by Jo Goodman
Willa drank then, too, and when she lowered her glass, she felt her smile waver as uncertainty tapped her heart. “I probably should have—” She stopped because he was shaking his head.
Israel put his empty glass beside the bottle and set his elbows on his knees. He folded his hands and regarded her frankly. “I am not prepared to hear you take it back. Not any part of it. It was perfect. I did show uncommonly fine sense, which is noteworthy in and of itself, but in this particular situation it is toastworthy.”
“Toastworthy?”
“It’s a word. I’m a writer, remember?”
“Uh-huh. You know I don’t believe you.” To underscore that, she gave him an arch look. “About either of those things.” She picked up the bottle, poured a finger for each of them, and indicated it was his turn to say something unusual.
Israel raised his glass. “To you, Wilhelmina Pancake McKenna, for not believing me, but trusting me in spite of it, for not knowing me, but accepting me nonetheless, for being my wife, for wanting to be my friend . . .” He touched his glass to hers. “For becoming my lover.”
Willa swallowed hard, and then she drank. She examined her empty glass before she put it aside. She took his as well and met his darkening eyes with the same candor that he had shown her. “To becoming,” she said softly, and leaned forward and kissed him.
Her hands went to his shoulders. She gave a tentative push, then a harder one, and felt the vibration of his low laughter as he allowed her to tumble him. Never breaking the kiss, she followed him down, and lay partially on top of him, her breasts flattened against his chest.
His arms came around her, cupping the swells of her bottom cheeks, squeezing just enough to make her squirm, and then his hands slid to the small of her back, fingertips pressing at the base of her spine. She felt tingling all the way to her nape, where the shortest tendrils of hair stood up. When he moved his hands again, this time it was to learn the shape of her back and shoulders with his palms. Her shirt rucked up, but he did not dive under it to tug at her camisole or dig fingers into her flesh.
Although the fire warmed the crown of her head, Israel’s hands were far warmer. He did not have to apply friction to produce heat. It settled on her every time he touched her.
She raised her head, reluctantly removing her mouth from his. It felt like a sacrifice. “I don’t mind being on top of the covers,” she whispered. “But if I had my druthers, I’d like to be under them.”
“Cold, are you?”
That he would think that made her laugh softly. “The very opposite,” she said.
He lifted one dark eyebrow. “Then?”
“Cowardice, I think.”
“I doubt it. Let’s call it modesty.”
She nodded, a smile hovering on her lips. “You would have made a fine writer, you knowing so many ways of saying a thing.”
Chuckling, he raised his head and brushed her mouth with his, then he took her by the shoulders, caught both of her legs in one of his, and turned her onto her back. What followed that accomplishment was a wrestling match with the sheet, quilt, and blankets to get them from under her and under him and then settle all of it over them. When it was finally done, she was the one chuckling.
Israel raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her, suspicious. “Hm?”
“You’re winded.”
“Am I?”
Willa’s smile deepened when he paused to listen to the sound of his own breathing.
“Perhaps a little,” he conceded. “And that’s amusing because . . .”
“Because they’re blankets.” She paused then, and when he began lowering his mouth to hers, she whispered, “The next time they resist, shoot them.”
He covered her lips with laughter. This kiss vibrated, tickled, and when there was no air to share between them, they broke away, gulped for breath, and came together with a kiss hot enough to fuse their mouths.
Willa’s fingers scrabbled at the buttons that were still done on his shirt and fumbled with the fly of his trousers. He found the hem of her shirt where it was twisted around her waist and slipped his hand under it. She wore no corset, but his hand slid beneath the cotton camisole as well and lay against her ribs just below her breast.
She stiffened for a moment, her fingers quieting, her heartbeat thundering, and let the anticipation of his touch roll through her until she knew she could accept it, knew that she wanted it. She abandoned his fly and found his hand instead. She guided him to her breast, and when he covered it with his palm, she covered his hand with hers and held it there.
That was when she shivered, only it was more than that, and she knew it immediately but had no name for what it was. She had not been fully aware of how taut she had become until every thread of tension snapped at once and what followed was the rippling of release.
He tore his mouth away from hers and there was no hiding from his remarkably keen gaze except to close her eyes, so that was what she did. Her teeth pinched her lower lip, but that was all part of the shuddering response, not an attempt to control it. A whimper rose in her throat, a small mewling sound that she tried to swallow as soon as she heard it.
“It’s all right,” he said, his voice not much above a whisper. “Let me hear it. I want to hear it.”
She gasped, letting go of her lip. Thin threads of heat spiraled in an ever-widening circle from the nipple budding under his palm all the way to her womb. She felt the contraction, the fisting deep inside her, and came to know both profound pleasure and abiding emptiness.
Her body sagged; the moment of weightless abandon was gone. She opened her eyes. He was still watching her, a faint smile revealing the mercurial dimple. His hand still lay over her breast, but now it was filled not only with her flesh but the steady thudding of her heart.
“You’re winded,” he said.
