© Sauce*Box, Fall 1996.
All rights revert to author.
Blue Moon Over Paradise
by Lisa Prosimo
Sam was tired. He stretched, rotated his shoulders, tried to work the ache out of his muscles. Just a little more work, then he'd stop. A few more bushes, that's all; then he'd call it quits. It had been a long day and he suddenly realized he was hungry.
He gathered the last of the dried brush and carried it to his truck, looked around at the work he had done and was satisfied. Sam liked the hard work, it made him brown and fit. He would buy himself a beer, have a steak for dinner at The Shady Pine, turn in early and be up slightly before dawn, get started before the heat took over. He looked at the dry brush, the dead trees that needed to be cut down. About a week's worth of work still to be done, two week's in all. Not bad. Good money and a guest house thrown in, too.
As Sam pulled away from the property to head for town, he looked through his rear view mirror at the stately old cabin that stood between the trees. It seemed strange to call that monster house a cabin, but that's the way the townspeople had always referred to the McEnery place. When he was a boy he used to come out with his friends just to stare at the thing. That was in the days when the place had a caretaker, Mr. Jenkins, who stood on the porch and yelled to them to "get the hell off this property before I call the sheriff!" Except for an agent who checked on the house occasionally, the place hadn't truly been cared for in years. Now the owner wanted to come back, and the agent had hired Sam to clean up the brush and remove dead tree branches.
Sam was back home in Paradise, doing a job his father had done, one he swore he would never do, and in a place he had run from years before. Funny how people change, he thought. This place, this work, made him content. San Francisco, the city Sam had called home for over fifteen years, had somehow lost its allure. Without knowing why, he no longer looked forward to getting up in the morning and going to his job as an instructor at the University. Only gradually did he come to understand that he had stopped caring about political science, political correctness, and politics. He found his mind drifting back to Paradise, wondered what was going on in the woods where he used to hunt and fish as a boy, began to pine for the life he once thought he hated.
It seemed so easy to slide back into that life after his father died and he had to come back to make arrangements for the funeral and put his dad's affairs in order. His regret was that he had waited too long between visits. One morning, his father just didn't wake up, dead of a heart attack. As Sam filled boxes and cleaned things up, he knew he wanted to come home.
Gloria was shocked. They'd lived together for six years, she reminded him. Their lives were good; they had excellent jobs. Why would he want to change anything? She asked him if it was something she'd done. No, he assured her. Nothing. She asked if it had anything to do with her receiving tenure while he had not. No. He just wanted to go home, he said. To do what? she demanded to know. Clean out brush, take dead branches off trees? She laughed at him, said he couldn't be serious. He said he was dead serious.
"I don't want the life I have, Gloria. I want to do something different. I want to work outdoors, feel the sun on my face. And I hate to be told there's no honor in that sort of work. I know there is."
He watched the tears spring to her eyes and run down her cheeks. She had hurt him by laughing at him; now he had hurt her. "I won't go with you, Sam," she whispered. "I can't."
And so he had come back to Paradise alone, and for a time he felt hollow in the place where she had been, and he filled his days with work, and more work, grateful that people still remembered his name and were willing to employ him. One morning he awoke to find that the void had filled in much the same way a wound grows new tissue. He was scarred, but the organism still served.
Sam might have stayed in town at the house that now belonged to him, but he chose instead to return to the McEnery place, to the little guest bungalow that had come with the job. He liked being in the woods, and close to his work. All he had to do after waking up was wash his face, pull on his clothes and get on with it.
When Sam pulled onto the property after his trip into town, he saw a Lincoln, long and black, in the driveway. The downstairs windows of the main house were open, the curtains drawn back to let in the evening breeze. It was just slightly past dusk. He peered up into the sky. There would be a moon tonight, almost full, cool and bright. He went into the house, dropped onto the bed and fell asleep almost immediately.
Sam awoke to the howling of a coyote, forgetting for a moment where he was. Light from the moon spilled across his skin, parched in the hot night, and he tossed for only a minute before admitting he could not fall back to sleep. He sat up, reached for his jeans, thought better of it, and went out onto the porch. There was no one to see him naked, and he wanted his body to catch what little air that moved. He sat in the shadows, hidden under the canopy, watching the moon hang upon nothing as he breathed in the clean sweet air he hoped would act on him like a sedative. If he didn't get enough rest, he would be worthless come morning.
