Homespun Hearts (41 page)

His thoughts drifted toward a plan of action. Beginning a marriage without a wedding night was not particularly promising. Especially when in-the-bed affection was the most that he had to offer her.

As his mind conjured the possibilities, he was interrupted by the bell over the front door. "Come on in, we're open," he called out.

"I know," a small voice answered.

Cleav turned as his wife approached him. Stepping behind the counter, she casually made her way along the shelves, hesitating occasionally to straighten a jar or examine a tin. Slowly, almost shyly, she made her way toward him, her fingers running lightly across the polished oak countertop as if gathering strength from those things familiar.

She was scrubbed and shiny but wearing her usual threadbare attire. Cleav, however, thought only of the things he'd planned to say.

"I'm ..." the two began simultaneously.

A slightly embarrassed giggle was shared.

"Ladies first," Cleav suggested.

"No, you go ahead," Esme offered quickly.

Cleav absently checked the shine on his shoes as he answered. "I'm sorry about last night," he said simply.

Esme's cheeks flamed bright red. Was he apologizing for his inattention in their bed? Her pulse beat so vigorously in her throat, Esme nearly choked.

"I'm very glad that you've brought your mother's tablecloth to our house, Esme."

He looked up at her then. His eyes, so deep and blue, were sincere.

Esme nearly gasped at her own foolishness. Of course he had been talking about their argument, she assured herself disdainfully.

"You were right, really," Esme answered with feigned calm. "Your mother undoubtedly has many tablecloths, and most of them will be better than the one my mother made."

"But your mother made it," Cleav answered. "That's the point after all. This is your home now, and you certainly should bring your things into it" Cleav looked at the woman before him and wondered how to proceed. "I spoke foolishly last night" he began, "because I'm a foolish man. I was thinking more about kissing your lips than about the words that were coming from them."

Esme's eyes widened, and the lips he spoke of parted prettily in surprise.

"You were?" What was she to say? She had wanted to kiss him, too. She had wanted more than kissing, she admitted to herself. She wanted to feel the strength of his arms around her again. She wanted . . . she wanted everything. Their time was not lost. Their shaky start would not set them back. Esme refused to allow either to happen.

Without giving herself a chance to think about her actions, the new bride raised herself on her tiptoes and softly pressed her mouth against her husband's.

At Cleav's startled reaction, Esme's hopes sank. "I know I don't do it right," she admitted and lowered her head shamefully.

Cleav's eyes softened. "You're a bright young woman," Cleav told her easily as his arms encircled her. "All it takes is a little practice, and I'm willing to do my part."

Bending his head slowly forward until her lips were only a hair's breadth from his own, he hesitated. "This is my part," he whispered.

Teasing his mouth slightly over hers, he captured the fullness of her upper lip between his teeth. Tenderly tugging with playful passion, he urged her mouth open. Then he captured the warmth therein.

"Mmmm, you taste so good," he murmured.

Esme didn't reply. This time she returned the embrace more slowly. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stroked the fine brown hair that was perfectly trimmed at the nape of his neck.

Ending the kiss, Cleav pulled away only by inches. But inches was too far for Esme as she sought his lips again. The warm, lush taste of his mouth was a forbidden fruit she was suddenly free to access. Curiosity mixed with desire as she sought to know every approach and texture of his lips.

"Am I kissing you, or are you kissing me?" she asked huskily.

Quiet, tender touches suffused them with warmth as Cleav pressed delicate love bites on her neck and Esme answered them with grateful kisses to his temple.

"Once you are married," Cleav answered, "it no longer matters."

As if his words had given her permission, Esme ran her hands along the breadth of his shoulders and down the wall of his chest.

"Mmmm ..." His murmur of approval gave Esme courage as she pressed herself against him.

The eager caress fired Cleav's blood, and he tightened his arms around her. Hungrily his lips moved from her mouth to her cheek to her neck. She arched her back to give him access. And he took it.

"Esme, sweet Esme," he whispered against her skin. Running a hand up from her waist, he gently touched the side of her breast.

"Oh!"

