you looked in and saw your child asleep and safe.
There was so much he could give them, she thought. And that she could
give to him.
A man like Ethan, she knew, would feel that first flutter of life in his
heart just as she would feel it in her womb. They could share that, and
a lifetime of simple moments.
She moved quietly into the living room and saw Ethan standing, gazing
through the screen door. She had an instant of panic. He wasn't going?
He couldn't be leaving. Not now. Not beforea
"Do you want some coffee?" she said it quickly, her voice rising before
she could control it.
"No, thanks." He turned. "She sleeping all right?"
"Oh, yes, she's fine."
"She looks so much like you."
"Do you think?"
"Especially when she smiles. Gracea"
He watched her eyes fix on his, glow in the low light of the lamp. For a
moment it seemed to him that nothing had come before, nothing would come
after. It could be the three of them, there together on quiet nights
just like this, in the little dollhouse. It could be his future. He
wanted to believe it could be his life.
"I'd like to stay. I'd like to be with you tonight, if you want."
"I want. Of course I want." She thought she understood. He needed to
show her love first. More than willing, she held out a hand. "Come to
bed, Ethan."
He took care to be tender, to stroke her gently to peak. Holding her
there, holding until her body bowed up, a trembling bridge of
sensations. To make her float and sigh. He watched the moonlight dapple
her skin, followed its shifting shadows with his fingertips, with his
lips. Pleasured her.
Love surrounded her. It cradled her. It rocked her with a rhythm as
gentle as a quiet sea. Gliding on it, she offered it back to him, a
shimmering reflection.
His tenderness moved her to tears. She knew now that his needs could be
ripe and raw and reckless. And that thrilled her. Yet this part of him,
this compassionate, sensitive, and most generous part of him touched her
heart at the core. She fell fathoms deeper into that wide well of love.
When he slipped into her, when they were joined, his mouth moved over
hers to capture each sigh. She glided up, trembled on that silk-covered
peak, holding, holding until he was trembling with her and they could
catch each other on the slow tumble down.
After, he shifted her so that she curled into the curve of his arm. And
stroked her. Her eyes grew heavy. Now, she thought as she began to
drift. He would ask her now while they were both still glowing.
Waiting, she slid into sleep.
he was ten, and the last beating she'd given him had left his back a
maze of purpling bruises and scarlet pain. She never hit him in the
face. She'd learned quickly that most clients didn't care to see black
eyes and bloody lips on the merchandise.
She'd stopped using her fists, mostly. She found a belt or a hairbrush