Stuart

Mariska’s tiny apartment wouldn’t have been my first choice for our wedding night, but her bridesmaids apparently sneaked in and transformed it into a resort escape. A silver bucket holds a bottle of champagne with two flutes on the counter in front of it, and tall candles in hurricane lanterns are arranged on every shelf and mantle.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Mariska sighs as we walk through the yellow light. “It’s going to take forever to blow them all out.”

“We’ll have to open a window.” Soft laughter, and I pull her into my arms.

Her small hands rest on my chest, and I want to kiss her long and hard before slipping her lace dress off her body.

“It was very thoughtful,” she says just before I claim those lips.

A breathy moan escapes her throat as I slide my hands up the material of her gown.

“This dress,” I say, stepping back to survey the filmy network of lace. “All I could think about was touching you in it.”

“That’s the point.” She steps into my arms, a naughty gleam in her eyes.

Cupping her breasts, I slide my thumbs over her nipples, feeling them peak just beneath the fabric. She hums a happy noise, and I trace my fingers higher, lifting the thin straps off her shoulders and guiding them down her arms. The entire garment drops away to the floor, and she stands before me in what I suppose are panties. It’s nothing more than a triangle of lace with tiny lines over her hips.

“Turn around.” My voice is low, and her eyes darken. She steps out of the gown, turning her back and looking over her shoulder. “Fuck me,” I hiss taking in the long sweep of her beautiful back, the curve of her ass, leading down to her long smooth legs.

My fingers work quickly to unfasten the buttons on my shirt. “Come here.”

She steps back, and her slim fingers join mine in removing the remainder of my clothes until at last we’re facing each other, nothing between us in the soft glow of candlelight. Her hair is loose, and she’s stopped straightening it. Now it hangs in gentle waves to the tops of her shoulders. I reach out to remove the white flower behind her ear.

Looking down at the bloom, I confess. “The scent of jasmine haunted me when we were apart. When the sun set, I could see your eyes…”

She steps forward and slides her hands around my waist before pressing her face to the center of my chest. I toss the flower aside and run my palms down the length of her back. Her soft lips press against my skin, and it’s enough.

In a sweep, she’s in my arms. She holds my neck, kissing me roughly, and I almost stumble on the short trip to her bedroom as my erection strains for her. Sheer netting is draped around the bed. I stop in front of it and lower her to stand while I rip back the thick white duvet. Then I sweep her up again and toss her to the center. She squeals a laugh, but my arms are around her thighs, dragging her to my mouth so I can slide my tongue down the center of her sex.

“Oh, god! Stuart!” she cries, slim fingers threading into my hair. Her hips rotate in time with my mouth, and I hold on, continuing the motion, tasting and teasing until I feel her legs break into shuddering jerks. Her back arches, and she releases a low moan. I move quickly up her slim body, kissing her stomach, tracing her small navel, cupping and squeezing her small breast before covering it with my mouth, giving her nipple a firm pull.

Her legs go around my waist and her hands are on my ass as I pull her to me. “I want you inside me,” she gasps, and in one swift thrust, I grant her request, groaning low at the sensation. Her swollen, wet heat massages my aching cock.

“Yes,” I groan, pulling back slightly and pushing deeper.

Her hands are on my shoulders now, and her lips are at my ear. “Harder,” she whispers, and I let go, grasping her hips as I work out my own orgasm.

The room recedes as traces of pleasure wind up my thighs like a vine. I’m chasing the explosion. It’s just in my grasp when she pulls my neck, rising up to nip my bottom lip with her teeth. I release with a groan and our mouths smash together, tongues entwining as we pulse back to Earth. Her fingers twine in my hair before tracing down my neck and back, and all I can do is hold her, buried deep inside, savoring the afterglow.

“Mm,” she sighs. “I love you, Mr. Knight.”

I turn and kiss the inside of her shoulder, across to her collarbone, and up to her chin. Our eyes meet, and I look deep into the golden hazel that entranced me from the beginning.

“I love you, Mrs. Knight.”

---

The sun is making its way toward the horizon as we drive the narrow, two-lane road into the middle of nowhere to the ranch. It’ll be setting in just a few hours, but we’ve got time to get home and unpack before it’s dark.

I consider as we cross the endless prairie all my preparations before returning to Princeton ended up being for Mariska and me this winter. I’d done all the chores, cut and cured firewood, and prepared the barn, tack, and horses so Bill wouldn’t be left struggling, and now my uncle says he’ll spend the winter in Chicago. I can’t help wondering if he planned it with this in mind.

“I know we have the house to ourselves,” Mariska says, turning from looking out the truck window, “But I’d like to spend at least a few days in the cabin before it gets too snowy.

“We can do that.” I say, giving her a grin. I’ve got my straw cowboy hat on, and she’s back to flowing skirts and tiny tees. “I’d like to swim in the spring one more time.”