With Esme's startled reaction, Cleav covered her mouth with his own. As she sighed against him, he allowed his hand to skim across her bosom again, this time casually contacting the raised nipple with his thumb.

The flutter he felt in her throat might have been fear, but she ardently pressed her flesh against his hand.

"Yes, please touch me there," she whispered. "It makes me feel so ... so ... all over."

Her response brought a primitive growl from deep within Cleav's throat. Tightening his hold marginally, he made a tentative foray into her hot, sweet mouth with his tongue.

She jerked from him slightly, in surprise, then her own tongue snaked to meet his.

"This feels so naughty," she told him, her breast heaving with excitement.

"It is naughty," Cleav agreed. "So wonderfully naughty."

They continued their naughty exploration for several more moments until both were breathing hard. Cleav pulled away from her slightly and bent his head to rest it against the top of hers.

"We shouldn't be in here like this," Cleav told her, willing himself to take stock of his surroundings. "Let me close the store, and we'll go to the house."

Esme wanted to agree but shook her head. "Your mother is there."

Cleav gave an exasperated sigh and pulled her back into his arms.

"Oh, Esme, you tempt me so," he whispered. "But this is neither the time nor the place. I'm terribly sorry for my timing," he said. "A gentleman doesn't take liberties with a lady in a public place."

She shook her head vigorously. "Oh, Cleav, you mustn't apologize to me," she said. "And you certainly mustn't reprove yourself. It's my fault. I just couldn't wait to touch you."

His kiss was tender as he grazed her lips.

"You are so sweet," he told her as he put her at arm's length to study the line and feature of her face. "And innocent."

"Not entirely," Esme said slowly. "You know those pretty garters that you gave me?"

He nodded. How could he forget them?

"I'm wearing them under my dress," she told him.

Cleav immediately thought of how they would look on her slim thighs. Then he wondered how high up she'd worn them, but he kept that thought to himself.

"That's what they are for, Esme," he said. "There is certainly no impropriety in that."

"I came down to the store wearing them under my dress," she continued, looking up into his eyes with an expression that was far from innocent. "And that's all I'm wearing under my dress."

Cleav's eyes widened in shock. "Miss Esme . . ." he began. "Miss Esme, I . . ."

"My name isn't Miss Esme," she corrected in a low, silky voice. "I'm Mrs. Cleavis Rhy."

His nostrils flared as he struggled to breathe normally. His gaze dropped to the worn serge skirt that now was the only cloth that hid her long, luscious legs from his sight. His hands trembled with desire. No words could be said. His arms went around her waist and his palms clutched the soft fullness of her buttocks.

"I want you, Mrs. Rhy," he growled. "I want you here and now."

Together they dropped to their knees on the worn space of hardwood floor between the counter and the shelves.

With his passion overwhelming his gentlemanly discretion, Cleav pushed the offending expanse of gray serge up to Esme's waist. She hadn't lied. The slim, seductive limbs that had enticed and vexed his dreams for weeks were naked and within his grasp. His fascination flowed like hot molasses from the ankle, still clad in the worn men's work boot, up the shapely calf to the delicate curve of her knee and the whiteness of her bare thigh, encircled by the dainty pink and white garters that had changed both their lives.

Casting his better judgment to the wind, he laid a large masculine hand on the whiteness of her calf.

"So soft," he whispered as he struggled to go slowly and not frighten her.

Esme would have none of it. Fairly flying into his arms, she kissed him eagerly.

Her enthusiasm was intoxicating. It no longer mattered where they were or what social rules prevailed. All Cleav wanted was to press himself inside this woman, whose lips and tongue toyed with his own.

But there were distractions. The lips that were just learning a new fulfilling purpose required tutoring. The questing and inquisitive feminine hands nearly unmanned him with innocent curiosity. The pert little breasts that rubbed against him so longingly needed disrobing. And the secrets, so bewitchingly secluded in a thatch of brownish curls, deserved to be explored.

"Let's get this off of you," he breathed hotly into her neck as he worried the buttons on her bodice.

Once the faded garment was slipped over her head, he found himself entranced by the sight of her rosy pink nipples, hardened and straining against the diaphanous covering of her thin cotton camisole.

