“No, I’m not,” he defended himself, his smile gaining in certainty. “I happen to be lusting for you right now, Daphne, but that’s not why I love you. I love you because you’re my friend. Because I can talk to you. Because, when I’m angry and in pain, you’re the only person I want to be with, the only person I can trust to see me through it.” He kissed her again, sliding his hands up her arms to meet at the center of her back. “Make love with me,” he whispered, his breath running over her lips and chin, fanning the blaze he’d ignited deep inside her with his kiss.
“I don’t know...” she mumbled. “I’m dressed like a slob, Brad, and I’m kind of sweaty, and—”
“And you’re beautiful,” he vowed, touching his lips to her brow.
“But it isn’t—I mean, maybe it won’t be such a success,” she worried aloud. “We haven’t done anything to make it romantic—”
“What romantic things are we supposed to do?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with humor. “Smash a jar? Break out in hives?” He gripped the fabric of her tee shirt and edged it upward. “At least we don’t have to worry about stuck zippers this time,” he pointed out, sliding his hands underneath her shirt to stroke her back.
She issued a throaty sigh, savoring his tender caresses. She could tell from her body’s instantaneous response to him, from the heavy ache spreading through her hips and the tingling sensation in her breasts, that she and Brad didn’t need any artificial romantic gestures for their lovemaking to be successful. She could tell, as Brad’s hands ventured down to the waistband of her shorts and wedged inside, pressing into the soft flesh of her bottom, that she needed nothing but Brad—and she prayed that he would need nothing but her.
She eased out of his arms, then took his hand and escorted him inside. They stole quickly down the hall to her bedroom. As soon as she opened the door, a blast of icy air slammed into them.
“Jeez. It’s freezing in here,” Brad complained.
Daphne was surprised. The atmosphere in the rest of her house was so hot and muggy, she would have thought he’d appreciate the cooler air in her bedroom. She herself preferred it. But she wasn’t going to argue with him, not now. Not when they were both so hot in a very different way. “We can turn the AC off if you want.”
He rotated to her. “You would rather have it on, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, yes, but I’m willing to compromise.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I didn’t know it was possible for lovers not to quibble over every little thing.”
“It’s definitely possible,” Daphne assured him.
Brad dipped his head to hers and brushed a kiss over her lips. “I like not fighting with the woman I love,” he murmured, then pulled off his shirt and tossed it onto Daphne’s dresser. Gently, he slid her eyeglasses from her nose and placed them carefully on the dresser next to his shirt.
“You think I’m ugly when I’m wearing my eyeglasses,” she guessed, one last attempt to prove to him—and to herself—that he didn’t truly love her.
“I think you look better without them,” he answered frankly. “Maybe you ought to give contact lenses another try. It’s not as windy here as in Chicago, and they’ve come up with more comfortable lenses. Soft lenses. Gas permeable. Long wearing. Whatever” He kissed the tiny red marks her glasses had left on the bridge of her nose.
His honesty moved her in a way nothing else could have. He did love her. Only a man who loved her deeply would tell her the truth about her looks. “All right,” she concurred, running her hands over his naked chest. “I’ll try contacts again.”
“Or laser surgery.”
“Right.” She made a face. “Now that I’m up to my eyeballs in debt buying my partnership, I can spend another fortune on those eyeballs and get them surgically reshaped.”
“I could pay for it,” he offered, and she tensed. He was rich—they both knew that—and his new job would probably make him richer still. But she didn’t want to be his charity. She didn’t want him spending money to redesign her into a woman he found more attractive.
He must have sensed her discomfort. “Or you can get contacts,” he corrected himself. “Or not. I don’t care. I don’t want you doing anything to your eyes that doesn’t feel good.”
“Speaking of feeling good...” Daphne felt for the buckle of his belt.
Groaning, Brad stripped off her shirt, then helped her with his trousers. Before long they were both naked, and she and Brad tumbled onto the bed, kissing, tasting, touching, relearning each other with their hands and lips and tongues. Daphne’s last conscious thought before Brad fused his body to hers in a powerful surge was that, while love was definitely not the same thing as lust, both had a great deal going for them.
***
“WE’LL SELL your house,” Brad said, a long time later.
Daphne lay beside him, her skin damp with perspiration and her chest still heaving as she wrestled with her erratic breath. Brad held her snugly to himself with his arm, and she used his upper chest as a solid pillow. He was sweating, too, but she wasn’t going to recommend cranking the air conditioner back up. To do that would mean to break from the shelter of his body, and the last thing she wanted to do was to move away from him.
“What do you mean, we’ll sell my house?”
“We’re both agreed my house is nicer than yours,” he pointed out.
“I never agreed to that!” she objected.
“You said before that if we swapped houses, you’d get the better end of the deal.”
“I was speaking monetarily,” she explained. “Your house is appraised at a higher value than mine.”
“Okay,” he said agreeably. “Let’s go with the more valuable house.”
“But your house has stairs,” she complained. “Vacuuming stairs is a real pain. That’s one of the reasons I bought a ranch house.”
“I’ll vacuum,” he offered. “You can be in charge of cooking—as long as you don’t serve me clam sauce.”
“Linguini and clam sauce is pretty much all I know how to cook,” she warned him.
“I’ve eaten your peanut-butter sandwiches,” he reminded her. “They weren’t so terrible.”
“All right.” Daphne nestled closer to him. “We’ll sell my house.”
“You’ll marry me?” he asked hopefully.
She leaned away and twisted her head to look at him. “I thought we were talking about houses.”
“Both,” said Brad. “We’re talking about both.”
“Oh.”
“Because I don’t want to go back with you anymore, Daff. I want us to go forward. And that’s what marriage is about, going forward. Isn’t it?”
Daphne smiled and settled against him again. His description of marriage was infinitely more romantic than flowers, wine, Mozart or silk caftans. “I guess it is,” she agreed.
“Then say yes.”
“Would you still want to marry me if I didn’t get contact lenses?” she tested him.
“Absolutely.”
“Okay.” She kissed his chest, then grinned and settled contentedly against him, savoring the possessive strength of his arm tightening around her again. Closing her eyes, she imagined the description she’d write for her house when she listed it for sale:
Beautiful ranch in excellent condition on 1/4 acre. Three b.r.s, two b.s, encl. porch, attached gar., mature plantings. Lucky lady found her Mr. Right here.
###
About the Author
Judith Arnold is the bestselling author of more than ninety published novels. A three-time RITA Award finalist, Judith has won four Reviewers Choice Awards from RT Magazine, and Publishers Weekly named her novel Love In Bloom’s one of the best books of the year. A New York native, she currently lives in New England, where she indulges in her passions for jogging, dark chocolate, good music, good wine and good books. She is married and the mother of two sons.
You can find out about Judith’s other books, contact her, and sign up for her newsletter b
y visiting her website.
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