ROMANCE: Romantic Comedy: Love in 30 Days - The Best Plans Don't Always Work! (Plus 19 FREE Books Book 13) (25 page)

The curvaceous figure she had always possessed had become more voluptuous since the last time they had made love. The pale, round flesh of her breasts in his hands was nearly too much for him to bear as her dress opened up. As he squeezed them, she moaned quietly, a sigh which only added to his mounting desire. Rolling her firm nipples between his fingers, the sensual response she gave him only encouraged him further. He placed his mouth on her nipples, sucking gently on each. The taste of her was amplified here, and her moans became faster. Overcome with sensation, she leant forward to press them further into his mouth, the silky, malleable melons of her breasts spilling onto his face.

It was not only Henry’s desire that was building. His slow attempts to unlace her dress were frustrating Angelica. She sat up, straddling his hips, and pulled the half undone nightdress over her head, where she released it to crumple in a heap on the floor. Unable to resist any longer, Henry moved his hand between her legs, where she pressed against him. He rubbed her slowly at first, enjoying her moans of pleasure which only made him harder. As he quickened, her stroking of his hardness became faster too. He entered her with one of his fingers, her moans intensifying to the point of breathlessness. She had never before felt that she needed him more than he needed her, and sought to change that, pulling down his trousers.

If he was surprised at her sudden actions, he did not admit it. Reaching down to hold him, she began to gently rub up and down his length. His hands had stopped moving now, eyes fixed on what she was doing. Leaning down, she placed one of his hands on her breast, and rolled over so that he now straddled her. He moved with her, immersed in the feelings she was created. When he let out a few, deep groans from his throat, she was satisfied that they were at the same point in their desire. She guided him to the entrance of her opening, and felt the automatic thrust of his hips into her. She sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck and looking into his eyes, the movements of her own hips allowing him deeper and further into her wetness.

He reached to her breasts and placed his mouth over them, his hot breath and circling tongue on her skin forcing her to let him in deeper. The movements they made were not gentle, but intense and desperate. Neither had felt so much in one moment as their breathing began to come faster, releasing them from this game into a panting collapse, relaxing into the sheets they had not bothered to get under. He kissed her neck, a silent thank you, before they drifted off into oblivion. Their hearts pounded together, and they stayed in the same position until they awoke the next morning.

The next day was lazy, Angelica returning to her room late in the day after another round of lovemaking. The servants smirked as she walked back, but she found that she no longer cared about their eyes on her. She had a right to love her husband in the most natural way she could. Reaching into her dressing closet, she found a dress which she had not had the occasion to wear for a long time. It felt appropriate to wear it now, in the safety that Henry appreciated her no matter what. Her confidence in herself had been reassured by last night and his appreciation of her body. Any doubts she’d had about the changes in her figure since their marriage had faded away with the intensity of his movements.

The house no longer felt cold, rooms filled with their new sense of ownership in their marriage. Instead of the silence that usually permeated as they ate lunch, they found themselves engaged in conversation. Angelica laughed with Henry about her childhood, and he promised that he would teach her how to hunt. A gentle touch on his arm reminded him that she was his, and that their marriage was not as pointless as it had once seemed. Rather than learning to love each other over the course of their years together, they had done so all in a few days. Henry thanked Angelica for her reckless choice of swimming time; without it, they would not have arrived at this happy stage in their relationship so quickly.

How had they lived without this, without each other to fill their hearts? When Angelica thought of home now, it was not her parents house. It was her house with Henry, this estate which was theirs and would be their children’s too.

The guests they had for dinner were no longer painful reminders of what their relationship lacked. Instead, Angelica found herself sharing in their happiness. As she watched a couple laugh, dancing together, it made her want to talk to Henry and laugh with him. The sadness she had felt with the mundane routine which filled their lives dropped away. Her eyes filled with light again and she regained her vivid personality.

Going forward, Angelica and Henry were far more content than they had been in a long time. The river became a symbol of their undying affection, and in the summer they often  revelled in its cooling waters, those same waters that had healed their relationship. As they felt the heat of the sun touching their faces, watching the drooping leaves of the willows which created a private archway for them, they realised that this happy marriage was now their reality.

