Take Care, Sara

the duffel bag and turned to face him, hands on hips.
    Her small bedroom was covered in clothes, ready to be packed. They were on the dresser, on the floor, all over the bed. She wanted to make sure everything was perfect for their honeymoon, even her clothes. Apparently her fiancé did not have the same idea.
    “I’m getting ready for Hawaii.” He struck a pose in the doorway of the bedroom, flexing his arm muscles above his head. In spite of his goofy ensemble, Sara’s mouth went dry and her body responded. He always had that effect on her. Always would.
    “You are not wearing that in Hawaii. Where did you get that from?”
    “Early wedding gift from Lincoln.”
    Sara rolled her eyes and grabbed her white and pink striped two-piece off the bed, shoving it into the bag. “Figures. Shouldn’t you be home? Packing?”
    “Now why would I want to be there when my favorite thing is here?”
    “I don’t know, so you’re ready for the honeymoon?”
    “That’s not for seven days. Plenty of time.”
    “Procrastinator,” she mumbled.
    “Anal retentive.”
    He moved behind her, his scent and warmth making Sara crazy. He smelled like sunshine and deodorant and man; an intoxicating combination. She went still as his hands went up and down her arms, his head bent so his hair tickled her ear and his breath fell across her neck and shoulder. “What have we here?” he murmured, slowly reaching around her.
    Sara’s heart thundered and she gasped as his body came flush with hers, causing her pulse to ascend on a maddening course to Heart Attack Central. Two years. Two years they’d been together and every day was like the first day she’d known she loved him. It hadn’t taken long. Days, really. Or maybe minutes.
    He snagged the two-piece around one long finger and twirled it in front of her face. “Looks like you got some modeling of your own to perform, now, doesn’t it?”
    She made a grab for the garment, but he was quicker, moving his arm out of her reach. “Uh uh uh. You get this back on one condition. You know what it is.”
    Sara spun around, her chest heaving with the force of her breaths as her eyes swept up and down his body that was perfection to her. She wanted him. She always wanted him.
    His eyes darkened in response, narrowing into slits. His nostrils flared as he said in a low voice that made a shiver go down her back, “Come on, Sara; help a guy out.”
    The innuendo was blatant, especially when her eyes drifted down. She had no choice in the matter, not really. None. It had never been just sex between them. It had been more. Always. Sometimes it was frenzied and rough; others slow and sensual, but every time it was potent, consuming. The way their bodies came together; his hardness against her softness, the feelings inside her; the way they moved together in perfect sync. It was so much more than sex.
    It was…completeness.
    ***
    The canvas was blank. It stared at Sara in judgment, berating her for her neglect of it. The scent of paint lingered in the cool room, though none had been used in it in over a year. Maybe it was all in her head. Memories had a funny way of inducing scents and sometimes even sounds. The past never seemed to fully leave a room; just as memories kept one’s history alive as well. That’s where he lived; in her memories. Good and bad, Sara couldn’t escape them. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to.
    The room was on the small side, but the wall of windows that allowed sunshine in made up for that. The white trim and wood floor made the sunny yellow walls pop out. The sun shone today and that was a small gift. It beat down on her arm and half her face, warming her skin. Sara sat before the empty project, willing inspiration to hit. Instead she saw him. She supposed that made sense, as he’d been her inspiration more than anything else.
    She glanced at the empty chair in the corner to the left of her; thinking if she looked hard enough, he’d materialize, offer a sweet smile and a wink. Only no matter how long or hard she stared, he didn’t. Sara had hope he would come back to her, somehow, someway, even if it was ludicrous and close to insane. She thought it was a little insane.
    Shaking her head, Sara grabbed a paintbrush and mashed the bristles against her fingers, the softness of it gently prickling her skin. She randomly picked a color without looking, popped the goopy lid, and slammed the brush into it, blobs of paint splattering her face and hands.