Jennifer Greene - Conquer the Memories

She had rather dangerous plans for that bed. Dangerous because there was no guarantee they would work. There didn’t seem to be any convenient rule books on how to turn one very unselfish lover into a selfish one. The only thing Sonia was absolutely sure of was that there would be no more one-sided satisfaction. One very stubborn, enigmatic, extremely well-loved man was about to get his due, or there would be no more encounters of any kind, on that bed or any other.

Her game plan was very simple. All she had in mind was giving her husband an intensive course in total sexual frustration.

And if that doesn’t work? Darn it, if he really doesn’t want to make love with you… Taking another glance at the bed and plump, stuffed pillows, she sighed worriedly, lifted her chin and headed back through the salon.

A teak railing and three steps up separated the kitchen from the main salon. Sonia removed two cans of cola from the refrigerator and then randomly opened cupboards and drawers. The diminutive galley delighted her, from the microwave to the grill to the itsy-bitsy dishwasher. More important, it was stocked with every goodie Craig had ever expressed a liking for, from steak and baby crab to cooling bottles of Orvieto and Cabernet Sauvignon.

Everything was there. Snatching up the Cokes, she raced pell-mell up to Craig again.

He’d missed her, he thought fleetingly, in those short ten minutes. Exactly how long had it been since he’d been totally alone with his wife for a few stolen days? And a most puzzling mood had been stealing up on him from the moment they’d arrived near the Gulf Coast of Texas. A contrary, inexplicable mood.

It had something to do with endless sun and ocean smells and lazy, lazy winds. Relaxation had slowly been creeping up on him like a drug; he’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel…easy. Not just with Sonia, but with himself.

His right to touch his wife, his sense of failure about himself as a man…these feelings hadn’t disappeared, but for the moment seemed involuntarily shifted into another part of his being. Increasingly, all Sonia had to do was slip out of sight and he was impatient for her to come back. He craved, desired, wanted, needed her, and he was becoming rather obsessed by the wanton urge to take Sonia, to love her, to make love to her, to feel her sheathed softness around him.

His soul was beginning to feel as if it had been spun in a blender.

It didn’t help when Sonia bolted up the steps with the cans of cola in her hands, laughing as if just the breeze alone delighted her, the sun dancing in her hair and her limbs blithely displayed in front of him as she leaned against the opposite chair.

“I’ll open your soda for you,” she told him cheerfully, and popped the top, chuckling as the cola foamed. Her tongue swooped down and lapped at the burgeoning foam before she handed it to him. “That’ll teach me to run up the stairs carrying carbonated pop, don’t you think?” she asked dryly.

He didn’t know. He was too busy following the path of her tongue, the faint moisture on her lips, as he accepted the can. He took a long gulp, though his thirst was not for any carbonated drink. “Thanks,” he murmured, just a slight edge of irony in his tone.

“I’m broiling.” Taking the hem of her top in her fingers, she lifted it up, tugged it over her head and pulled it off. Seconds later she had skimmed her white terry-cloth shorts down to her ankles and bent over to step out of them. “Better,” she announced.

Better? he thought roughly. Better? Her bikini was scarlet. A set of three bows and some string. The expanse of Sonia’s white skin was exactly the measure of what skin had never been touched directly by the sun before, no matter how often she swam in her mother’s pool.

“New suit?” he said flatly.

“Hmm.” Sonia took a sip of her drink and despaired. The suit should have brought some reaction. Heaven knew, if a sea gull had winged close, she would have blushed.

She took a second sip of pop, again set the can down and regarded her husband from behind her dark lenses with a determined expression. “Are you going to show me how to pilot this thing, Captain?” she asked lightly.

Before he’d had the chance to say a word, she slipped down from her stool, ducked under his arm and angled in front of him. A panoply of shining dials confronted her. Behind her were Craig’s cutoffs and muscular brown legs. She leaned lazily backward until her hips were cradled in his spread thighs. “Where,” she questioned, “is the throttle?”

Craig didn’t answer for a moment. When he did, his voice was thick and low. “Sonia-” His throat appeared to unclog. “There are two. Here. You have to move them both at the same time.”

“No problem,” she informed him. Her fingers experimented with the little levers. Within seconds, the steady slice of the prow turned into a chop, chop, chop, as the boat burrowed through the waters, spitting out an incredible wake of bubbling white froth behind them. “How long before we get to the little cove Mr. Bartholomew told us about?”

Craig’s voice was totally controlled, and rather dry. “About a minute and a half, assuming we maintain this death-defying speed. About two hours, otherwise.”

Sonia’s head tilted back, her hair curling on his bare shoulders as he glanced down at her upturned grin. “Was that a subtle suggestion that I slow down?” she asked.

“That rather depends on whether or not you value life.” He did. Hers. The look and feel of her windswept hair and her impudent red lips parted in laughter…Strands of hair were lacing across her forehead, her cheeks. He lifted his hand, intending to smooth them back.

Sonia saw his arm rise, just as she saw that instant’s hesitation before his hand touched her. She’d been waiting for him to make that move. “You win,” she announced cheerfully, and swiftly, smoothly, slid under his other arm and away. “Obviously, my driving skills are totally unappreciated here. You will find me,” she informed him, “on the upper deck. Having a love affair with the sun.”

Her sea legs were still a little precarious, but she held on to the rail as she wandered up to the top deck of the boat. Water splashed up, sprinkling her with an ice-cold spray in direct contrast to the steadily baking sun, making her laugh. Above, the white deck was hot, but not unbearably so.

Slipping off her sneakers, she stretched out on her back, wishing she’d brought a towel and deciding that for the immediate present she could do without one. The day stretched in front of her with endless possibilities, and if her mind had been churning out anxieties and plans at miles per minute, her body paused simply to take in all the luxuries of sun and water, all the new smells and new sounds.

After a time, she turned over on her stomach, lifted her head and smiled at Craig. A sun visor separated them, along with perhaps three feet of distance, and Craig was standing at the helm; she could only see his face when she raised her head up so high. She gave him a lazy wave and lowered her head again. After a moment, she glanced on both sides of the boat, saw absolutely no other sail or vessel at all, and reached back to untie her bikini top.

In seconds, the wispy garment sailed over the visor. She lifted her head up just for an instant, to make sure that Craig had caught it.

He had. The skinny band of material was clenched in his fist. There was a nice little pulse hammering at the base of his throat.

Smiling, she cradled her head on her arms and closed her eyes.

They had anchored in a half-moon cove that looked for all the world like the tiny harbor of their own private deserted island. Sunset colors shimmered through the still palms, and the sandy beach in the distance had the glow of gold. Gulls soared overhead as if they had nothing better to do than glide free in those last moments of day.