Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

“Why are you smiling?”

He turned to find his wife half-undressed, her pale hair tumbled on her shoulders, her blue gaze speculative and watchful. “I was thinking about fatherhood. You must tell me what to do.”

“Love us both.”

“That’s simple enough. And until such a time, I’ll love you.”

Her smile was pure sunshine. “How?”

“Any way, every way. And I apologize. I smell of horse.”

“Would you like to bathe?”

“I did before I rode up, but if you want me to.”

“No. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be. I’ve decided to become a farmer. Even if you want me to leave, I won’t.”

“So you can be troublesome coming or going,” she playfully noted.

“In some ways I’m not troublesome at all.” He moved closer and taking her face in his hands, kissed her gently. “Let me show you.”

A sharp rap on the door was followed by Grover’s voice. “Do you need anything, Miss Izzy?”

Isolde’s eyes widened. “I don’t believe Grover has ever stepped foot in this wing.”

“He’s here to save you,” Oz kindly said.

“I already have someone saving me. Let me tell him.”

Finding a robe, she went to the door and opening it a small distance, assured her steward of her safety. Shutting the door a few moments later, she turned to find Oz facedown on her bed in a dead sleep.

Drawing up a chair near the bed, she sat and studied the wild, young man she loved to distraction. His breathing was deep and slow, the dark shadows under his eyes indication of his exhaustion, of his wastrel ways, of the overindulgence that marked his life. Would he cease his debauch for her? Could he? Was she a fool to think he might? Was she a bigger fool to think she could tame his headstrong ways and turn him into an obliging husband?

She softly sighed.

He came awake with a start, instinctively scanning the room as if waking in strange places was habitual. His gaze stopped on Isolde, and he smiled the beautiful smile that had charmed across three continents. “Have I been sleeping long?”

“A few minutes. Sleep, though; I can wait.”

“I can’t.” Rolling on his back, he held out his arms. “Come here and tell me about your farming.”

“In an hour I’ll tell you about my farming,” she quietly said, rising and slipping off her robe.

He grinned. “That’s what I meant.”

As it turned out, they didn’t speak at all unless whimsical, sporadically uttered love words could be characterized as speech. Or screams, sighs, and pleasurable growls.

And when, finally, both were sated and it was possible to consider that a world lay beyond the confines of the bed, Oz lifted his head from Isolde’s shoulder, smiled down at his wife, and content now beyond his wildest imagination, softly said, “I have come to rest now from my travels.”

With his black hair brushing her cheek and the pulse of her heart beating wildly with love, she met his affectionate gaze and smiled. “Welcome home.”