“Does it freeze in the winter?”

“I’ve never been there in the winter.”

“It’s so warm… we’ll have to check it out.”

Reaching across the back of the seat, I thread my fingers in the soft waves of her hair. “We can do anything you want.”

Winona has dinner simmering on the stove, and she leaves shortly after we arrive at the house. It feels strange but right to be the man of the house now. In the past, I’ve always been Bill’s right hand, but I was also a guest. Now Mariska and I are making the place our home, and I couldn’t be happier.

We each take bowls and spoon out portions of soft carrots, celery, and potatoes mixed with stew meat in a dark gravy and carry them to the living room to sit in front of the fire. On the way, I open a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from a supply of wine I ordered from Princeton and had delivered.

“I called about starting at UGF this fall,” she says, taking a sip of the deep red liquid. “They said all of my credits would transfer, but they don’t have a graduate degree in fine arts.”

Frustration tightens my chest. I don’t want her to give up anything coming here. “What can we do?”

A little smile, and she sets her glass to the side, placing her hand on top of mine. “They have a course of study in expressive arts therapy, and we discussed working it into a graduate program. It’s very interesting.”

I lift my wine glass, noticing the gleam in her eye as she says it. “Okay… Tell me about it.”

“It uses creative expression to help people heal. It’s a form of counseling and therapy.”

“It sounds like a perfect fit for you.”

“Doesn’t it?” She hops up onto her knees and crawls across the couch to sit on my lap. I put my glass aside and hold her waist. “I can’t wait to learn more about it, and you know what?”

I grin at her girlish enthusiasm. “What?”

“I probably would never have known or even considered it if we hadn’t come here—if I hadn’t transferred my course work, and…” she pauses, and her bottom lip catches in her teeth.

“What else?”

“If we hadn’t gone through everything that happened.” She leans forward, holding my neck. “I’ve always used my art to help me heal. Now I can teach other people to do the same thing.”

Relief spreads through my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, hugging her close. “I’m so happy you found this.” I inhale the jasmine-scent of her hair. “I want you to be as happy and fulfilled here as I am.”

She moves to sit beside me on the couch. “I’ll be happy wherever you are, but now I know we’ve come to the right place for us.”

I smile, and we finish the savory broth, and I watch the fire dance off the gold highlights in her hair. We chat about the coming winter, and she tells me about online course options for when we’re snowed in. I point out she might not get much studying done if we’re snowed in for long, and we laugh.

The light is disappearing fast outside, and the clouds are low, cast in dusky orange and blue. She hops up and goes to the window, a worried look on her face.

“What is it?” I say, watching her.

She looks up at me. “I wanted to visit her…” Her voice is quiet. “Jessica.”

A flash of pain moves across my stomach, but I nod. “We’ve got time before the sun sets.”

Her hand moves into mine, and I open the door, leading her across the porch and down the side steps in the direction of the little thicket behind the trees. I know the way very well, and as we walk, the heaviness in my chest grows.

I knew we would do this sooner or later. I didn’t expect it to be our first night back, and I’m worried how this visit will affect Mariska.

Looking back at her, she seems far away, watching the grass move beneath our feet. The painting of our daughter is packed in our things, trucking across the country on its way to us here. I wonder if she’s thinking of it, of her vision.

When we reach the opening, I see the small headstone placed after she and Amy left. Sylvia was here to help me get it right, and she selected a few clumps of perennial flowers for me to plant on each side of the little monument.

Mariska stops right in front of it and drops to her knees. I kneel behind her as she reaches forward and runs her fingers across the cool marble headstone, tracing the outline of our daughter’s name.

I’m watching her so closely, I see the moment her shoulders break, and I’m right with her, pulling her into my arms. She holds my arms, gripping the fabric of my shirt in her fists as she quietly cries. I blink up to the trees, smoothing my hands down the back of her head to the skin of her soft neck and around her shoulders. I hold her as she releases the last of her grief. It’s another step in the healing process.

The never-ending breeze pushes through, and I wait until at last she’s able to sit up, touching her eyes with her fingertips. I cup her cheeks and move my thumbs along the line of her jaw, smiling as I blink away the haze in my own eyes.

She clears her throat, and her gaze returns to the headstone. “After it happened, I wanted to get away from you and all of the pain of this place as fast as I could.”

Her words tear at the freshly healed wound in my chest. “I’ll spend my life making it up to you. I—”

“No,” she lunges forward, holding my face in her hands. “I expected you to be stronger than you were. I expected you not to hurt as much as I did. Will you forgive me? We never had a chance to grieve together.”

Reaching for her waist, I pull her onto my lap and hold her close. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

My Mariska. She knows me so well. She always has. She always knows what to say to heal the pain I can’t show. She holds me now soothing my guilt with words of understanding and pure love.

Her arms are around me, and we melt into each other. Our hearts move together, and we find a place of peace on the other side of this storm.