Hope Street: Hope StreetThe Marriage Bed

by Judith Arnold

  He touched his mouth to hers.

  SHE FORGAVE HIM. AS HER body softened and her breath deepened just from the gentle warmth of his lips on hers, she realized that she’d forgiven him a long time ago.

  She waited for his kiss to build in intensity, like the kiss he’d given her outside the keeping room downstairs. But he held back, lightly grazing her mouth with his, a brush of skin against skin, no tongue, no teeth, no wild passion. Quiet and subtle, he seduced her with patience and self-control. No demands, no fire. Only this: a man who wanted her.

  She wanted him, too. She’d wanted him all along, from that first night on Hope Street when he’d convinced her that her dreams and goals were noble, and that refusing to mold herself to other people’s expectations didn’t make her a failure. She’d wanted him when she’d fallen asleep beside him that night, and when she’d awakened in his arms the next morning, and every day since then. She’d wanted him when they were apart—Curt in law school, Ellie still finishing college—and when they were together, and when they got married, and when they had children.

  She’d wanted him even after one of those children had died.

  She’d been unable to acknowledge the want then. All she’d felt had been crushing grief. And so much time had passed, she’d assumed she would never be able to feel anything other than crushing grief again.

  But she could feel other things. Right now, she felt her body stirring, awakening from a long hibernation and realizing how hungry it was. Like pins and needles that flooded a sleeping limb as sensation returned to it, the sensation hurt, but she reveled in the hurt. It was a good hurt.

  She reached up with her free hand and cupped Curt’s cheek. She had touched his face a million times, but its warmth and texture seemed new to her. Even though he’d shaved before they’d left the house to meet her parents for what was supposed to have been a quiet birthday dinner, his jaw was slightly scratchy from his beard. How long had they been at the inn, eating, talking, recovering from the surprise party and watching the movie of her life? How long had they been trapped in this romantic prison of a room, trying to figure out where they would go once they checked out?

  Long enough, she decided. Long enough for her to admit she still loved her husband.

  He must have detected a change in her, a surrender, because he deepened the kiss. Only a little bit, only a tilt to his face, a gentle nip on her lower lip, a tightening of his fingers around her hand. For long minutes, that was all—just teasing, coaxing kisses, full of promise.

  Was he waiting for another signal from her? Was she supposed to make the next move?

  She wasn’t sure she could do that.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have to. He guided the hand he held to his shoulder, then released it and dug his fingers into her hair. And opened his mouth over hers.

  Their tongues touched. When he’d kissed her downstairs, their tongues had fought aggressively, almost angrily. But this was just sweetness, a tender invitation. He stroked her tongue with his, traced the surface of her teeth, withdrew and slid his tongue lazily across her lower lip. His languid pace served only to arouse her more completely. Her thighs clenched and a pool of heat spread low in her belly.

  If she’d had any breath in her, she might have asked him to speed things along. But her lungs seemed to have ceased working, and perhaps her brain as well. She had no choice but to float along on his current, accept it, enjoy it—if she could let herself.

  Still kissing her, he moved his hands through her hair and down the sides of her neck to the jacket of her outfit. The fabric was gauzy and light, and when he eased it off her shoulders it floated down her arms to her elbows. She let go of him and the jacket fell free of her hands. Curt stroked the newly bared skin, his palms warm against her.

  He pulled back, then dipped his head to kiss her throat. She heard herself sigh. She knew where they were going with this—however slowly—and she told herself she was willing to travel that road with Curt. They could figure everything out afterward. Right now…She sighed again. Right now, all she wanted was his mouth exploring the ridge of her collarbone, his fingers playing over the fabric of her sleeveless top and under her arms. Were armpits an erogenous zone? Tonight, hers were.