His mouth immediately sought contact, and as he laved and nipped at the distended nubs, he lay her back to the floor and covered her with his body. He planted his knee firmly at the crux of her thighs and felt as well as heard the appreciative sigh of relief as she squirmed ardently against him.

"Oh, it's wonderful," she whispered. Spreading her thighs more widely before him, she begged, "Push harder, it feels so good."

Cleav nearly exploded at her words. Gritting his teeth, he raised himself slightly and looked down at his new wife. Her dark blond hair was spread wantonly across the floor. Her cheeks were flushed with desire. And her heaving breasts were clearly visible within the now damp cotton of her camisole.

"Cleavis! You in here?"

The disrupting shout came from somewhere near the front door. Cleav's eyes widened in shock, and Esme struggled to rise. He stayed her easily and placed a quieting finger to his lips.

"Cleavis?" the customer called again.

Hurriedly Cleav got to his knees, straightening his clothes

and smoothing back his hair. He gave Esme a silent gesture to stay put as he rose to his feet.

"Afternoon, Mr. Denny," he answered. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Didn't expect to come in," the old man replied. "Figured you'd be holed up with that new wife of yourn." Denny gave a lusty chuckle before continuing. "When I saw the door open, thought I'd best check things out."

"I'm just doing some inventory," Cleav told him nervously. "In fact, I was just getting ready to close up. Was there something that you needed?"

Esme had scooted as close to the counter as she could get. Drawing up her knees, which she hastily covered with the serge skirt, she tried to make herself as small as possible so that she could hide better among the corn plasters and Tincture of Arnica bottles.

Her heart continued to pound like a tom-tom and she valiantly tried to quiet her breathing, which sounded to her own ears like a violent roar. Still trembling with desire, the hot, sweet place between her legs was swelled and aching.

She glanced down at her disarray with consternation.

Beside her, Cleav stood, still fully clothed, speaking as calmly and controlled as if nothing had happened. As if he'd already forgotten her. . . . Glancing longingly at the strong trouser-covered leg at her side, she decided to make him remember.

Tentatively she reached out and touched his leg.

"Think we've had our share of rain this spring?" Denny asked.

"No!" Cleav answered, a bit more emphatically than necessary. "I mean," he continued more softly, "I think we might see more rain again before the end of the week."

"Maybe so," Denny allowed, but then glanced curiously at Cleavis. "You getting a fever, boy? You're a-looking downright flushed."

"No, I'm fine, um, fine," the younger man assured him.

Esme was very pleased by what she was discovering about her new husband. Not only were his legs strong and sturdy and his thighs powerful and well formed, but his buttocks were extremely shapely. She'd never paid much attention to men's backsides. Now she wondered why. Cleav's behind, so lucklessly obscured by the baggy seat of his trousers, was a work of art. Exploring the strength of the firm muscular curves with her hand, Esme discovered that her new husband seemed exceptionally sensitive to her touch. When she leaned forward to take a flirty little bite, she thought that he might vault over the counter. Her only regret was that she couldn't feel his bare flesh.

"My tomatoes ain't gonna make nothing this year," Denny was lamenting.

"Oh," Cleav choked out.

"Got cutworm," Denny told him, shaking his head sorrowfully. "It's a damn shame."

"A shame," Cleav agreed, his voice unusually high.

"But," Denny rationalized, "the taters are going to be fine."

"Fine."

"Corn ain't too bad, neither."

Esme's exploration took a wicked turn, and Cleav made a choking sound.

"What's wrong?" Denny jumped at Cleav's exclamation.

"I . . ." Cleav appeared almost breathless, his eyes wide. "I just thought of something I need to do."

Hurriedly Cleav made his way to the end of the counter, stopping only to grab the Closed sign from beneath the cash drawer.

Holding the sign in front of him, he hurried Denny out the door.

"I've really got to lock up now," he explained lamely. "You can come back tomorrow."

"Good Lord, boy. What in heaven's name is wrong?" Denny asked as Cleav discourteously shut the door in the old man's face.