*** THE END ***

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Book Eight

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THE HERO’S WIDOW

By Sarah Styler

Chapter 1

West Michaelson looked out of the window and sighed. With each passing moment, he was flying closer and closer to his home. The small town of Franklin had long been precious in his thoughts, somewhere he ached to return to – but now that his mission had changed into something else, he was no longer so eager.

It was at least a comfort that he did not have to deal with any civilians just yet. He was being shipped back home from a SEAL mission, and it was just him and a few other members of troops from team 9 on board the flight. They had dropped in at headquarters first for debriefing, then the troops had been split down and sent home to their various corners of the US, seeing family again for the first time in long months.

His heart should have been light: mission completed, duty done, he had a little while at least to rest and relax in the company of those who mattered. West was not married, but he had his parents and little sister to visit. They were always glad to have him home. Then maybe he’d meet someone new this time, get to thinking about settling down.

He shook his head, still staring out of the window and lost in thought. The mission was complete, but to call it a success would have been too far. He couldn’t imagine himself settling down any time soon, having people rely on him. Having people waiting for him, their lives arrested every time he went away. Like John.

He looked down at the dog tags he held in one hand, the metal catching the light and throwing silver squares across his face. John. John was the reason why that mission had not been a success – why it was only sufficient to call it complete. John Andrews was their primary driver and navigator, one of the most useful men in the troop when they had to get around. He and West had served together, gone through training together, even joined up together. Like West, John was from that little town of Franklin. They had grown up across the street from one another, both sets of parents proud as anything when the two boys had made it to a SEAL unit.

What were they going to say now, he wondered?

The last raid had gone south, something horribly wrong even from the start. West had tasted it on the air – they all had. Something was just not right about the whole situation from beginning to end. It ended with John dead, sprawled across the wheel and painting blood over the controls, and West desperately trying to steer while his right leg slipped and slid on the wet accelerator. It was a memory he was trying hard to forget.

John had been his best friend since they were at school together. West had even been his best man when he got married to Shelley a couple of years ago. John had wanted to give up then, found a new reason to want to stay home. He’d always followed West’s lead, but truth be told he’d have been just as happy with any kind of job that used his skills. He didn’t have to be a SEAL. He didn’t have to get himself shot in the gut thousands of miles from home with his best friend trying to save the rest of the troop so hard he couldn’t spare a hand to try and stop the bleeding.

West had been given a hero’s welcome at the briefing. They told him that his quick actions in taking control of the vehicle had saved the lives of the rest of his troop. There was even talk of a medal in his future. A hero’s welcome was what awaited him at home, too, he knew – even if this time it was going to be a little more muted. But he knew he wasn’t a hero, and he would never accept a medal. If it wasn’t for him, John Andrews would never have been anywhere but Franklin.

The journey was something of a blur. He couldn’t square what had happened in his mind with this image of happy home life, coming back to play Xbox games and enjoy meals in front of the TV. Besides anything else, life at home was always John. Drinks with John, dinner with John and Shelley, going fishing with John. What was he supposed to do now?

His family were full of smiles, greeting him with the warmth and excitement they always reserved for his return from a mission. His sister wanted to tell him about college and what it was like to live in dorms. His mother had baked his favorite cake as a welcome home surprise. All of them, somewhere behind the smiles and the hugs, were holding back from mentioning the elephant in the room.

Only once, while they were waiting to load his bags into the car, did his Mom lean her head into his shoulder and rub his arm. “Oh, love,” she said, and internally West translated:
I’m sorry you lost your best friend and that we don’t know what it was like out there or how to begin to comfort you.

There wasn’t much time to relax. One half sleepless night, jumping at shadows on the walls when the headlights of cars passed by the house, settling back in to an environment that was familiar and yet not. He knew it would take him a few days to settle down, at any rate. That was always the way. One hurried shower and shave, while his Mom prepared his dress uniform and smoothed out all the travel creases. Then one short drive to the local funeral home, the only one in Franklin, to be ready for John’s funeral.