  “Oh, Ellie…” That was all he said—her name, spoken reverently. Just her name and his mouth and his hands, moving down her sides to the hem of her blouse and slipping beneath it. “Ellie…”

  She traced his forearms, sinewy muscle and bone and a downy layer of hair, and then reached the bunched cotton of his sleeves where he’d rolled them up. Was she supposed to tear off his shirt? His hands were on her midriff and she wanted her hands on his. She wanted to feel the broad, supple surface of his chest. But his kisses seemed to drug her. She didn’t think she could handle his shirt. Buttons were beyond her.

  He bailed her out by leaning back again and unbuttoning his shirt for her. He shrugged out of it and tossed it onto the floor. She gazed at his chest—like his face, familiar yet new. He’d been spending a lot of time at the fitness center, probably because over the past couple of years jogging on a treadmill and sweating through a Nautilus workout were more fun than hanging around the house with her—or hanging around the house by himself while she’d been in Ghana. His efforts showed. His biceps were clearly defined, his abdominal muscles sculpted slabs.

  He was so beautiful. And he wanted her. After everything, he still wanted her.

  He lifted her blouse and she dutifully raised her hands so he could pull it off. Her bra wasn’t anything special; she’d replaced frills and lace with discreet engineering as her breasts went soft with age. Curt appeared enthralled by the plain garment, smooth and beige. He rose onto his knees and kissed a path over the swells of flesh above the cups, at last settling his mouth in the hollow between. He made a sound—of pleasure, of frustration, maybe both. It took more courage than Ellie knew she had to grope behind her back for the clasp and undo it. The bra fell slack and Curt moaned.

  She leaned back into the pillows as he kissed her breasts, languidly, delicately, taunting her with his leisurely progress. When his mouth closed over one nipple she felt her womb tighten and throb. When he rubbed his thumb over the other, she felt dampness between her thighs.

  She wanted him. Wanted him madly. Wanted everything she knew he could give her, every exquisite pleasure he could bring her. She wanted her skirt removed, and his pants. She wanted him on top of her, inside her, giving them both what she’d denied them for so long.

  “Curt—”

  He raised his head and peered at her. “Should I stop?” he asked, so solemnly she knew that if she said yes, he would.

  “No.”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  Happiness. Love. My life. My husband. “You,” she said.

  He leaned back on his haunches, undid his belt, yanked down his zipper. Before she could blink, his trousers and briefs were gone. His efficient search of her skirt located the waistband button, and within a minute the skirt was gone, too, along with her nylons and panties. But instead of taking her, he stretched out on his side, rolled her onto her side facing him and gazed into her face while his hand roamed up and down her body. “I don’t want to rush you,” he said.

  Go ahead, rush me, she longed to plead. Rush me so I don’t have to think.

  He seemed to be doing plenty of thinking. He didn’t smile, didn’t look away from her. His expression was pensive as he let his hand dip into the slope of her waist. He skimmed her shins with his toes, lured her knee between his legs, stretched to caress her bottom. And just kept kissing her.

  Please don’t make me take the lead, she silently begged. I’m not up to that. I can’t.

  Kisses. More kisses. His hands on the backs of her thighs, his fingers brushing over the creases behind her knees. Kisses on the bridge of her nose, on the bottom edge of her earlobe while his thumb dug through her hair to her nape. Kisses as he inched closer to her, as she felt his heat vibrating in the narrow space between
them, as his erection pressed into her belly.

  At last he guided her onto her back and eased her legs apart. Even feeling how wet she was, he didn’t smile. He played his fingers over her, slid one into her, watched the twitch of her hips, the curl of her toes, until she was sure she’d burst. So long since she’d felt that pulsing heat inside her. So long since she’d felt anything other than numb.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, even though the answer was pretty obvious.

  “Yes.” She barely had the strength to speak. All her energy had gathered down below, where Curt was touching her.

  “Because I could—”

  “Yes,” she groaned.

  He allowed himself a hint of a smile at her impatience, then stretched out above her. She felt him against her, testing, and then slowly—oh, God, so slowly—he locked his body to hers.