The bright circle of the moon stood against the big house and Sam noticed the French doors on the upstairs balcony were open. The room was black, but the light picked up the sway of the soft gauzy curtains, tinting them a pale blue. A figure emerged from inside, female, wrapped inside a white sheet dyed moon blue, too. She leaned over the railing and sighed, the sound making its way across the expanse to the little bungalow where Sam sat in the darkness. From the way she moved, he knew she was young, between twenty and thirty, he would guess. She stepped away from the railing, threw her head back and shook out her hair. She let go of the sheet and it fell to the floor. Sam moved forward just a bit, to get a better look. The woman stretched her arms out to her sides as far as they would go and sighed again. The moon's radiance tinged her body and Sam could make out the curve of her hips, the contour of her breasts as she moved slowly, like a cat gauging its surroundings. She sat down in an old rocking chair, the only piece of furniture on the balcony; propelled herself forward, then dropped back. Forward and back in a steady, almost hypnotic cadence. She rocked for a few minutes, her head back, her arms hanging loosely over each rest, her feet planted on the floor. The moonlight caressed her shoulders, her breasts, her belly. Slowly, she shifted her body, leaned into the far side of the chair, brought her arms over her head and slipped one leg over the armrest. She shifted again, moved her pelvis closer to the edge, stretched her leg as far as it would go. Her body draped the chair like a shawl as she continued to rock back and forth.
Sam moved toward the light, just short of the end of the black that shrouded him. He monitored his breath, sure that if he had heard her sigh, she would hear his breathing. A concentrated warmth caressed his groin. The porch groaned under his weight and he moved back just a bit, just in case she might follow the sound. But she wasn't paying attention to the night. She brought one hand down to her face, placed her fingers in her mouth then drew them out. She altered her position another fraction, moved her hand over he vulva and slipped her fingers inside.
Sam heard her soft, quiet, "Ah . . .," almost a gurgle, as she rocked into her fingers. The old chair squeaked in protest, but she pushed it relentlessly as her fingers moved faster and faster. The woman's body jerked upward, seemed to devour her hand, and she moaned; moved her head from side to side. She kept the steady rhythm going, became one with the chair, and as she rode herself to climax, she let out a loud cry, a sister sound to the coyote.
Sam felt the woman's release, saw her body relax into the old chair. He envied her, wanted part of her climax. He could have reached down, brought himself off, but the thought repelled him. He didn't want to share the act without her knowledge or consent; that had never been his style. He'd been trapped into watching her, compelled to see it through, and now he was suddenly ashamed, felt like a Peeping Tom. Quietly he retreated out of the shadows and went back into the house.
They walked toward him, the woman and the old man. The man's body bent slightly, his legs bowed, his hands, one on the woman's arm, the other holding a cane, twisted like the bark of a tree. Sam left off bundling the dead branches, straightened up, pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Morning," he said.
The woman's face was passive. In sunlight she was beautiful: long black hair, clear brown eyes, flawless skin, full lips; a little past age thirty, he decided. He took her in with one glance, careful not to let his eyes linger too long. If he had seen her any place but here, would he have known her as the woman who presented her orgasm to the moon? The man smiled in Sam's direction, but couldn't see him, he realized. Sam extended his hand, placed his fingers lightly over the man's. The man grasped Sam's hand and shook it. "I'm Justin McEnery. Leah tells me you've been working non-stop all morning. Says the place is starting to shape up," he said, his voice gravelly, but warm. "Just wanted to let you know I appreciate it."
"You're quite welcome, Mr. McEnery. And thank you, sir, for the work. My name is Sam Warner."
"You a local boy?" asked McEnery.
"Yes, sir."
"I'm a local, too. Been a long time." He sniffed the air. "Place still smells the same, though."
"Yes, I guess it does," said Sam.
While Sam and McEnery talked, the woman, Leah, hung back quietly, not once looking at Sam directly. She kept her eyes on McEnery when he spoke, but looked into the sun or past the trees whenever it was Sam's turn, and yet he knew instinctively that she was acutely aware of him; was sure she felt, as he did, a certain type of current pass in the space between them. Could the old man feel it too, Sam wondered? Blind men can see things sighted men can't.