A
fter hanging
the sign in the window and jerking down the shade, Cleav turned his back to the door. Flushed and trying to catch his breath, he glanced over at Esme, who was peeking over the top of the counter.

Esme's look was wary.

"I guess I shouldn't touch you like that?" she suggested.

Cleav looked at her for a moment. He was fully aroused, and his nostrils flared like a stallion who'd got a whiff of a mare in heat. His whole concentration centered not on his knowledge and good manners but on the pulsing heat at the front of his trousers.

He pushed away from the door and began walking toward Esme.

"Ladies do not touch gentlemen in that manner," he said.

Esme nodded, shamefaced. "I never claimed to be a lady," she pointed out.

Cleav reached the far side of the counter and bent forward, bringing his face close to hers. "No, you didn't," he agreed.

No woman, lady or otherwise, had ever fired his blood as did the young innocent before him. He had ignored her, insulted her, humiliated her, but she was still here. Still here and wanting him. Esme Crabb was in love with him. Suddenly he thought himself the luckiest man in Tennessee.

They faced each other for a moment until Esme dropped her gaze. Cleav gently grasped her chin and raised her eyes to his. "No, you never claimed to be a lady, Esme," he told her quietly. "And I am just ungentlemanly enough to appreciate that."

Stepping away from her, he walked to the piece-goods cupboard. Esme watched him curiously as he rummaged through it for a moment.

"Ah, here it is," he said finally.

Pulling out the remnant of rose crepe de chine he whipped it open like a picnic tablecloth and laid it on the hardwood floor. "Ladies want romance and flowers, featherbeds and clean sheets," he said.

Esme looked at him and then at the pretty pallet of rose crepe de chine. "I only want you."

Cleav leaned against the counter and removed first one boot and then the other. Slipping his thumbs under his suspenders, he allowed them to fall loosely to his hips.

Dropping to the edge of the crepe de chine, he held out his hand to Esme. "Would you care to join me, Mrs. Rhy?"

Esme walked toward him. Just looking at him and imagining what was to happen on the pink pallet made her nipples strain eagerly at the damp cotton of her camisole.

She hesitated as she neared the makeshift bed. She wanted to join him, but she didn't want to ruin the beautiful piece of material with her heavy work shoes. "Let me take my shoes off," she said.

"Please," Cleav agreed. Leaning back, he watched her, smiling wickedly. "In fact, why don't you just take off everything," he suggested.

"Everything?"

"Well, not everything," he corrected. "Leave the garters, I think."

Esme's eyes widened in shock. Then, as his assessing look became a teasing grin, she found herself smiling back.

"You think I won't do it," she told him.

His grin widened. "Dare ya."

What hill-bred gal could ever resist a dare?

Esme hastily discarded her shoes and began tugging at the hooks at the back of her skirt. In an instant the worn gray serge pooled around her feet, and she stepped out of it.

She was reaching for the straps on her camisole when she glanced back at Cleav. He wasn't grinning anymore. His look was scorching and wild and maybe, well, maybe almost reverent.

Esme slowed her motions.

Leisurely, painstakingly, she eased the straps of the camisole off her shoulders. Her eyes never leaving his, she gently caressed her bare shoulder as if she could no longer wait for his touch.

With unhurried deliberation, she exposed the delicate curve of her bosom inch by inch as she casually stripped the damp cotton from her flesh.

Cleav swallowed visibly.

She teased him with her eyes and her lips pursed in a playful pout. Leisurely casting the damp camisole on the counter, she stood before him wearing nothing but a blush in her cheeks and a pair of pink and white garters.

Cleav reached for her.

"Why would God make a woman with legs so long?" he murmured as his strong brown hands firmly grasped her hips and pulled her toward him.

The minute Esme stepped on the pink crepe de chine, all her risqué bravado vanished. The touch of his warm hands against her bare skin made her tremble.

"I've never done this," she whispered, her voice sounding strained.

"I know, Esme," Cleav answered as his hands ran possessively up and down the bare white limbs before him. "Nobody knows about these beautiful legs but me."

His hands were almost determinedly hesitant in their caress as he pulled her forward. Standing, trembling and nude, with her husband, the man she'd fought so hard to win on his knees before her, Esme's fear melted away like mountain snow in springtime.