West stood stiffly, resisting the urge to fuss with his collar, congregating with the other pall bearers in a shuffle of formal shoes and black jackets. John’s father – who he had always known simply as Mr Andrews – gave him a silent pat on the back that turned into a tearful embrace, and West sighed to feel the frailty of the man that had turned old while they were away. He took the dog tags from his pocket and showed them to his friend’s father, but the man just shook his head and told West to keep them for John’s wife.

Then he looked up and saw Shelley staring at him, and knew there was going to be some kind of trouble.

Chapter 2

Shelley was looking at him like a woman possessed. She had dark smudges around her eyes already where her make-up had moved around, pushed from side to side by fingers wiping away tears. Shelley was a widow now. From the way she was looking at him, it was clear she had a strong idea about why that was.

Catching her eye was like taking a knife to the chest. If looks could kill, he’d be sharing the funeral with John. Someone tugged on her arm and pulled her inside, as the rest of the mourners gathered to take their seats and listen to what everyone had to say. West trailed in behind them, reluctant to face her again.

John’s father spoke, and his younger brother. Shelley got up to speak, but only managed to say a few short words about how much she loved John before she was overcome with tears again and had to be led back to her seat. Then, all too soon, it was his turn.

West had written down a few things to say, and the most he could do was to read them out, blinking back stinging tears. He spoke about how brave and reliable John was, and how he’d always had his buddy to rely on when things got tough. How it was a cruel turn of fate that had the bullet hit John, not skim off somewhere harmlessly. How he wished he could bring him back. Last of all, he told the friends and family who were gathered there in black about how he was going to miss his friend, and then he made a smart salute and sat down.

He kept his back straight and his face clean, relying on his training more than anything to get him through this tough day. By the time they hefted the coffin onto their shoulders, draped in a flag, he was hardly even there anymore. It was hard to match up these people with the things he’d seen. With John’s final moments, bloody and chaotic in the face of the enemy. Even the ones that had loved him would never really understand. He kept his mouth shut and honored his best friend in silence, staring down into a mound of dirt that steadily grew on top of the coffin.

At last it was over; people started to disperse, spreading out their own ways to their cars and their own reflections. The wake would be at the local bar, but somehow West felt like he didn’t want to go. Like he didn’t want to stand with all those people and laugh and joke about John while he had that image of his blood in his mind.

He looked up and realized there were only a few of them left; himself, his parents and sister waiting awkwardly for him off to one side, Shelley, Mr Andrews and his last remaining son, John’s younger brother. He knew he couldn’t just leave without saying anything; not after the promise he had made to John. He took a deep breath, straightened his uniform, and glanced over to his family to let them know he’d be over there soon.

Shelley lifted her chin defiantly as he walked over to her, black net not quite covering the look on her face at seeing him. Close up, he realized she was wearing hardly any make-up at all now that most of it had been cried off. She was dressed well, but underneath it she looked a mess.

“Shelley,” he began, and she sniffed immediately.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she cut him off, voice laced with pain and anger.

“I know you hate me right now,” he tried, but even that was not an approach she would permit.

“You’re damn right I hate you,” she spat, glancing down at John’s grave as if worried that raising her voice might disturb him. She lowered it to a hiss before continuing. “I hated you from the moment John and I got together. You did this to him, you murderer. You led him into this. This is on you!”

West lowered his eyes, struggling to keep it together. “Ma’am,” he tried again at last, quiet and respectful. “I’m aware you don’t want to hear anything from me right now, but John and I made a pact. Whichever of us was to die first, the other was responsible for the rest. I’m offering my help to you. Anything you need, I will look out for you from now on.”

“I think you’ve done quite enough,” she said, just as quietly. The venom in her voice left no doubt as to her emotions on the matter, however.

West bowed his head and held out the dog tags, pooled on his open palm for her to take. She snatched them away from him without a word and stared at them, almost as if she resented the mere fact that he had touched them. West took a breath and walked away, joining his family.

It was true; Shelley had always hated him. West had known that right from the start. He always thought she would come round eventually, once she knew he wasn’t trying to keep John to himself. He thought that maybe it wasn’t him she hated, but the job that they did together. The fact that John left for months at a time to risk his life and there was nothing she could do about it. Now, West had to guess that she just hated him.