"Well, we'll leave you to your work," McEnery said. He turned away from Sam and he and Leah started to walk back to the house. "Oh," he said, stopping suddenly. "Come dine with us tonight. Our housekeeper won't be here until the end of the month, but Leah is a wonderful cook. Take pot luck, Sam."
Sam was flustered and wondered if McEnery could hear the surprise in his voice as he accepted the invitation.
Digging in his closet like an awkward teen, Sam considered what to wear to dinner at the McEnery's. Finally, he settled on a pair of jeans and a fresh white tee shirt. They were in the woods, for God's sake, what else should he wear? And what should he take over there? The four beers from his remaining six-pack? Hardly. His one and only bottle of wine, which he'd already opened? No. He settled on a bouquet of wild flowers for Miss McEnery's table.
Leah answered his knock, the same passive expression on her face. "Good evening," she said, and he noticed that in spite of the absence of a smile, her voice, full and rich, was welcoming. Sam handed her the flowers.
"They're beautiful," she said. "I'll put them in some water."
You're beautiful, Sam thought, as he followed Leah into the dining room. The table was set informally, stoneware instead of porcelain, and he was glad. He and Leah sat across from each other, while McEnery sat at the head of the table. They made small talk during the meal, which was simple, but good, and he noticed that McEnery didn't eat very much. But he drank constantly, downing two glasses of wine to every half glass of his and Leah's. Each time his glass was empty he drummed his fingers against the stem and Leah replenished his wine. And as the old man spoke, his words crowded in on each other until they were just a series of vowels and consonants sticking like glue to his lips. Sam had to lean in to make out McEnery's sentences.
"LivedinSanFranciscotoolongSam.Gladtobebackhome."
"Yes, sir. So am I." Sam explained that he had lived in San Francisco, too.
Leah said very little, almost nothing to Sam, but she was very tender with the old man, Sam noticed. He wondered if Leah were McEnery's only child, if she had come back from another life in order to care for her father whose health was obviously on a downward spiral. There were a lot of questions he would have liked to ask, but he had to be polite, speak when spoken to. After all, these people were his employers.
"Mydear . . . IthinkI'mtired."
"Yes, of course," said Leah. She looked at Sam. "Would you help me take Mr. McEnery to bed?"
Sam jumped up. "Certainly," he said.
They stood on either side of McEnery, guided him out of his chair and walked him to the bedroom at the back of the house. The old man was nearly asleep on his feet and Sam wondered how she could manage getting him to bed alone every night, since Sam was sure by the way McEnery had tapped his glass and she had filled it, that his heavy drinking was a ritual.
Sam took the old man's shoes off and helped Leah slip his shirt over his head, then he discreetly left the room. Leah soon came out; quietly closed the bedroom door. "Thank you, Sam."
"No problem," he said. They stood for a moment against the wall in the hallway, looking at each other. Sam felt that strange current flow between them again, same as it had that afternoon. He was awkward, his hands and feet suddenly big and clumsy.
"Well, I'll see you out," Leah said finally, and Sam realized he was being dismissed. At the front door, she said, "He wasn't always like this. It's just been the last couple of years. Before that he was so vital . . . He grew old overnight. The blindness is from diabetes."
"Diabetes?"
"Yes. I know what you're thinking. The drinking. I can't stop him." She said the words defensively and Sam was startled. None of this was his business. Why did she feel she had to explain anything to him? He opened his mouth to speak, but she had opened the door, stepped out, and he followed. "Good night, Sam," she said, and before he could say a word, she stepped back inside and closed the door.
Sam walked to the bungalow. He was full of food and wine and a vague feeling about what had actually taken place between Leah and himself. She had been neither rude nor friendly, simply perplexing.
That night, from his window, he watched the moonlight play against the open French doors, just as it had done the night before. But Leah didn't come out and after a while Sam came away from the window, sank down onto his bed and entered a dreamless sleep.
Leah came out of the house and walked down the driveway to the mailbox. Sam stood in the clearing not more than a hundred yards away and knew she had seen him. He almost waved to her, but stopped himself when he realized she had no intention of acknowledging his presence. She had served him dinner the night before, this morning he was not worthy of a greeting. She came up the drive clutching the mail in her hand, looking at the face of each envelope as she walked up the steps and back into the house. He resolved not to care that she had snubbed him, even as he was conscious of the desire that stirred him.
