Garters.htm (24 page)

The minutes trickled past like hours, and Esme's whole body was rigid with anticipation.

The suspense became too much, and she spoke. "Cleav, I…" She had no idea how to continue. He had married her against his will. He didn't love her. Perhaps he didn't even want her.

"Cleav, I…"

He rolled to his side, facing away from her.

"Good night, Esme," he said.

"Good night."

Cleavis Rhy yawned broadly and then shook his head as if to clear it. Glancing down to the tablet he carried, he carefully wrote in the number of tins of wool fat that he'd found on the shelf. He hadn't planned on doing inventory today. But he'd never seen a better day for it

Apparently every soul in Vader either expected the store to be closed or weren't tempted to venture too close. Cleav would have welcomed a bustling business. He had no desire to be alone with his thoughts. His thoughts were too troubling.

"Stupid, clumsy clodhopper!" he muttered to himself. He'd thought with his trousers instead of his brain! He deserved exactly what he'd gotten! He sighed derisively at himself. He'd gotten exactly nothing!

"You have made your bed, and now you have to lie in it," his mother had declared last night.

"Lying in it" was exactly what Cleav had planned to do as he'd hurried through his bath. However, his mother had stopped him on his way upstairs.

"I wish to speak with you in the parlor, Cleavis," she'd said in her most disagreeably haughty tone.

Cleav was not a man to be bullied about by his mother, but long years of experience in dealing with Eula Rhy's snits had taught him to let her speak her piece. Otherwise, he would never hear the end of it.

"Of course, Mother," he'd answered politely and indicated that she should precede him across the threshold.

Walking across the room to lean with studied casualness against the mantel, he gestured toward her favorite chair. "Please sit," he told her. "It's very late and I'm sure that you are tired."

Eula Rhy made herself comfortable before she realized she'd been outmaneuvered. It was going to be very disconcerting—and not very effective—to scold her son while looking up at him. "You have married this young woman in good faith," she began adamantly.

Cleav nodded agreement.

"Needless to say, she is not what I had in mind for you. I very much doubt that she is what you had in mind for yourself."

"That's neither here nor there, Mother," Cleav said. "The deed is done."

"It certainly is," Eula agreed. "She'll undoubtedly turn our home into her own, as is her right as your wife. Have you thought about that?''

Cleav looked annoyed. "What are you suggesting, Mother?" he asked. "Esme is a very intelligent young woman. If you think she'll be raising chickens in the pantry and hogs in the dining room, I'm afraid you are doomed to disappointment.''

Eula Rhy raised an assessing eyebrow. "I'm glad to hear you defend her. You'll undoubtedly be doing a great deal of that in the future."

Cleav closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm sure my wife and I will have our share of problems to work out," he said evenly. "Like all couples, time and familiarity are in our favor."

Mrs. Rhy gave a lofty snort that could only be described as a huff. "Time and familiarity are not usually the only things newlyweds have to base a future upon," she told him.

"There are other things," Cleav defended hastily.

"Name one?" she challenged.

One thing immediately came to mind, but Cleav was loath to speak it to his mother.

"Well… there's…" he dissembled.

"Do you love her?" The question snapped at him like a -whip.

"I…"he hesitated. "I believe that she loves me," he said finally.

The older woman gave him a moue of disbelief. "She loves you or she loves a fine house and nice clothes?"

Cleav's mouth thinned to a line of displeasure. "Esme is not like that, Mother," he said with complete confidence. In his mind's eye he could see her sitting in his shadow at the pond. Her eyes sparkling with delight as she watched the fish and then darkening with desire before she threw herself in his arms.

"She cares for me, Mother. Do you find that so hard to believe?"

Eula Rhy looked her son up and down as if to take his measure. "I believe she might
think
that she loves you," his mother admitted. "But even that won't last long if you continue to trample her pride as casually as you did her mother's hand-crocheted tablecloth."

Even this morning, as he counted the salves and drops on the medicine shelf, the truth of his mother's words continued to haunt him. He'd pulled Esme tight against him with all the finesse of a green farm boy at a house of ill repute. His desire had led him to act crassly.

He'd been so anxious to bed her he'd insulted her, a thing that had never happened to him before. Rightly she'd foisted him off with an argument about the tablecloth.

That was why he had lain beside her last night without attempting to claim his rights as bridegroom. This morning, however, he wondered if that had been a mistake. After living through a night of sheer torture, breathing the sweet smell of her hair on the pillow, he remembered that his baser nature seemed to be one of the things she liked best.

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 htm, 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.

Cleave 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.