EXCLUSIVE!!! EPILOGUE from A DIFFERENT BLUE by AMY HARMON

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THE EPILOGUE FOR A DIFFERENT BLUE

Sex is different with someone you love.   It’s different when you love the one who holds you in his arms.  When he kisses your mouth and sighs your name, it’s different.  When he is slow and careful, peeling back your clothes with reverence and awe, when the words whispered come from somewhere beyond the lust, beyond the need, and are grounded on history, time, and endurance…sex like that is different.  Sex like that isn’t really sex at all.

We didn’t plan it.  There were no wine glasses and lit candles.  No canned music or small talk.  Wilson and I don’t work that way.  It didn’t happen like that at all.  Wilson was itching to be done with the school year.  Not because he hated his job; he loved it.  But we had planned a trip to China to personally deliver my carvings to Mr. Chen, and we were excited about it.  Tiffa and Jack were coming too, along with Melody.  I didn’t know how a seven-month-old baby would do on an airplane for that long, but we were flying first class and Tiffa said that of the five of us, Melody was the easiest to please.  Tiffa was probably right.  Many people remarked on how happy and content Melody was. It reminded me of what my grandmother had told me, how I had been such an easy baby.  It also made me contemplate the years between then and now, and how I had come full circle, happy and content once again.  So China was on the agenda, and after that, Wilson was going back to school to finish his Master’s degree.  His doctorate would follow.  Yep, I was in love with a smarty pants.  He had big plans to write historical novels that would change the way people looked at history.  He had changed the way I looked at history, especially my own.  If he could do that for me, he could that for anyone.

It was a Friday evening, I was carving, and the basement was hotter then Bev’s spicy quesadillas.  I shuddered to think what August would bring if May felt like being trapped in an enormous dutch oven.  The temperature had hovered around 100 degrees all week long, chasing out the last days of school and welcoming the advent of summer.  Wilson found me downstairs, skin sleek with sweat, hair twisted in a sloppy braid, my black tank top sticking to my back, making inspiration elusive.  I stepped back from the gnarled piece of juniper I had been filing and swore viciously, using one of Wilson’s favorites.

“Bugger!”

“What is it?” Wilson said behind me, making me jump in surprise.  He was looking at my carving with a perplexed frown.  I dropped my file and sighed, throwing up my hands.

“It’s a lump of shit.  A big, fat, ugly, lump of crap.”

“Hmm.” Wilson studied the juniper like a wise old owl, walking around it as he bit into a green apple that I suddenly, desperately, needed a bite of. He had exchanged his khakis and dress shirt for jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and his curls were rumpled like he had neglected to smooth them back down after he pulled his shirt over his head.

“It does resemble shit, just a bit,” he declared with a wink.

I groaned and laughed, abandoning the carving for the time being.  I walked over to Wilson and grabbed his wrist, taking a giant bite out of the apple he held in his hand.  I kept my fingers wrapped around his wrist as I enjoyed several more bites.

“Hungry?” he smiled down at me, watching me feast on his snack.

“No,” I crunched, “just thirsty, hot, bothered, and uninspired.  And I love green apples.”

“I can see that.  But now I’ve got juice running down my arm, luv.”

I swallowed my latest bite and lapped up the juice that was dribbling down his wrist.  The feel of his skin beneath my tongue made me slightly lightheaded.  He shuddered.

“You missed a spot,” Wilson said softly.  I made another pass with my tongue.  He licked his fingers and tossed what was left of the apple onto my workbench and slid his arms around my waist, pulling me firmly against him.

“You have just a bit of juice right here at the corner of your mouth.  I’ll get it for you.”  He kissed the edge of my mouth sweetly and then licked my top lip, making me tremble and laugh simultaneously.

“Green apples are rather delicious,” he breathed, pulling my bottom lip between his teeth.

I forgot about the carving, the heat, the sawdust that danced in the evening sunlight streaming through the high basement windows.  I cradled Wilson’s face in my hands, pressing my mouth to his, and he kissed me eagerly, his tongue stroking mine.  Apples. Wilson.  A heady combination.  His fingers slid beneath the cotton of my tank top to rest on my skin.  My hands moved from his sand paper cheeks to grip the curls at the back of his head, and the kiss that had been playful licking became more like desperate devouring.  Wilson’s hands splayed beneath my shirt, gripping my bare back like he wanted to sink his hands beneath my skin.  He broke away for a moment, pressing his forehead into mine, gasping for air.  His hand reached up to grip the braid swinging down my back, and his eyes were penetrating, as if he were trying to transmit a memory through his gaze.

“That night… .the night you told me some people were meant to be alone…people like you and Jimmy?  That night, you wore a braid like this one.  I wanted to unravel it like you were unraveling me.  I wanted to slide my fingers through your hair and kiss your loneliness away.  But I knew I had to wait.”  Wilson pulled at the tie on the bottom of my braid and ran his hands along its length.  The strands cooperated, loosening  between his fingers until my hair lay heavy against my back.  Wilson gripped the fabric of my shirt, sliding it upwards with the palms of his hands, and I felt the air brush my exposed abdomen.  Then he kissed my shoulder gently, lifting one hand and moving the strap of my top aside so my shoulder lay bare against his mouth.  I couldn’t respond.  My skin prickled and my heart galloped like a wild horse.  I sensed an intent in Wilson that hadn’t been there before.  I held my breath as he slid the other strap down my arm and laid a kiss against the side of my throat.  His mouth was warm and open, and as he kissed my neck he slid my tank top down my arms and around my waist.  I wore a thin lace bra beneath and for a moment neither of us breathed as he continued to push the top past my hips, freeing my arms. My shirt surrendered meekly, sliding down my legs and pooling at my feet.

“I dreamed about your braid for a week,” Wilson whispered, and he tore his gaze from my skin and raised his grey eyes to mine once again.  We stood looking at each other, our faces only inches apart.  “You’re not alone anymore, Blue.”

“No, Wilson.  I’m not.” My voice was hushed, as if speaking above a whisper would scare away the moments that were about to unfold.

Wilson’s fingertips traced the slope of one breast, lightly, almost as if he feared the smooth curve would disappear like a mirage beneath his touch.  The way he looked at me was mindblowing.  Like he adored me.  Like he saw past every blemish.  Like I was his, and he could hardly believe it.

“I love you, Blue.”

“I love you, Wilson.”

“You’re not alone anymore.  You’re not lost anymore.  And I don’t want to wait anymore.”

There was no question in his tone.  No plea.  It was a statement.  A declaration.  But I nodded all the same.  Wilson smiled then.  His beautiful mouth curving upward slowly as his arms wound around me once more.  And then he lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he had done that night months ago when he confessed his desire and I suppressed mine.  That night I told him to leave.  Letting him stay would have broken me then.  Letting him go would break me now.

With his arms braced beneath me and his lips on mine, Wilson carried me up the stairs to my apartment.  I thought briefly of my tank top lying abandoned on the concrete floor.  But Wilson’s hands were on my thighs, his mouth on my skin, his heart beating thunderously against my breasts.  And then his shirt was abandoned, too.  Tossed on the kitchen floor.  And my shorts were discarded in the hallway.  And Wilson’s pants landed in a corner of my room.  And that is when we closed the door, and I became lost once more. Lost and then found.  Blinded.  Yet…now I see.  Sex is different with someone you love.  It isn’t really sex at all.