Find Wonder in All Things - By Karen M. Cox Page 0,100
trapped them above her head, pinning her body with his. “Need you . . . Need . . . to be inside you, be part of you.” He dove back in to possess her mouth. “Please, sweetheart.”
She nodded.
He lifted her, and long arms and legs wound around him as he walked her toward the bed, grinning like a kid at Christmas. He gently tossed her on the covers and fell on top of her, holding himself off her with his arms while she squealed with delighted surprise.
The playful roughhousing gave him a much-needed respite from his driving need to take her right then and damn the consequences. He didn’t want to rush her, and a part of him felt insecure about loving her again after all that time. He slid down her body, kissing, touching each part as he went — shoulders, arms, hands. He drew her fingers into his mouth one at a time and blazed up in flames at the erotic noises she made. His mouth traveled over her middle, and he nibbled on her hipbones, less sharp and angled than he remembered — softer, rounder, and more womanly than those of an eighteen-year-old. Somehow that made her exciting in a completely different way, better than any fantasy he’d been able to concoct on his own. He raised his head to see her face, breathed in, and moaned with fierce longing as his mouth descended to her inner thigh.
“I remember this.” Her voice was plaintive and raw. “Oh God, I remember . . . ”
He was speechless, unable to answer, except by enflaming her more. He touched her with his fingers, pushing into her, and then he took her with his mouth. She shattered against him, calling his name. When he stood to finish undressing, he saw tears in her eyes and her lips were trembling.
“Sweetheart?” he asked, concerned, anxious.
She wiped the tears away with her hand and smiled up at him.
“They’re happy tears. How I’ve missed you. How I’ve wanted you.” She sighed and held out her arms. “James.”
He fell into them, sliding into her and closing his eyes against the surge of his own emotions. “So good,” he muttered in a thick, hoarse voice. “It’s still so damn good.”
She called to him, urging him on.
He lost his mind, pounding into her while she met him with her hips, sought his eyes with her own, and cradled him in her arms. His world stopped as he filled her, and in the bliss of a union born of love and loss, he buried his soul in hers.
Epilogue
Fifteen years later
Asheville, NC
James sat on the couch noodling his Mountain Laurel melody. It always helped him think when he ran across a particularly thorny programming glitch. He had spent the last four months working on an interactive software program with funds from the Elliot-Marshall Foundation — the organization he and Laurel founded the year after they married. The software he was currently developing was a pet project of his: using computers to teach music to children. The Foundation funded some of Laurel’s favorite causes too: reclaiming strip-mined land, art classes for children and adults, and education and treatment for people with depression.
For years, James had watched in admiration as Laurel’s confidence and poise rose to meet each new challenge. Never comfortable putting herself on display, she had learned early in their marriage that speaking and mingling would be a necessary part of her life. She had worked hard to develop those skills, but her inner grace was the root of all her inter- and intrapersonal strength. He’d seen ample evidence of it over the years: demonstrating her work, accompanying him to social gatherings for the various software companies he contracted with, and handling the devastating news that she was unlikely to conceive a child.
That had been a blow, but after many tears and long discussions, they reached a decision — no fertility treatments. As she told the doctor, “We’re going to let Fate decide this one. After all, Fate has been very kind to James and me.”
James had to agree. Fate had been kind in ways he never expected and knew he didn’t deserve. And their lives were full with their families, including Laurel’s nieces and nephews, and their friends — like John and his wife Marissa, Eric and Millie and their kids.
So, the Marshalls had both poured their energies into parenting the world in a variety of ways, and life had gone on as it had since the day they found each other again until one morning about four weeks after their ninth anniversary. Laurel met him at the door of their bedroom with a tearful smile on her face and an EPT in her hand.
He, of course, had panicked — as he usually did where she was concerned — but she quietly carried out every special medical instruction for moms over 35. He worried how a new little person would fit into their well-ordered life, but she calmly reassured him that everything would turn out fine . . .
* * *
A blur of black cape and blue pajamas whizzed behind him and leapt over the back of the couch, summoning him out of his memories.
“Whoa there, buddy! You almost impaled yourself on my guitar.”
“What’s ‘impaled?’”
“Fell and stabbed yourself with it. You need to look before you jump, Elliot.”
“Not Elliot! I’m Batman!”
James chuckled. “Riiight.” He thought for a second. “Did you know that Batman plays the guitar?”
“Like you?”
“Yep.”
“I never seen that.”
“He keeps it secret . . . but Alfred knows.”
“Nuh-uh.”
James shrugged and said, “I could show you how, but . . . I guess you’re too little anyway. It’s for big kids.”
“I’m a big kid!” Elliot was indignant as only a four-year-old could be. “Show me!”
And that was how Laurel found them when she ventured up from her studio twenty minutes later: James fingering chords and Elliot strumming and singing in an angelic voice. The boy could carry a tune — even at four.
She leaned against the doorway, and James’s eyes met hers for a long, silent moment, during which they said a multitude of sweet nothings to each other.
“Hey, big guys, whatcha up to?” she asked, coming in to sit beside them on the couch and putting her chin on her husband’s shoulder.
“Playing music,” James answered.
“Like Batman,” Elliot piped in, wriggling into his mother’s lap. James gave Laurel a lop-sided smile.
“Batman plays guitar? I like it. I always knew Batman had a sensitive, artistic side.”
James rolled his eyes, and she gave him a radiant smile before addressing their son.
“Elliot,” she began, “how would you like to go to Uppercross and see your cousins for a couple of months?”
“Yippee! See Aunt Susan and Uncle Gary too?”
“Yep, them too.”
“I wanna go. Daddy says Uppercross is the best place, ’cause it’s where there’s mommy’s broom.”
Laurel looked at James, confused.
He squelched a laugh. “No, Elliot — not quite — Uppercross is the best place,” he leaned over to kiss his wife on her clay-spattered cheek, “because it’s where the Mountain Laurels bloom.”
The End
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