Kathleen Creighton - One Christmas Knight

All at once, she believed that, too. Of course, she thought, weak-kneed with relief and desire. For some men it would have been, but not Jimmy Joe.

And it wasn’t.

She, who had always been envious of the tall and the slim, and secretly ashamed of her own body’s voluptuous curves, now stood dazed and compliant while for the first time in her life the man she adored slowly drew her nightgown over her head. She watched his eyes feast hungrily on the sight of her, and when he told her she was beautiful, for the first time in her life she believed it.

He laughed, and chided her gently for her embarrassment at the predictible response of her nursing breasts to his touch, and lightly, tenderly, lovingly covered them with a towel. “We’ll save that for later,” he promised huskily. “We have all the time in the world. A lifetime…”

But her legs gave way when his lips brushed her stomach. The melted-wax thing again…

So he drew back the quilt and the blankets and laid her down on the marriage bed that had been carved from the wood of four-hundred-year-old walnut trees, and stretched himself out carefully beside her. He kissed her mouth, deeply and thoroughly, until he felt her body begin to squirm and yearn unconsciously toward him, searching for him in its own natural way. And then he kissed her belly and her thighs and, parting them with gentle stroking, the damp and silky places between.

He heard her gasp, “I…can’t,” just once, and breathed a smile against her skin. Then he told her with his hands and mouth and tongue that she could.

She, who had never believed in anyone but herself, believed now in him. With complete confidence and trust, she gave herself into his hands. How easy it was, then. Like dying, she thought. And shattering…overwhelming…wrenching, too. Like being born.

Contractions, small cataclysms rocked her, then slowly receded. Jimmy Joe held her and murmured to her, telling her how wonderful she was, how sweet and beautiful. And yes, she believed him.

She stroked her hand over his tight, flat belly, pausing when she came to the drawstring of his sweats. He held her hand there for a moment, and asked huskily, “Are you sure you’re ready? It’s only been three weeks.”

“I’m ready,” she said firmly. It’s been a lifetime.

“I’ll be careful.”

“I know.” She found one end of a drawstring tie and pulled it.

He smiled at her, lazy and sure. “You know what you’re doin’?”

“I’m a virgin,” she replied, “not an idiot.” The ties slid through her fingers. Breathless, she lowered her mouth to his belly and slowly drew the sweats over his hips.

“Marybell,” he gasped, “what is this?”

“Dessert,” she whispered. And then there was silence., He stood about a minute of it, then grasped her wrists and rolled her over with one swift twist. “If you want me to be gentle,” he murmured, pinning her with his legs, “you’re gonna have to stop that, right now.”

She didn’t answer, just gazed at him, her eyes all sleepy and soft. Then she closed them and smiled. Her legs came around him. He whispered her name once more. “Bella…” He lowered his head and kissed her and kissed her and kissed her. And while he was kissing her he slipped into her body like a cat burglar and stole her virginity away.

“There, now,” he said tenderly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Shaken and relieved, she laughed. And deep inside her he felt it, and with her felt all the newness, wonder and excitement of the very first time. Her first time. His, he would always remember as a Christmas night in the sleeper of his snow-bound truck. Shaken himself, he thought of miracles; frightened, he thought of his life if he’d never found her, and with his heart pounding, bowed his head and sought her mouth and kissed her until his world had righted itself again.

He rocked her gently, so gently. Her tender body enfolded and caressed him and he felt every muscle and tremor, every pulse beat, the tiniest flinch and spasm. He knew when she tensed and tightened, and when she relaxed and softened, and when her body began to swell and throb to its own rhythms; when it was time to take them over and make them his…and then theirs. And when he could take them both to the limit-and beyond. And finally…finally, he knew when to let them both go, so that they spun wildly, deliriously out of control, overwhelmed and laughing with the sheer joy of living, and of making and being in love.

Quietness and peace came slowly, like twilight settling down after the sun has set in a blaze of glory. In the stillness between sighs, Mirabella heard it-the snuffling, snorting sounds of a baby waking.

“Oh, boy,” she murmured, laughing. “Perfect timing.”

“I’ll get her,” Jimmy Joe said. He was already pulling on his sweats, padding across the room in his bare feet.

A few minutes later he was back with Amy tucked expertly in the crook of his arm, a fresh diaper and dry blankets in his other hand. Her heart turned over as she watched him spread out the blankets and change her daughter’s diaper while she stretched and gurgled and made faces at him in the soft light of the bedside lamp. When he finished, he scooped Amy up and placed her gently in her waiting arms, then quickly piled up pillows, climbed back into bed and drew Mirabella against him and pulled the blankets around them all.

“I think,” said Mirabella drowsily, “I know what the old man meant. About this bed being a marriage bed-a bed for a lifetime. It’s this, isn’t it? For being together…”

He nodded. “For making love, and just talking…”

“For making plans…”

“Reading out loud to your kids…and grandkids…”

“Cuddling on Sunday mornings…”

“Reading the paper…”

“Making love…”

“Making babies.”

“Making babies?” she asked, craning to look at him. “Are you sure?”

“Well,” he said, “of course, Amy Jo’s mine already, but I wouldn’t mind makin’ a couple more-long as we do it the old-fashioned way.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said slowly, “You do realize, don’t you, that if I hadn’t done what I did, I’d never have met you? If it hadn’t been for that idiotic thing I did, I wouldn’t have been out there on that interstate, pregnant, in labor, stranded. Then you couldn’t have rescued me, and then where would we be?” She shivered suddenly, and his arms tightened around her.

“I don’t know,” he said, dazed. “I guess you might be right.”

Mirabella laughed softly. “Of course I am,” she said triumphantly. “I’m always right.”

“Okay, eastbound, I’m headin’ for the barn.”

“Happy trails, westbound. Ten-four…”

KATHLEEN CREIGHTON has roots deep in the California soil but has relocated to South Carolina. As a child, she enjoyed listening to old-timers’ tales, and her fascination with the past only deepened as she grew older. Today, she says she is interested in everything-art, music, gardening, zoology, anthropology and history, but people are at the top of her list. She also has a lifelong passion for writing, and now combines her two loves in romance novels.