Toward the end of his work day, as he was cleaning up, Sam turned and there she was, standing before him with her arms folded across her breasts. "He wants you to come to dinner again," she said, a soft contempt in her voice.
Her manner puzzled him, brought up an anger he didn't understand. "He made you come out here to ask?"
"Yes."
Sam sneered at Leah and bowed in an exaggerated fashion. "Well, m'lady," he said. "Please convey my regrets to Mr. McEnery. Explain to him that I have another engagement." He turned away. Now it was his turn to act as if she didn't exist.
He attacked the brush and the leaves and branches furiously as he thought how glad he would be when this job was over, when he could get away from this exasperating woman and her dying, drunken father. He told himself that over and over, as he put his tools away, as he scrubbed the grime from his body; as he sat on the porch and drank his four remaining bottles of beer.
No food in his stomach, lightheaded from the beer, Sam wasn't quite sure what he heard coming from the big house. A crash, glass breaking? Then Leah's scream. He ran across the small meadow that separated the two structures and threw open the door.
The old man sat at the dining room table, same as he had the night before. Leah stood holding her hand before her. Sam noticed a broken glass on the table and a smashed wine bottle on the floor across from where she stood. Above the shattered bottle, wine, red as blood, stained the white wall.
"Sam.PleasetellLeahI'msorry." The old man had tears in his unseeing eyes. He looked up in Leah's direction. "I'msorry,mydear.Iwouldneverhurtyou. Sorry."
Sam picked up a napkin and wrapped Leah's bleeding hand. The cut wasn't bad, but her body trembled as if she were in shock. He settled her into the chair then turned his attention to the old man.
"Ididn'tmeanit,Sam.WhatdidIdo?"
"I don't know, sir," said Sam. "Let's worry about it tomorrow. Right now, we'll get you to bed." The old man nodded, allowed Sam to lead him to his room.
Leah sat in the same spot where Sam had left her, her body trembling as she stared at the white cloth that covered her hand. Sam gently pulled her out of the chair and slipped his arms around her, whispered against her hair, "It's all right."
After a few moments her body relaxed against him and she began to cry. "I can't. I can't do it anymore. I can't watch him . . ."
"Shu . . . shu," he crooned, his voice low, soothing.
Sam swept Leah up into his arms, surprised by how light she was. She rested her head against his shoulder as he carried her up the stairs. He knew which room was hers. Sam sat Leah down on the bed, went into the bathroom and gathered what he needed to dress her hand.
"It will heal in a few days," he said when he had finished. "Now you need to rest."
She hadn't said a word during the time it had taken him to care for her wound. Now she grabbed for his hand. "Don't," she said softly. "Please don't go."
Sam hesitated, then stood up. Leah reached out, her arms encircled his waist, she drew him to her, buried her cheek against his belly. Her touch inflamed his groin; the warmth spread over his legs and up to touch his nipples. He felt his knees grow weak, felt his penis harden against her face. She ran her cheek along his erection, traced with her chin its outline inside the denim. She looked up at him and Sam read the hunger in her eyes, and more. Longing, sorrow, loneliness. He reached down and ran his fingers lightly over the outline of her lips. Leah grabbed for Sam with her teeth, nibbled at the tips of his fingers, sucked. Sam's breath stuck inside his throat. He had never wanted a woman more than he wanted Leah.
She undid his belt while she watched his face. Sam closed his eyes, concentrated on the sound of leather slipping out of the buckle's grasp, the tinkle of metal on metal, the sound of his zipper opening, felt keenly the soft flesh of her hands, one covered by a gauze bandage, as they stroked his hips slowly, pulled down his briefs and freed his cock. Leah reached beneath him with one hand, caressed his heavy sac, while with her other hand, guided him inside her lips. He moaned, felt her mouth on him, hot and wet as her tongue slipped over and around his shaft, licking lightly, but thoroughly, making him harder, pulling the skin on his balls taut. Sam was aware of the moonlight spilling into the room, the pitch of their breaths, the moist, light clicking of Leah's mouth as it slid over his cock, taking him in deeper and deeper. The room became a tiny world of sensation, nothing outside existed. He moved inside her mouth, in and out slowly, and with each inward thrust she sucked him soundly, relaxed her lips as he withdrew, then sucked again, pulled, coaxed, called up his essence. And he felt it rising, almost there, almost there inside the perfect rhythm of lips and tongue, intense and absolute. He groaned, pressed forward, bounced on the balls of his feet as he surrendered his orgasm to her in a jolting burst of light.
