaker droned on. Zach crossed one ankle over his other knee, and used his thigh as a table for his pad of paper. His pen rushed across the unlined page in flat, bold strokes.

“So in selecting herbicides for orchard weed control, let us first examine diuron, simazine, and terbacil…”

Half an hour later, the farmers were shifting in their chairs. Most of them wanted the information as much as Zach did, but hadn’t anticipated paying such a high price to get it-suffering through a monotone delivery so hypnotizing that the audience was blinking continuously in an effort to stay awake.

The meeting finally ended at nine; Zach bolted impatiently from his chair and stalked out of the stale air of the classroom. Pickup doors slammed all around him as he buttoned his alpaca jacket against the stiff November wind. A few other growers stopped to wave or exchange a word or two before he slammed the door of the pickup and started the engine.

At least half of the other farmers were accompanied by their wives, most of whom usually stayed in the back of the room near the coffee machine and shared gossip at these agricultural meetings. Bett usually came, but not to drink coffee. If she’d been there this time he could well imagine her hand waving in the air, the men’s affectionate and sometimes amused glances, her very polite demand to know the exact difference in chemical composition between diuron and simazine, what studies had been done on the effects of those chemicals on the environment, and in what conceivable way they might react with other chemicals used in an orchard throughout the year. Last year the agronomist from the local university had not been prepared for such a cross-examination. This year the speaker had occasionally leveled Zach a wary glance, as if waiting to be challenged.

Zach had not been in a challenging mood. Cold air nipped at his cheeks and nose; he turned the dial on for the heater and pulled out of the brightly lit parking lot onto the lonely black strip of road. Snow was in the air. Thanksgiving was a week away, and the last autumn leaves were whirling down in the bitingly cold night. He could have owned the road; no one else was on it.

Fall had always been his favorite time of year. Work wasn’t over-work was never really over on a farm-but the pressure was off; there was the satisfaction of a harvest completed and all the luxury of sudden leisure time. When you walked outside, the crisp autumn air burned in your lungs and made you feel alive…