Homeport

began to quiver again, little jolts of need that shimmered at the nerve endings and spread. Then those jolts turned to aches, raw, pulsing aches that turned each breath to a senseless moan. Pleasure had claws, and they ripped at her, threatened to tear her to pieces.
    When she screamed, he buried his face in her hair and let himself crash.
     
    It was like surviving a train wreck, Ryan decided. Barely surviving. They were sprawled on the floor, bodies tangled and numb, minds destroyed. She was lying across him, simply because they’d gone down that way—her midriff over his belly, her head facedown against the Persian runner.
    Every few minutes, her stomach would quiver, so he knew she was still alive.
    “Miranda.” He croaked it out, realizing suddenly his throat was wild with thirst. Her response was something between a grunt and a moan. “Do you think you can get up?”
    “When?”
    He laughed a little and reached down to rub her bottom. “Now would be good.” When she didn’t move, he growled, “Water. I must have water.”
    “Can’t you just push me?”
    It wasn’t quite as simple as that, but he managed to extract himself from beneath her limp body. He braced a hand on the wall to keep his balance as he walked down the stairs. In the kitchen, he stood naked, gulped down two glasses of tap water, then poured a third. Steadier, he started back, his smile spreading when he scanned the scatter of clothes and flowers.
    She was still on the floor at the top of the steps, on her back now, eyes shut, one arm flung out over her head, hair a glorious tangle that clashed with the deep red of the runner.
    “Dr. Jones. What would the Art Revue say about this?”
    “Hmm.”
    Still grinning, he crouched, nudged the side of her breast with the glass to get her attention. “Here, you could probably use this.”
    “Mmm.” She managed to sit up, took the glass in both hands and downed every drop. “We never made it to the bedroom.”
    “There’s always next time. You look very relaxed.”
    “I feel like I’ve been drugged.” She blinked, focused on the painting on the wall behind him, and stared at the white bra that hung celebrationally from the top corner of the frame. “Is that mine?”
    He looked back, ran his tongue over his teeth. “I don’t believe I was wearing one.”
    “My God.”
    He had to give her points for speedy recovery as she leaped up and snatched it loose. With her eyes wide now and little gasps of distress sounding in her throat, she began to rush around gathering clothes, trying to save the flowers they’d crushed.
    Ryan leaned his back against the wall and watched the show.
    “I can’t find one of my socks.”
    He smiled as she stared down at him, rumpled clothes pressed to her breasts. “You’re still wearing it.”
    She glanced down, saw the traditional argyle on her left foot. “Oh.”
    “It’s a cute look for you. Got a camera?”
    Since the moment seemed to call for it, she dumped the clothes on his head.
     
    At Ryan’s insistence, they took a bottle of wine out to the cliffs and sat in the warm spring sun. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s beautiful in the spring.”
    The water went from a pale blue at the horizon to a deeper hue where boats plied its surface, then to a dark, rich green near the shore where it spewed and beat against rock.
    The wind was kind today, a caress instead of a slap.
    The pines that lined the side of the land and marched up the rise showed fresh and tender new growth. The hardwoods showed the faintest blush of leaves to come.
    No one walked the ragged sweep of beach below or disturbed the scatter of broken shells tossed up during a recent storm. He was glad of it, glad the boats were distant and toylike, the buoys silent.
    They were alone.
    If he looked back toward the house, he could just see the shape of the old south garden. The worst of the deadwood and thorny brown weeds had been cleared away. The dirt looked freshly turned and raked. He could see small clusters of green. She said she would garden, he remembered, and she was a woman who followed through.
    He’d like to watch her at work, he realized. He’d very much enjoy seeing her kneeling there, concentrating on bringing the old garden back to life, making those sketches she’d drawn a reality.

    He’d like to see what she made bloom there.
    “We should be in my office working,” she said as guilt began to prick through the pleasure of the afternoon.
    “Let’s