Willa’s sigh was blissful. It was answer enough.
Chapter Fourteen
They could not shed their clothes quickly enough to suit either of them. He tugged. She pulled. One of the buttons on his shirt came off in her hands. She held it up to the firelight and promised that she would sew it back on for him, and they laughed because they both knew that she wouldn’t. He took the button from her and tucked it under his pillow and the disrobing resumed.
It was hardly important for them to be naked, except it was what they wanted. Regardless of ownership, Willa held up each item of clothing outside of the covers and waved it as though a victory had been won before flinging it aside.
“Are you drunk?” Israel asked. His face was buried in the curve of her neck and shoulder, but before he had targeted that specific spot, he saw her spinning one of his socks on her fingertip and letting it fly.
“I think so,” she told him, moaning a little as his teeth scraped her skin. “But I don’t believe we can, um, blame the, oh, the whiskey.”
He raised his head. “Really? I believe—”
Willa placed her hands on either side of his face and drew him back to her neck.
“Iamfladdered,” Israel murmured, his mouth pressed to her neck. “Veryfladdered.”
“Mm.” Willa threaded her fingers into his hair. She sifted and stroked and he made a throaty noise against her shoulder that could only be interpreted as satisfaction. She was in full agreement and told him so in a husky voice that quavered ever so slightly.
Israel slipped under the covers. The air was humid with the scent of their musk. He breathed deeply and settled his lips between her breasts, tasting her with the damp edge of his tongue before he moved to her areola and took her with the hot suck of his mouth.
Willa released Israel. Her hands dropped to her sides and her fingers curled in the sheet under her. Her neck arched. “Oh!” Pleasure that was so intense it was almost pain jangled her nerves. She rubbed one of her feet along the length of his calf. To her surprise, and regret, he st
opped what he was doing and came out from under the covers.
“You still have a sock on.”
Her eyes widened. It might have been an accusation if she couldn’t see that he was amused.
“Take it off.”
Now she blinked owlishly. What amusement had been in his voice was gone. He gave her the command in a tone that had weight and consequence. “Goodness,” she said softly. “It’s a sock, not a fig leaf.”
Israel stared at her just long enough for the rejoinder to register, and when it did, he gave a shout of laughter before diving deep under the covers to retrieve said sock. She did not make it hard for him, which he appreciated, and proved it during the slow journey back up her body toward the firelight. By the time he emerged from under the blankets with his prize, he had intimate knowledge of the long, smooth curve of her calf, the soft, sensitive underside of her knee, the firmness of her inner thighs. He had pushed his tongue into the sweet, damp folds of flesh between her legs and teased the little bud that was wet with her honey. He had been careful to see to the breast he had not attended earlier, and when his lips closed over this nipple, she made such an exquisite sound of pleasure that he was compelled to stay a bit longer than he had planned.
Willa tore the sock from Israel’s fingers when he dangled it above her. She waved it in a circle and gave it a toss. It flew straight into the fireplace, where it lay over a log and briefly smothered the flames before it burst into a tail of gold and orange light.
The smell of burning wool was not particularly pleasant, but neither was it a deterrent. The light illuminated their features and was reflected in the darkening centers of their eyes.
Israel nudged her lips. She opened them. And when he climbed on top of her, she opened her legs as well. He lifted them, coaxed her into wrapping her legs around him and cradling him between her thighs. She pressed her fingers into his shoulders, and he waited to be sure she did not mean to push him away. For a moment, only a moment, he wasn’t certain if she knew what she meant to do, but then, just as she had done in the barn, she seemed to come to some conclusion, and this time, thank you Jesus, John Henry was nowhere around to interfere with it.
Taking himself in hand, his cock hard and throbbing with every beat of his heart, Israel pushed into her. She was as slick and as warm as he’d known she would be. She was also tight and part of her was pushing back. He stopped, held himself still.
“Are you all right?” There was a lot of grit in his voice. It was difficult to get the words past a throat that seemed to be closing.
Willa pressed her lips together, nodded.
“No,” he said. “You have to say it.”
So she said it, her voice no less strangled than his had been. “Yes. I’m all right. Go on.”
He did go on, levering himself on his elbows, and driving his hips forward. She rocked under him, made an odd sound that was not quite protest, but not pleasure either. There was no retreat from this, and Israel did not try. His concession was to go as carefully as he could, slow but hard, and draw the rhythm from her so that she might match his.
He grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under her hips when they were raised. With her pelvis angled toward him, he was able to go deeper, and there was no question that she would take all of him or that she wanted to. She rose against him to welcome his thrust and contracted around him each time it seemed as if he would withdraw.
Her hips rolled, lifted, fell, and she flung her arms wide like a pagan sacrifice. She stretched, arched, closed her eyes so she could not see the terrible beauty that was his face as he hovered above her, denying himself the pleasure of release that she had already known.
But she then discovered that she hadn’t known it, not this way. The shudder that had rippled through her before when his hand had merely covered her breast, the one that made her smile and sigh in a most satisfied manner, was no more than a hint, a tease, of what could be.
