The Faithful Wife

Her flesh trembled, ached, burned for him. And her hands were making a clear, silent statement of fevered repossession as her fingers dug deeply, stroked and stroked again, exploring every millimetre of that strong, demanding male body. The body she knew so intimately—every muscle, every bone, every last pore of his sweat-slicked skin marked on her brain, never to be forgotten, not even if their parting had lasted through eternity. That was what was important, too. Nothing else.

Clothing scattered everywhere. Heated bodies close together, twisting, writhing in the immensity of their need to be closer still, so close that each was absorbed into the other. Fever and passion and the inescapable, beautiful simplicity of home-coming.

Bella arched her hips expressively. demandingly towards him, her whole body quivering. Her mouth was urgently seeking his, tasting him, opening to the renewed savage plunder of his lips, responding feverishly, drawing him into her, the invitation accepted by him with a ragged groan as he slid deeply between her parted thighs.

One moment of sheer, exquisite ecstasy. A still, unmoving savouring of the rapturous, breathtaking moment of joining. Her body tightly enclosed his until he gave a ferocious cry and plunged deeper, taking them higher and higher into the wild storm of passion until it took them both and shook them into a million brilliant shards of pulsating light.

And then the slow descent to peace. Soft murmurs, slow touching, the gentle glow of the aftermath—slick bodies close, but softly now, her hair splayed out across his firm, wide chest, her head fitting naturally into the angle of his rangy shoulder and her lips moving softly against his hot skin. One of his hands idly stroking the gentle flare of her hip, the other resting heavily on the damp tangle of curls between her thighs.

Bella sighed, a tiny fluttering exhalation, as peace and tranquillity, both strangers for so long, took her gently down to sleep.

The sky was black against the windowpanes but the bedside light was on when she woke to the sound of the door opening—Jake, naked, soft dark hair rumpled, carrying a tray.

‘What time is it?’ She raised herself up on one elbow, pushing her hair out of her drowsy eyes—drowsy eyes drowning in love for him.

‘Almost eleven. One more hour and it will be Christmas morning.’ His lazy grin was heart-stopping. Bella actually felt her heart stop then start again, racing on out of control as he instructed gruffly, ‘Move over, woman. I’m freezing. Warm me.’

She lifted the edge of the soft down duvet, her heart clenching with unadulterated joy as he slid his big body in beside her. Everything was right again; she knew it was. It just had to be!

Nothing had been said. Talk hadn’t been necessary, after all. Their bodies had said everything that needed to be said.

Wrapping her arms around him, she cuddled her warm body against his icy skin, totally forgetting the loaded tray until Jake growled, ‘Watch it! You want to share a bed with a mountain of toast and a lake of tea?’

The temptation to heave the tray off the bed and take her in his arms was enormous. They had made love in the very truest sense of the time-honoured phrase, and it had been all he had dreamed of during the last barren year. And more. So much more.

Yet there were questions he had to ask. Everything had seemed so cut and dried a year ago, almost to the hour, when he’d discovered her in her former lover’s arms. The end. The love of a lifetime over and done with, shattered by what his eyes had told him.

But t

he events of the last couple of days, and the explosive need of the last hours, had shown him differently. It was far from over. Whatever happened it could never be completely over, not for him. Or for her?

He had to find out how much blame he carried for the way she’d taken up her old career, her old lover.

She was sitting up amongst the pillows, the pert, rosy tips of her breasts just visible above the edge of the duvet, her black hair a silken cloak around her slender white shoulders.

Jake said round the sudden constriction in his throat, ‘Eat up. I woke starving, and didn’t think either of us would want to cook at this time of night. My earlier efforts with sandwiches were enterprising, but scarcely edifying, so I played safe and made toast.’

‘Looks scrummy.’ Bella took a thick slice of hot buttered toast from the plate and bit into it enthusiastically, telling him round a mouthful, ‘Your sandwiches were delicious, once I managed to get my mouth around them! Don’t put yourself down. And I ate my share, or didn’t you notice?’

He watched the tip of her tongue peep out, licking buttery fingers, and his heart clenched inside his chest. Of course he’d noticed. He noticed everything about her. Always had.

He took his mug of tea, cradling it in his hands, his voice carefully level as he asked, ‘You mentioned that dream you had—about having a home in the country, a family. Did it mean so very much to you?’

She gave him a smiling, sideways look and helped herself to another slice of toast. She hadn’t realised just how hungry she was. All the frantic, physical activity of a few hours ago, she thought, her cheeks going pink.

‘It was what I’d always wanted,’ she agreed. But it didn’t seem so important now. Jake’s love, his trust, was all she craved. ‘I suppose,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘the whole thing—a settled home, a loving family life—something I’d never had—took more room in my head than it should have done. Basically, I was lonely. You were away so much. Out of the three years of our marriage we spent one hundred and thirty-one days together. I kept a record. Does that make me paranoid?’

She supposed she must have been. She had counted days and hours, yearned for what she couldn’t have, losing sight of what was truly important—that she loved him, no matter what.

‘I had to be away, you knew that—or I thought you did,’ he reminded her gently, his eyes soft as he watched how hungrily she devoured the toast.

He’d always known he had to stay ahead of the pack, not let anyone or anything pull him down. He had to be where the action was, use his brain, not rely on capricious luck as his father had done—losing everything in one fell swoop, plunging his loved ones into penury.

‘You could have travelled with me,’ he pointed out without rancour. If he’d known about her family background he would have understood the needs she’d had. It was important now for her to open up. And she seemed very relaxed right now, even smiling that wonderful, lazy smile of hers, the one that melted his bones right through to the core.

‘I tried that, remember? Brussels, Rome, New York.’ She took a gulp of tea. ‘There was only so much window-shopping I could stomach, and the museums all began to look the same. I usually found myself having dinner alone in our suite because you were held up in meetings. And when you did get back you were toting loads of paperwork. So that kept you occupied until the small hours, and—Oh!’

Her hand hovered over the last slice of toast, withdrew. She picked up the plate and offered it to him guiltily. ‘I’ve eaten the lot. I just wasn’t thinking. Take this slice. I’m a greedy pig!’