Sam fell to his knees, his strength drained. He looked up at Leah, sprawled across the bed, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling. He pulled his clothes off, joined her on the bed. He touched her cheek and she opened her eyes. "Sam," she said, reaching up to touch his face. He kissed her, a deep, probing kiss, exploring with his tongue her taste and his own. "I knew this would happen," she said. "That's why I didn't want you around."
"Are you sorry?"
She sighed. "No."
Leah's face filled with wonder, fascination, and him. She looked vulnerable and so incredibly beautiful his heart melted. He bent over her, scooped her into his arms in a gesture of protectiveness. This time the passion exploded in his heart and he made a conscious effort not to cry out his joy. He wanted to tell her that she had made him feel as no other woman had ever made him feel, but all he could say was, "Leah."
She pressed against him, her need pressing through the thin cotton of her dress, her skin hot, firing his skin. He laid her down, lifted the dress over her head, slipped it off her body and dropped it to the floor. She reached for his hands and moved them to her breasts. Her eyes closed and a sigh left her lips as Sam kneaded the firm flesh, made tiny whorls around her nipples with the tips of his fingers. Leah shuddered beneath him, whispered his name, grasped his hair in both her hands and brought his lips down on hers. She sucked his tongue, his lips, his chin; kissed him until he gasped for breath. Sam pulled his mouth from hers and rested his head against her breasts for a moment, then let his tongue roll slowly over each mound, flood the nipples before drawing them, one at a time, deeply into his mouth. She cupped her breasts, squeezed them together as he kept sucking her rock-hard nipples against his tongue. He buried his face inside her bosom, breathed in her warm scent, planted moist kisses in the valley between her breasts, licked and kissed his way down and over the soft slope of her belly; felt her smooth, silky legs under his hands. He placed his palm over her soft curls, slipped his finger into her wet cleft and pressed gently on the delicate folds at the mouth of her vagina. She arched into his hand as if a bolt of electricity had entered her body, and Sam felt the energy from that shock leap into his. He pulled her lips apart and met the mouth of her sex with his mouth. He savored her wetness, drew her juices against his lips. He sucked and licked, ran his tongue into the deep crevices and over her sensitive clitoris. Her body jerked up, rose to keep itself fastened to Sam's mouth. He was lost in the taste of her, the soft warm slickness of her. He wanted to go deeper, deeper, drown inside her womb. Leah clutched his shoulders, thrust into his face, abandoned herself to his ministrations. She cried out, and he could hear the tears in her voice, their force rising up from her cunt and into her throat; spilling over her lips. "Oh, Sam . . . Ahhhhhh . . .," she groaned, and he felt the impact of her orgasm wash over his tongue in a baptism of their spirits.
Sam lay with his head against Leah's belly as she ran her fingers through his hair. The glow of the moon bathed their bodies like a gentle lagoon. He dipped his tongue into her navel and she sighed. "Let's never leave this bed, Sam," she said.
"Okay."
He thought about the old man asleep downstairs, and he was a little ashamed for being grateful that McEnery had been too drunk to have heard them. This was the first time he had ravaged a man's daughter while he was a guest in the man's home. Perhaps he should have been more ashamed, but he wasn't. He had Leah under him, the taste of her still in his mouth. He was smitten.
"I wanted you the minute I laid eyes on you, Sam."
"Me, too."
"Yes? That day in the garden?"
Should he tell her about the night before that day in the garden, when he'd seen her on the porch in the moonlight, say that he'd begun to want her then? No. He decided to keep that his secret for now.
"Yes. That day in the garden," he said.
She rolled out from under him, scurried into the crook of his arm, laid her hand upon his chest. "There's so much I should tell you, Sam, about the way things are . . ."
He gently covered her mouth with his hand. "Shush," he whispered. "Not tonight."