  In spite of her arousal, his invasion hurt. Years had passed since the last time she’d done this. But she welcomed the discomfort and willed herself to relax as he rocked above her, his thrusts controlled but deep, so deep. He propped himself on his elbows and continued to watch her, searching for signs of—what? Climax? Anger? Regret?

  Did he fear that their entire marriage hinged on what was happening right now? Did she fear that?

  She closed her eyes and lifted her hips. She loved this, loved the lush rhythm of it, the friction, the way her body gradually remembered, recognized Curt and accommodated his movements. She loved his weight, his fingers tangling into her hair, the pumping of his abdomen against hers.

  This was enough, she told herself. Accepting him, his body, his love—it was enough. She didn’t need or expect more than what she felt right now.

  “Come for me, Ellie,” he whispered.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him. She saw the strain in his face, his need for release rising inside him. He didn’t rush, though, didn’t force. Just asked.

  “Let go, honey. Come for me.”

  She couldn’t. She’d gone this far. It was enough.

  He shifted, changing his angle, increasing the contact between them, and suddenly enough was no longer relevant. Heat built inside her, burned through her resistance. Instinct took over and she arched to meet him. She couldn’t stop her response, not anymore. It thundered through her, leaving her shattered, exhausted, in tears. She’d let go—of herself, her fear and her fury. It was wonderful. It was awful.

  She was demolished.

  Curt groaned and shuddered. A tremor racked his body. His arms shook as he held himself steady above her, and his breath emerged brokenly. “Oh, Ellie…Don’t cry, baby. Don’t cry.”

  Just as she couldn’t keep herself from responding to his lovemaking, she couldn’t keep her tears from spilling over. He eased onto his back and gathered her in his arms, letting her sob against his chest. She wept for what she’d found in this bed, and for what she’d lost. She wept for the years her marriage had been all but dead. She wept for Curt’s betrayal, and for her own.

  He stroked his hand through her hair, soothing. “Talk to me, Ellie. This wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “It was good,” she said, her lips tasting the salt of her tears on his skin.

  “It was good,” he agreed, only when he said it the words sounded like a ridiculous understatement. “We’ve got this. We can work out the rest.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do know. If you’re not ready to forgive me, I’ll wait. You know I love you. As long as it takes, I’ll wait. There’s no deadline here. We’ll get through it.”

  “No.” She wished she had the willpower to pull out of his embrace. His arm was so strong and protective around her, his chest so firm beneath her cheek. If she could close her eyes and lie with him on this grand brass bed in this charming room forever, maybe she’d never have to confront the truth.

  Curt’s voice was soft and lulling. “Tell me,” he urged her. “Why can’t we get through it?”

  “It’s me,” she said, at long last allowing the truth out. “I forgive you, Curt. It’s me I can’t forgive.”

  “You did nothing you have to forgive yourself for,” he argued. “You were so depressed, remember? You were a wreck. It’s not your fault you didn’t bounce back. That’s what you told me, and you were right. Whatever happened between us wasn’t your fault.”

  “You don’t know, Curt.” She swallowed down her final sob and inhaled deeply to calm herself. “I don’t deserve your love. I don’t deserve—this.” She gestured vaguely at the bed. “It is my fault. All of it.”

  “Give me a little credit, Ellie. I had something to do with the mess we made of our marriage.”

  “I’m not talking about what you did, Curt. I’m talking about what I did.” Say it, she ordered herself. He wants your honesty. “I’m talking about Peter.”

  “What about him?”

  “I killed him.”

  FIFTEEN

  FOR A MOMENT, Curt couldn’t move. As if someone had injected him with one of those poisons that paralyzed a person, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t lift his hand, couldn’t blink his eyes. His heart stopped beating.

  Just moments ago, it had been beating so hard, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see it burst through his ribs. The sex—damn, it wasn’t sex. It was love. What he and Ellie had just experienced transcended sex. It transcended their bodies. It was the most intimate, the most personal, the most emotional connection he’d ever felt with a woman.