The cry lodged at the back of her throat escaped, her eyes flew open at the raw animal sound of it, and fierce pleasure rocked her so hard that she thought her skin might not be able to contain it.
“Please,” she whispered, and it was for him that she said it, not for herself. Her hands found his shoulders again, smoothed the bunched muscles. His thrusts quickened as he abandoned rhythm for the steady pumping of his hips.
She held on because it was what she could do now, and when he gave a shout, it was her name that she heard first and then God’s.
* * *
When Willa woke, she was alone.
She sat up slowly, disoriented at first, and needed a moment to get her bearings. The fire was still quite warm at her back, so she reasoned that either she had not been asleep long, or Israel had recently added more logs. The lamp on the side table was no longer burning, but from where she sat, she could not tell if the oil was gone or the flame had been extinguished. She looked around and had to shake her head when she saw the clothing scattered around the room like so much flotsam. Her shirt was draped over the arm of the couch and she leaned across the blankets to seize it. She was closing the last button when she heard the back door open and close. Foot stomping followed, all of it in place, which satisfied Willa that it was Israel who had come in and not anyone else. He was the only one who bothered wiping his feet at the door. She was still grinning about that when he finally appeared under the archway wearing only his shirt and socks and carrying a tray of food, some of it left over from their picnic that afternoon.
Israel stopped there. “Ah. Awake and already finding something amusing. I have no idea if that bodes well for me, but I do like your smile.”
“I was thinking that you are a contradiction.”
“I am?” He entered the room and set the tray on the floor at what they had decided was the head of their bed. “I woke up hungry. I thought you might want something, too.”
“Hmm. Ravenous.” She held up the covers for him.
Israel crossed his legs and simply folded to the floor. He tucked the blankets around Willa first and then himself while she investigated the tray. She selected two small wedges of sharp cheddar cheese, and when she gave him one, he asked, “Do I want to know how I am a contradiction?”
“I don’t know, do you?”
He did not take long thinking about it. “Tell me.”
“All right. It’s hard to square the man who spent a year behind bars with the man who wipes his feet when he comes in the house.”
“Huh.” Israel bit off half the wedge and chewed as he considered that. “You’re right. That is hard to square.” He bent toward Willa, kissed her on the lips, and said, “Unless you keep in mind that my mother liked a very tidy house and mud in the hallway or on the carpets was not tolerated.”
“So your mama made you sweep it up yourself.”
He laughed shortly, ironically. “Something like that.”
Willa shook her head. “No,” she said, frowning. “Tell me exactly, not something like it.”
Israel hesitated then he shrugged. “Quill and I came home from fishing once, forgot to clean our shoes in our excitement to present our string of catches, and Mother got out the rug beater and used it on us before we spent the rest of that Saturday using it on the rugs.”
Willa winced. “She swatted you with it?”
“It’s a beater, Willa. Not a swatter. She bent us over the kitchen table with our trousers around our ankles and whaled on us.” He took a slice of apple from the tray and bit into it. “As often as I stood in defiance of my parents’ rules, that was one I rarely broke again.”
“What about your brother? Did he also learn that lesson?”
“After a fashion.” Israel grinned, remembering. “He wasn’t always a saint. The next time he forgot to clean up before he walked in the house, I told my mother that I had done it and took the consequences. He was so scrawny back then, it hurt just to think of him getti
ng beat like that. There were other times that I stepped in for him. I guess it seemed more right than wrong because even if I wasn’t around to get him out of a scrape, I was in trouble with our parents for not being around. Hard to fault that logic when you’re ten.” He finished off the apple and shrugged. “Funny thing is, I might have set him on the straight and narrow by taking responsibility. He became the good son to keep me from always claiming to be the bad one.”
Willa studied him. He seemed more philosophical than bitter. “So you protected each other,” she said. “In your way.”
“In our way,” he repeated. “Yes, I suppose we did.” He chose another slice of apple, but this time he fed it to her. “You might think that Quill received accolades for his accomplishments. He served in the Army, graduated from Princeton, and . . .” Israel caught himself and his voice trailed off.
Willa prompted. “And?”
“And he is largely ignored by our parents except when he is called upon to step in to help me. You can appreciate that I had a lot of time to reflect on that in the last year or so, and it finally came to me that my father thinks Quill’s soul is safe from the ravages of hell, but mine is in danger of being lost forever. For a minister of my father’s particular ilk, I might be a disappointment, but I am also his particular call to arms. As a father, he is dedicated to correcting my faults; as a minister, he dedicates himself to my salvation.”
She smiled crookedly, reprovingly. “And you have dedicated yourself to keeping him busy.”
“Not quite. More like giving him a purpose. My mother, also. She is committed to fretting, and she draws sympathy from her friends the way others draw water from a well. I am very good for her.”
Willa gave him an arch look. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” When she continued to regard him with narrowing eyes, he said, “Mostly I do.”