He kissed her, felt the heat sweep into his genitals once more. Leah looked at his face, her expression like a caress, and once more his heart exploded with tenderness. How simply she looked at him: no guile, no coyness in her gaze. She was open to him the way a flower opens to the sun, trusting that it will supply what is needed. With each kiss, Sam vowed in his heart to fulfill Leah's needs.
He had discovered making love with her, a different kind of appetite, a hunger that pervaded his being, a desire to possess her, not in a way that smacked of ownership, but a blending of her soul into his. His discovery did not come in a series of thoughts, but through an arrangement of emotion as he kissed her, touched her, moved inside her. He, over her, she, over him, his hands holding her torso steady as he thrust his cock up into her again and again. His penis deep within her, Leah shuddered over him, and he shared the impact of her orgasms, first one, than another. "Please. I don't want you to stop. Don't ever stop," she whispered. To hear her speak, to watch her face as she came thrilled him so, as if her orgasms leapt out of her body and into his. Sam cried out as the energy poured out of him to fill her, and still it was not enough. He wanted to melt further and further into her, blot out the bed, the room, even the moon, everything except the soft cries that spurred him on to reach her center, the place where he wished to mark her, stamp her his, the way a wolf marks its territory. Again over her, his chest shaking and heaving, her arms around his back, drawing him close, fusing to him, her tears flowing free, warm against his skin, attentive to each other's desires, with an absence of self-consciousness or judgment. Sex and love, pure and beautiful and committed.
"Sam," she said softly. "I'd forgotten how wonderful it could be."
He turned to look at her. "But I'm glad you've forgotten, Leah. I want all your memories to be of me from now on."
"Yes," she said, and ran her hand across the hairs on his chest. "I don't think I'll be able to get enough of you."
"Good."
She laughed quietly and curled into his body. "Hold me, Sam," she said. "I'm so tired."
Sam looked up at the moon. He smiled. The moon, just like him, was wonderfully full.
The tides cannot resist the moon, and like them, Sam could not resist the pull on his body, the drawing of his being toward the house where somewhere inside, Leah stood. Was she making breakfast for her father? Folding laundry? Thinking of him? Would she come out of the house if he willed her to?
He had risen just before the sun, that time when the red morning persuades the blue night to relinquish its hold. For a few moments Sam watched Leah as she slept, arms and legs askew, her lovely breasts rising and falling with each breath. He could feel the color rise in his cheeks, feel every capillary in his body fill with tenderness, and something close to rage, a trembling born of hunger so intense he longed to reach out and crush her inside his arms. How was it possible to want someone so much? How had it happened? He moved over her, cupped her mound with his hand, slipped one finger inside her, withdrew the finger, and watched as a tiny pool of semen settled in his palm. He didn't want to wake her, didn't need to make love to her then, he simply wanted to confirm the fact that this was where he'd been. His Leah. She stirred; her eyes fluttered for an instant, but her sleep was sound.
Leah, Leah, like a buzzing in his head as he hacked the brush, freed twisted vines, and uncovered smothered walkways. "The mail man was here. Come out and get the mail. I want to run my face along your legs, your thighs; I want my tongue to taste your skin again." The sun stood high in the sky, the sweat trickled down Sam's body in rivulets, and he trembled with desire.
The door to the big house opened, Leah stepped out, her arms wrapped around two jugs, one with tea bags floating around inside, the other filled with clear water and ice. She set the tea on the porch, came down the stairs and walked toward him, the ice tinkling against the glass jug like wind chimes on a breezy day.
"Hi. I brought you some water. Thought you might need to be refreshed."
"I do need to be refreshed," he said, drawing her to him. "Come inside the bungalow with me."
She laughed. "Sam, I can't. He just woke up a little while ago. I gave him his insulin and some breakfast, but I've got to watch him."
"I know," he said, but he was pulling on the skirt of her dress, walking backwards toward the bungalow. She followed, weakly protesting, laughing and shaking her head.
Behind the door he kissed her, took her tongue into his mouth like a starving man, held her to him so closely the sweat on his body stained her dress. She pulled away, looked up at him helplessly. "My knees are weak," she said. "My head is light. See what you do?" He kissed her again. "It's so good," she murmured against his mouth.
"What is? Which part?"
"All of it."
