She writhed beneath him on the bed, protesting only when she worried that he would hurt his arm. He felt the occasional tug at his stitches, but any discomfort was overwhelmed by the exhilaration of loving Anna.
Anna cooperated fully while he learned her body, her fingers clenching in the sheets beneath her as she arched and writhed, biting back her cries of pleasure.
And then she pressed Dean gently back into the pillows and began her own extensive exploration of his body, always careful of his injured arm. His teeth clenched, his muscles rigid, his skin damp and exquisitely sensitized, Dean wondered dazedly if he would survive the night.
The time finally came when he could wait no longer to be inside her. He rolled her onto her back, settling himself between her thighs.
“Your arm, Dean,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with her own need. “Please be careful.”
“Forget the arm. I need you, Anna.”
“Yes. I need you, too, Dean. I need—” Her words broke off in a gasp when he surged inside her.
She was hot and wet and tight, and when he joined with her, Dean knew he had never been truly alive until that moment.
He and Anna were one. Somehow, they had always been one, even when time and space and death, itself, had separated them.
IT WAS A LONG TIME LATER before they slept. Anna lay snuggled against Dean’s left side, her head on his shoulder, her bare, still-damp body entwined with his. His right arm throbbed, but he ignored the discomfort, choosing, instead, to savor the pleasure.
“Marry me, Anna,” he whispered into her hair.
She stirred. “But how—”
“We’ll work it out, somehow. Just say you’ll marry me.”
He felt her smile against his skin. “I’ll marry you.”
“Good. By the way, did you know it’s your birthday?”
She lifted her head in surprise. “It is? Now?”
“Yes. It’s after midnight on the fourteenth. Happy Valentine’s Day, Anna. And happy birthday.”
She groaned and lay back down. “I don’t even want to think about how old I am.”
He laughed softly. “We’ll start counting again at twenty-six. Oh, man,” he added, suddenly dazed all over again. “I’m still having a little trouble believing this.”
She murmured an agreement. “I know how you feel. It’s very strange. But it’s right.”
“Yes. It’s right.” He kissed her. And then, content, he closed his eyes and nestled her closer. “I’m almost afraid to go to sleep,” he murmured. “I’m afraid I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”
She locked her arms around his neck, careful to avoid his bandages. “I’m not going anywhere, my love. Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
And she was.
ANNA’S WHITE DRESS was wrinkled and dirty, and she refused to put it on to meet his aunt. Dean dug out a clean black sweatsuit for her to wear. The shirt hung almost to her knees and the pants swallowed her, but the drawstring at the waist kept them in place. The elastic bands at the wrists and ankles made the garments blousy, but wearable. She wore a pair of his thick white socks in lieu of shoes. When she saw herself in the mirror, she laughed.
“Do I look like a modern woman—or a modern boy?” she asked, her slender figure all but hidden in the folds of his sweatsuit.
“You look adorable,” Dean assured her, kissing the top of her head as he fastened the white cotton shirt he’d donned with a pair of jeans.
“Your family will think you’ve dragged home a vagabond.”
“My family will love you, just as I do.”
They had already prepared their story. Now it was time to test it. Anna couldn’t remember ever being more nervous. She had to take several deep breaths for courage before she and Dean stepped out into the real world, with one last, wistful look at the bed where they’d spent such a magical night.
Mae and Cara and Casey were already seated at the dining-room table, having breakfast. “We thought you would want to sleep in this morning,” Mae said, hearing the dining-room door swing open. “We—oh! Why, who—”