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Valentine’s Day,” he said softly as
she entered the bathroom after removing her sodden clothes and
slipping into the frothy teal robe. The steamy air in the room
smelled of the rose bath oil he had added to the hot, bubbly water
in the tub, and the flickering candles shone and reflected in the
water and the mirrors around them. It was a bit cheesy, he knew,
but sometimes you just couldn’t beat the classics.
    Setting aside her robe as she sunk into the
large tub, he soaped his hands and ran them up her long, wet arms
and kneaded her gently sloping shoulders.
    “Mmmm,” she groaned, basking in the warm
water and the tender pressure of his fingers. “You know what? The
moment I decided something was going to happen this weekend – it
was when I was watching you stroke your violin. I wanted to know
how it would feel to be touched that way, too.”
    Feeling the feline satisfaction she was
gaining from his hands, he lingered on her shoulders, and grazed
the skin up and down the lovely column of her neck, and molding the
glorious incline of her chest down to the mounds of her breasts, he
closed his eyes and read her body with his hands, aided by the
slickness of the water and oil, and treasuring every soft sigh that
he inspired in her.
    She sat forward and rested her head on her
upraised knees and he stroked the length of her back, along each
bump of her spine, down to the cleft at her tailbone.
    “You have beautiful hands,” she sighed.
    “And until tonight, I never even knew what
they were really for.”
    Like a water sylph, she turned to him
without making a ripple, and pushed at the waistband of his
boxers.
    “Join me, please?” she asked, achingly
beautiful and with such tenderness in her eyes it stopped his
heartbeat, and his breath froze, lest he break the moment.
    “Always,” he said at length, and slipped
into the water under her, feeling her cover him as if her whole
body was embracing him.
    After washing his body with hands now
familiar with his own hills and valleys, and without breaking the
contact of their mouths, she raised herself over him, straddling
his thighs and taking him into herself in one swift movement, and
rode him. At first, her movements were languid and dream like,
increasing in tempo and fervor as they crashed against the joy of
each other, again and again.
    “Oh Bronwyn,” he groaned deeply in his
chest, feeling himself spill into her welcoming body. “I love you
so much.”
    Clutching her against him, hoping she could
feel the true intensity of the small words he had to offer, he held
her as she came on him again, crying out at the hot wringing he
felt inside her.
    “I love you,” he whispered again, not really
expecting an answer but just wanting to say it at long last.
    Her soft crown of reddish hair clung to him
in moist tendrils and she rested her face against the pulse beating
in his throat, and soon they retreated to the bedroom where he
loved her again, and then slept the deepest, soundest sleep he had
ever had.
     
    ***
     
    “Plans today?” he croaked with a rusty
voice, seeing her already dressing across the room as his eyes
opened the next morning. Sunday. The day things would go back to
normal. His smile was tentative but open, not knowing what exactly
to expect but feeling that something had changed between them.
    She kept her back to him as she buttoned her
blouse.
    “I’ve got to do some laundry,” she shrugged,
bending a knee to don her socks. “And, you know – make my lunches
for the week, and stuff like that.”
    She turned to him, finally, and the smile
she wore was not the one he had hoped to see. Instead of the eyes
of his lover, he saw the polite dismissal of a warm but distant
acquaintance.
    “Don’t you have things you have to do, too?”
she asked, leaning one knee on the bed.
    “Yeah, I suppose…” he muttered, suddenly
feeling embarrassed at being in her bed, like a call girl that had
overstayed her welcome. “My folks come back today, so I