"What's the best? The kissing; the touching. Licking. Fucking."
"Yes, yes, yes, yes." She pulled away from him, looked deeply into his eyes. "Trust."
"What?"
"I trust you. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, wouldn't want you to do to me."
"Wilder and wilder?"
"Yes," said Leah. "Wilder and wilder."
She pushed him up against the door, climbed on top of him; he grabbed her, dug his fingers into the soft flesh of her ass, kissed her mouth as if he hadn't kissed it in a long, long time. Such a rich, juicy mouth. He opened the buttons at the top of her dress, peeled the cloth aside, and took her nipple between his lips. Leah wound her hands into his hair as his busy mouth worked. His strong arms lifted her high, turned her so that her back was to the door; and his head disappeared under her dress, to the sweetness of her cunt with its soft black curls over deep pink folds. He savored the smell of her; the taste of her, heard her moan above him. Heard her say, "Sam . . . I want you inside me."
He brought her down; they stood toe to toe, her breath coming in gasps against his chest. She looked up at him. "Sam . . . please . . ."
He turned her around, gently, and pinned her arms with his hands. "Bend over, Leah," he said. "Put your hands against the door."
She did what he said. He moved closer to her, threw her skirt over her back, bent to kiss the soft flesh of her ass. He brought his arm under her, slipped his finger inside her moist lips; she was hot and wet and he spread her juices along the crack of her ass. She moaned in anticipation, spread her feet wider apart, drew closer to him.
He rested his hands on her hips. "Do you trust me?" he whispered. She turned her head, nodded. With one hand he undid the zipper on his jeans, let them fall. His pulled on his aching cock, drew out the moisture at the tip and spread it over the head, then with his hand, guided his cock into her tiny hole. He pushed slowly and felt her tense around him. "I don't want to hurt you, Leah. I want only to give you pleasure. If you want me to stop, I will."
"No . . . . I want this," she said.
"Relax," he said. "Take me in. You do it, move against me. I won't move at all until you want me to." She arched slightly, moving him further inside her. She moved again, then again, inching her way over him until she had all of him. "Good," he said. He brought his hand under her again, stroked her dripping lips and Leah began to moan, moved her hips back and forth against him.
"It's so good, Sam. Do it with me, move with me now."
"Like this?" he asked, pumping in and out of her slowly.
"Yes, like that. Don't stop."
His balls were so full, he wanted nothing more than to explode within her, but he held off, took her lead, kept pushing in a steady rhythm until she could take no more, cried out that she was going to come. Her muscles tightened around him as she began to spasm, and at that moment he drove two of his fingers deep inside her cunt. She shuddered, lost control, and in her excitement almost broke away. He quickly grabbed her hips, drew her back, slammed against her, meeting the end of her orgasm with the beginning of his. She went limp under him and he withdrew. He turned her around and tenderly kissed her eyes, her ears, her lips, her neck; whispered his love to her.
"Sam, I've never done anything like that before."
"And?"
"It's quite amazing."
"That it is," he said.
Her eyes clouded over. "I wish I could stay here, make love with you all afternoon, but I've got to get back."
"I know. But tonight, when he's asleep . . ."
"Yes."
He helped her button her dress, smoothed back the hair from her forehead. She smiled up at him. "Sam . . ."
"What?"
"Nothing, just Sam."
He held her face in both his hands, kissed her lightly on her smiling mouth. "Go on, go take care of your father. I'll see you later."
The smile on Leah's face dissolved, she stiffened and pulled Sam's hands away from her face. "What is it?" he asked. "What's the matter?"
She searched his eyes. "My God, you don't know," she said.
"What is it I don't know, Leah?" His voice had taken on the edge of her apprehension; he was suddenly afraid.
"McEnery isn't my father. He's my husband."
Somehow he'd heard the words, understood them before they formed in her mouth. "He's my husband. My husband. My.
His dimension had shifted. Paralysis ebbed around his body; Leah's, too, for neither of them moved. He forced himself to break their silence, an act of will.
"What have you done to me, Leah? What kind of game are you playing?"
She started to cry, and in a broken voice, "No game, Sam. My God, I love you."