"I know you aren't going to hurt me," Esme told him with conviction.

Cleav raised his blue eyes to hers.

"Hurt?" He shook his head, then gently kissed her pale thigh just above the plain store-bought garter. "Hurt, no. Never hurt."

Grabbing the dainty piece of pink and white feminine fastening with his teeth, Cleav slowly pulled the garter down the length of her thigh and over her knee.

The garter tickled her leg and Esme's breath caught in her throat and her limbs turned to crabapple jelly on a warm day.

"I can't stand up!" she announced with quavering alarm.

Cleav immediately loosened the garter and brought his hands up to steady her. "Trust me, Esme," he said. "I'm not a man that will let you down."

As Esme looked down at his pale blue eyes, she felt the warm flush of desire as his strong hands so securely held her.

"I trust you."

Cleav smiled. "Then you won't mind if I do this," he answered as he turned his head slightly and leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss on the mat of springy brown curls at the apex of her thighs.

"Oh!" Esme's startled exclamation momentarily captured his attention. "Can you do that?" she asked, plainly shocked at the idea.

"I can do it," he said. "If you want me to do it."

Esme's face was flaming bright red, which in itself was miraculous, because all the warmth and feeling in her body at that moment seemed completely concentrated in the damp, heated area where his lips had been.

"I ... I think it'd be all right, I guess," she stammered.

Not waiting for further invitation, Cleav bent his head forward to take that most intimate of kisses.

When his tongue touched the aching swollen nub hidden within her sensitive flesh, she cried out, half in astonishment, half in delight.

"What is it?" she asked him as her knees gave out completely, and he lowered her to the pallet beside him.

"It's pleasure," he told her as his hand clutched the hot, damp heaven that had felt his kisses. "Man-woman pleasure."

He moved to place light, teasing kisses on her breast and throat.

"It's supposed to hurt," she told him.

He feathered light, loving pecks across her eyes and the bridge of her nose.

"This is not the part that hurts," Cleav answered. "I'm going to try not to hurt you at all," he said. "But I want you so much. I'll try to be easy."

With that in mind Cleav began a gentle persuasion of sweet kisses and confident caresses meant to reassure rather than enflame. Esme reveled in his attention. As his hands explored her naked flesh, his teeth and tongue tutored her lips on pleasing them both.

Esme moaned low and lusciously from the depths of her throat and arched her back to offer herself. Cleav held her even closer as he wedged his thigh hard against her gentle parts.

Squirming enthusiastically against him, Esme whispered words of unintelligible encouragement as her head moved back and forth on the rose crepe de chine pallet.

Cleav unbuttoned his fine linen shirt, and Esme's hands eagerly sought to push it over his shoulders. When she finally had, she gasped with delighted surprise. She'd never imagined such a refined gentleman as Cleavis to have such a thick, silky mat of curly black hair on his chest. She ran her fingers through it until he finally stilled her hands.

"God, Esme, help me get these trousers off."

The eagerness in his voice spurred her to action. Her fingers deftly released the buttons at his fly and underdrawers. Eagerly she peeled the fabric from his hips.

The thick phallus that pressed at her belly was disconcerting. Esme avoided it by clutching the smooth muscular buttocks that she'd so admired earlier.

A strangled sound came from Cleav's throat, and he gritted his teeth harshly.

When Esme hesitated on her sweet exploration, he tried to reassure her.

"Oh, yes, sweetheart," he whispered hotly against her flesh. "I love your touch, but I can't wait much longer. I need to be inside you."

Tenderly caressing the paleness of her inner thighs, he spread them before him and raised himself in position to take her.

Now! Esme's mind screamed to her. Now he was going to make her a woman, his woman, for all time. Now she would know all that there was to know about the dark mystery of sex. Now she would have the blessed capacity of bearing his children. Now! Now!

"This is the part that hurts," Cleav warned her as he tried to ease himself inside her.

Esme's tiny cry came from her throat as Cleav pressed his way into the outer reaches of her womanhood.

