The American Wife. Kristina McMorris

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СКАЧАТЬ than any other, she’d despised fibbing. She just couldn’t jeopardize complicating her decision with others’ opinions. Better to ease them into the news once all was solidified.

      Lane turned her around with care. “All of that,” he said, “we can talk about later. This is our wedding night, and I don’t want you to worry about anything.” He pressed her hand to his chest. “Just know, I’m going to take care of you, Maddie. So long as we’re together, the rest will work out.”

      The assertion cradled her, as solid and real as the throbbing of his heart. With every beat, the trust he had nurtured expanded, pressing down her defenses.

      She linked her hands behind his neck and brought him to her. Lane trailed kisses across her cheek, into the curve of her neck. A soft moan escaped her. No longer would they hide in the darkness of a drive-in, shadowed by worries of who might see. From the freedom they’d been granted—in the eyes of God and the law—she yearned to be closer than ever before.

      Sensibility, nonetheless, reminded her to do this right. She forced herself to pull away from the magnetism of his hold. “I’d better freshen up,” she rasped.

      He paused before yielding a nod, his breathing heavy.

      Regaining her composure, she slipped into the bathroom fit for a palace. Steam crawled up the mirrors as water filled the porcelain tub. She unboxed a bar of honey-milk soap and, when the bath was ready, twisted off the faucets. In the vaporous space dripping with gold and marble, she removed her clothes, then remembered. She’d left her nightgown in her suitcase.

      Drat.

      A problem, yes, but easily remedied. She threw on a plush hotel robe from the door hook. To fetch her garment, she would sprint both to and from her luggage. That was the plan, anyhow, until she stepped into the room, its fabric-lined walls aglow with candles on the nightstand.

      “Thirsty?” Lane’s voice came gently from the side, inches from her ear. The smell of champagne sweetened his breath. Candlelight flickered over his bare chest and down the muscles of his stomach. At the sight of his pajama pants, relief battled disappointment, her curiosity swelling.

      She ignored the flute of champagne in his hand and ran her fingers along the contours of his shoulders. For years, while he and TJ played basketball at the park, she had witnessed a younger, leaner version of this very chest, these same arms. She’d pumped away on the swings, on a pendulum in her own universe. That girl had no inkling that one day the touch of his skin would ignite passion that stole her breath.

      Lane set aside his glass and led her to the bed. When he lowered her onto the cream comforter, billowy with down, she closed her eyes. His fingers traced the collar of her robe and edged the fabric away from her body. Her breasts prickled from a tepid draft of air. Her mind grew dizzy approaching the act she knew little about, outside scandalous passages from a book Jo once swiped from beneath an older brother’s mattress.

      “My nightdress,” Maddie murmured, recalling her mission.

      Sensing his movements had stopped, she lifted her lids and discovered him gazing at her, his head propped on an elbow. A tender smile crinkled the skin bordering his eyes. “I don’t think you’ll need it,” he said. “But if you’re saying you want to slow down …”

      The compassion in his voice soothed her unease, drawing her into another dimension like she’d thought only music could. She rose up and placed her mouth on his. Their bodies soon discovered a natural rhythm, and all reservations fell into an abyss. For it was here, safe in the heat of his arms, Maddie came to believe anything was possible. The rest of the world be damned.

      Like their night of lovemaking, waking up next to Maddie—his wife—surpassed any expectation. Lane never wanted to leave the surreal bubble encasing them. Only from the incessant grumbling of his stomach did he agree to her suggestion that they venture out for a meal. It was, after all, almost noon.

      With her arm hooked snugly around his, they emerged from the hotel. Once a block down, he pointed to a restaurant across the street. “That’s the one.”

      “Let me guess,” she said. “It’s the fanciest diner in town.”

      “Nope. Just the closest. I’m starving.”

      She laughed. “Oh, and whose fault is that?”

      He whispered in her ear, “I’m happy to take the blame. Last night was worth it.”

      “And this morning,” she reminded him.

      Her growing brazenness made him want to flip around and head straight back to their hotel room.

      They’d make it a quick meal.

      Inside the diner, the aroma of bacon caused his stomach to complain yet again. He led her to an empty booth by the window. The seats were easy to nab with so many customers clustered around a radio on the counter. Too late in the year to be listening to the play-by-play of a Rainiers game. The announcer must have been relating the latest of FDR’s policies. When else would a crackling transistor warrant this much attention?

      Usually, Lane would join in, craving every word from the President’s mouth. But not today. “I’m ready to order when you are.”

      “Hold your horses,” she said, grabbing a menu from behind the napkin dispenser. “Let me see what they have at least.”

      “Better make it snappy, ’cause my belly isn’t about to wait.”

      “Jeez. What happened to chivalry? You are my husband now, aren’t you?”

      “Hey, I swore to love and cherish. Never said anything about putting you before hunger.”

      Mouth agape, she batted at his forearm, and they broke into laughter. When they settled into smiles, he clasped her fingers. She stared at their interwoven hands.

      “Why do we have to go back to California?” she sighed. “Why can’t we just stay here?”

      Lane mulled over the idea. It wasn’t impossible. He had plenty in savings to afford a couple more nights of heaven. “Who says we can’t?”

      “Yeah, sure.”

      “I don’t have exams till Friday. And you said there’s nothing you have to rush home for.”

      She studied him. “You’re serious.”

      “What’s stopping us?”

      “Well … I told TJ I’d be back tomorrow ….”

      “So, you’ll send him a telegram and let him know you’re staying a few more days.”

      She hesitated, taking the suggestion in. “I guess I could. But—I didn’t pack many clothes.”

      He leaned forward and answered in a hushed tone. “Mark my words. I’ll make sure you don’t need any of them.”

      Her eyes widened, looking embarrassed. Then a giggle won out.

      “Well, what do you say, Mrs. Moritomo?” His finger rested on her wedding band. “Want to treat this like a real honeymoon?”

      She bit СКАЧАТЬ