He treated her words as if they'd been created to mock him. "You love me?" he said, suddenly realizing that he had gripped her wrist so tightly it might have snapped. He let go. "You fucked me, Leah, with your husband asleep in the bedroom right below us. I don't fuck other people's wives!" Leah moved her hands over her ears to shut out his words. He lunged for her again, grabbed the sleeve of her dress and it came away from her shoulder with a cracking sound.
"Sam, please don't."
"Please don't," he repeated, lifted her and carried her to the sofa, flung her unceremoniously onto the cushions. "Now, you tell me," he said, his face close to hers, his voice terse. "Why me? Because I was here? Because I was available?"
How many dawnings had he experienced in his life, that time when the light goes on and everything is crystal clear? Here was another fountainhead of truth, one he had no stomach for. Sam had pronounced this woman his simply because he had wanted her, because they had made love flawlessly. Why had he believed that's all it would take to give him the right to her? He could picture her, his Leah, rounding her back over that twisted old man, bringing her hips to his with a deliberate sway, fucking him. The image sickened him. But why should it? He was the interloper here.
Leah sobbed into her hands. She looked like a child who has just been scolded for touching something she should not have. What did he look like? Did he look like a man guilty of touching something he should not have? All at once, he was tired. "Jesus, Leah," he said quietly. "I run a tree service, not a stud service."
Leah took her hands away from her face; wiped her eyes on the skirt of her dress. "It wasn't like that, Sam. I swear."
"He invited me to dinner, he sent you looking for me. He lined me up for you, isn't that true, Leah?"
For less than a moment, she hesitated. "Yes . . . but, you've got to listen. Please."
I should tell her to shut up, he thought. Tell her I don't want to hear what she has to say. I should throw my gear together, get the hell off McEnery's property. I have no claim to McEnery's property. But he sat watching her, wanting to hear, and fearing what she might say.
"I married him when I was nineteen. He was wonderful; we had a good life together. For a long time, he was a young man. Nearly thirty years older than I, but younger in so many ways." Fresh tears stained her cheek. "He hates being sick, says he wishes he had the courage to end his life, even begged me to help him . . ."
Leah rose from the sofa, went to stand before the window. The sun was high in the sky, flooding the small room with a scorching light, yet she shivered, wrapped her arms around her middle, drew into herself. "I couldn't do that and he stopped asking." She turned to look at Sam. "And I couldn't do the other thing he begged me to do. It seemed as though everywhere we went, the ballet, the opera, out to dinner with friends-- there was always someone, even in the pitch black of his blindness--someone he would pick to pair me to. A colleague of his, a business acquaintance, a waiter . . . It's the reason we came here. I'd hoped in the quiet of these woods he would forget, stop bringing it up, just let me be there for him, let me comfort him until he died in peace." She sat down, began to reach for Sam, but stopped. "You've got to understand something, Sam. It was good for us, for me. He wanted that for me, still. But I never . . . until you. And then, only because it was you."
Jealousy and guilt lay on Sam's stomach like a bad meal. It had been good for them, for her and the sick old man, when he wasn't sick and he wasn't old. She watched his eyes, read his mind. "I can't apologize for that," she said. "Did you think I came without a past, Sam? Does anyone? Do you?"
"No," Sam whispered.
"He's dying. I love him and I always will. But I love you, too. Is that wrong? Is it wrong for him to want a second chance for me? Is it wrong for me to take it? Tell me, Sam. If it's wrong, I'll walk away. You won't have to."
Sam's quiet breathing filled the room. Finally, he took a deep breath, looked through the window at the sunshine. "Have you ever noticed that sometimes there are two full moons in a month? A blue moon. It doesn't happen very often, but it does happen."
Leah's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What does a blue moon have to do with this, Sam?"
He smiled. "Nothing, really. It just came to me when you talked about second chances. I know about second chances, Leah. About starting over."
Sam stood up, gently drew Leah to her feet. "Do you still trust me?
"Yes, Sam. I trust you."
"Okay, then. Go take care of him."
Leah opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead she looked into Sam's eyes and drew the calm she saw there to herself. She nodded and left the bungalow and he watched as she walked to the big house, opened the door, and went inside.
Sam stood on the porch of the little house, picked up the gloves he had been wearing earlier, put them on and gathered his tools. That afternoon he would begin to clear away the dried brush atop the higher peaks.
* * * * *
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