"Are you all right?" he stopped to ask.

She nodded with more certainty than she felt.

He pushed forward again, and Esme's eyes widened in fear and pain.

"Oh, stop!" she cried out as he pushed against her maidenhead.

Sweat popped out on his forehead, and he ground his teeth in near agony as he tried, without success, to move within her. The hot, wet invitation of her body was in sharp contrast to the formidable barrier of her innocence.

Cleav pulled back slightly and strained to recover himself. "Sweet Esme," he choked out in tender anguish. "I don't want to hurt you, but I . . ." Getting control of her breath, Esme gazed up into the pale blue eyes of Cleavis Rhy and knew that she loved him. Always the gentleman, his jaw was clenched tightly against his own desire as he willed himself not to hurt her. It was supposed to hurt, everyone knew that. But this man in her arms, the man she loved, would spare her that if he could.

Wrapping her long, slim legs about his waist, Esme firmly grasped his buttocks and thrust forward, forcefully impaled herself on his shaft.

They both cried out, she in pain and he in ecstasy.

A stream of late afternoon sunlight streaked between the shade and the glass and across the hardwood floor. The quiet of the empty room accentuated the sound of the two near-naked bodies that lay between the counter and the canned goods shelf, gasping for breath.

Esme ran her hand along his straight, strong spine, feeling the quivering of well-worked muscles and the sheen of perspiration on his skin.

"I hurt you." Cleav spoke first. It was a statement rather than a question.

"No, I'm fine," Esme lied. It had hurt. More than she'd expected. But it didn't hurt now, not really. The slight rawness and the uncomfortable stretching paled in comparison to the relief she felt. Relief was definitely the word. He was inside her, a part of her, sheltering her and enclosing her. She felt so safe, so at home, at last.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back. He'd think she was crying for the pain, and that was beneath her dignity. But joy, this kind of joy, was something worth crying about.

Cleav raised his head slightly and saw the dampness on her cheek.

"Don't cry, little baby," he whispered. "My little Hillbaby."

He tried to move away from her, but Esme wouldn't let him. Wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, she held him fast.

"I'm too heavy for you," Cleav told her.

"Please don't leave yet," she whispered.

"I'm not going anywhere," he assured her.

"I mean," she hesitated, not sure about her phrasing, "I mean, it was such a struggle to get it inside. I don't want you to take it out so soon."

Cleav looked at her curiously for a moment and then his face was wreathed in a smile and he chuckled with self-satisfaction. Holding her as tightly as she held him, he rolled to his side and then wiggled more closely to her, securing his place.

"I'll try to stay all afternoon this way, if that's what you want, Hillbaby," Cleav told her with a teasing smile. "My spirit is willing, but my flesh may be weak."

Esme looked at him questioningly and then ran a warm appreciative hand along the muscled length of his bicep, giving it a testing squeeze.

"There is nothing weak about you, Cleavis Rhy," she stated flatly.

Cleav chuckled lightly. "It wasn't my arms I was worried about."

When Esme continued to look at him curiously, Cleav felt awkward. His experience with women had not been among the innocent. Of course there were things that Esme wouldn't know, couldn't know, until her husband told her. He was the husband. Somehow the responsibility of educating her was a burden he was more than willing to take on his shoulders.

"My ..." he began hesitantly. "Well . . . my . . . my . . . man part isn't always hard," he warned her.

Her eyes widened perceptibly. "It always seems to be."

He laughed out loud. "Only when you are around, Esme Crabb," he insisted.

"Esme Rhy," she corrected him, squirming slightly in an attempt to assuage the strange flutter near the place where their bodies connected.

"Just so," he agreed. "Esme Rhy."

He found himself inordinately pleased to say the name. He was suddenly sure that his decision to marry Esme Crabb was the most intelligent thing he'd ever done. No lady, he was sure, could be half as tempting. As Esme had so accurately guessed, the gentleman within him had not completely eradicated the man within him.

Dinner hostesses and esoteric conversationalists could be found among friends. It was not necessary to bed one. Esme was earthy and sensual and satisfying. Certainly those qualities were highly desirable for lifelong fidelity.