  Sex was what he’d experienced with Moira. They’d enjoyed each other, satisfied each other, but his soul had been light-years removed from the act. The evening at her hotel room in Boston, he’d been half-crazed with hunger and self-loathing. The few days they’d spent together in California, he’d been a little less crazed and a lot more riddled with guilt. When he’d volunteered to travel to California to finish up the Benzer deal, he’d known the real reason he wanted to fly to the West Coast. Whatever happened between him and Moira during that trip had been intentional. Curt had known what would happen. He’d hoped it would happen.

  But once it had happened, he’d been riven with guilt, not just about Ellie but about Moira. Had he been using her? Taking advantage?

  Late that Saturday night in her elegant Pacific Heights condo, he’d tried to push back the guilt. That had been about as effective as pushing back the ocean with his hands. He’d done a deplorable thing to his wife and his marriage. He’d broken vows. No matter how desperate he’d been, how angry, how alienated from Ellie…he’d inflicted damage that was probably irreparable.

  “What happens tomorrow?” he’d asked Moira.

  “You go to the airport and fly home,” she’d replied bluntly. “I meet a boyfriend for brunch.” He must have seemed startled, because she’d added, “Come on, Curt—we both know what this was. Fun, friendship, something to tide you over until you figure out what you want to do about your marriage. Don’t turn mopey on me.”

  He hadn’t turned mopey. He’d been relieved to learn that Moira was as detached as he was, that her emotions hadn’t been involved and no commitment, acknowledged or unspoken, had been made.

  As she’d predicted, he’d gone to the airport and flown home the next day. He’d spent the entire flight thinking about what he’d done and what he wanted.

  Not Moira. Not loveless sex. His body had appreciated the workout, just as it appreciated a five-mile jog on the treadmill at the fitness club. But he’d realized, as the jet carried him back to Massachusetts, that what he and Ellie had was so much richer than a brief fling with an old friend. It was profound, precious, essential.

  What they’d had. Could they ever have it again?

  Tonight, on Ellie’s fiftieth birthday, he had his answer. They could have it again. They’d had it just moments ago.

  Except for Ellie’s confession afterward. I killed him. She might as well have plunged a knife into Curt’s chest.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked when he was finally able to make his mouth function.

/>   “Peter’s death.”

  He hadn’t misheard. His heart started beating again—too fast. A chill spread through him; even Ellie’s body, nestled against his, couldn’t warm him. He inched away from her, sat up and stared at her. She looked normal. She looked beautiful, in fact, her skin flushed, her hair tumbling in glorious disarray around her face, her cheeks marked by glistening tracks left by her tears.

  She’d killed their son? No.

  “Ellie. If you unplugged his respirator or something, slipped him an extra dose of medicine—”

  She cut him off with a shake of her head. Then she sat up, too. She kept her gaze focused on her hands in her lap, as if unable to meet his eyes. As well she should be, if what she was saying was true.

  “I sat by his side that whole time, Curt,” she said. “When he was in the hospital. I prayed for him. I held his hand and talked to him. I sang him lullabies. Even if the doctors had told me he was brain-dead, I couldn’t have unplugged him.”

  “Then you didn’t kill him,” Curt said, feeling his panic begin to drain away.

  She shook her head again. “It’s my fault he died. He came home from school that day with a terrible headache and a fever, and I sent him to bed. I told him it was nothing. I gave him some ibuprofen and left him a bottle of Gatorade.”

  “Ellie—”

  “If I had recognized the symptoms, if I had erred on the side of caution…” She lifted her face to him, and he saw nothing but despair. “If I’d gotten him to the hospital right away, he would have lived.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “They would have started pumping antibiotics into him sixteen hours sooner. It would have saved him.”

  “Maybe it wouldn’t have.”

  She ignored Curt’s remark. “I didn’t rush him to the hospital, or even call his doctor. Instead, I told him to go to bed. I shrugged off his illness. I’m a nurse, Curt. I should have known. By the time we got him to the hospital, it was too late to save him. A day earlier, it wouldn’t have been too late.”