A Kiss In The Moonlight. Laurie Paige

She stood. “I’m all right.” She rushed from the room.

      In the neat bedroom she closed the door and lay down with her hot, streaming face pressed into the pillow.

      Nothing like making an utter fool of yourself, she scolded, but the tears wouldn’t stop. She’d held them too long…through the turning of leaves in the fall, the rains and ice of winter storms, the blooming promise of a spring that never came. Spring would never come for Lyle, her oldest friend, the playmate of her youth.

      But he’d seen the opening of the daffodils and the brilliant show of the tulips. That had made him happy.

      The tears continued, each one a separate ache as memories unreeled like a movie—picnics by the river, climbs along the Pedernales River cascades, games of Kick the Can at twilight with cowboys and the ranch children joining in.

      She’d loved it all, had reveled in life and its great and wonderful freedom. So had her brothers. So had Lyle.

      Sobs shook her body. Grief took her to the far shore of despair. She’d wanted so much for everything to stay the same, locked in its perfect little niche of happiness.

      But her mother had wanted to leave her father; her old friend had wanted more than friendship; and a stranger had entered her idyllic world, forcing her to face its imperfections. Lyle’s car wreck had been the final blow to her fantasy.

      The woman with the little girl and the baby must have thought her world was perfect, too. She’d baked a cake for her husband’s birthday. That was why he was rushing home, so they could celebrate together.

      The tears soaked the pillow, their supply seemingly endless. Lyric willed them to stop, but they wouldn’t.

      The air stirred, and faint light brightened the room for a second as the door opened, then closed. She heard the footsteps on the oval braided rug. Not her aunt. Trevor.

      “Lyric?” he said in that uncertain way men had when confronted with an emotional woman.

      “Go away,” she said. “Please. Go away.”

      “I can’t.”

      He sat on the side of the bed, then leaned close. His big hand stroked down her hair, stripping away the band that held it in place so he could run his fingers through the strands.

      “Don’t,” he murmured.

      “I c-can’t h-help it.” Each word was whispered on a sobbing breath, like a child trying to hold the tears back but unable to.

      She felt him release a deep breath as he bent close to her temple. His lips touched her there ever so gently.

      “Your aunt said you’d been unhappy for a long time. She said I should ask you to tell me about it.”

      Lyric shook her head and kept her face pressed into the pillow. The tears were never going to stop, not in a hundred years, and she wasn’t going to share any tales of woe with a man who hated her for deceiving him.

      He shifted until he stretched out beside her. He rubbed her scalp and her back, massaged along her spine. “Then cry, if you have to, until the tears are gone.”

      A fresh flood ensued at his words. He silently waited for her to finish. After a long time, she became aware of his heat along her right side. She realized that deep within she was cold in spite of the hot tears. She moved closer.

      She felt his hesitation, then he laid a leg over both of hers. Lifting her hair, he kissed the back of her neck and along her blouse collar.

      “You smell so good,” he said. “Like ambrosia. You remind me of days spent working in the sun, the scent of summer in the air. Of coming to the house and finding my favorite cake cooling in the kitchen, the aroma making my mouth water. You make me hungry for things that used to be.”

      Lyric felt his words sift down to her soul, saw them as sun motes that danced in the air. Need and longing stirred in her, blending all the unspoken desires of her heart into one yearning. She turned to her back so she could study him in the faint glow of an outside light.

      “Are you feeling sorry for me?” she asked.

      He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe for both of us. And Lyle.” He gave a half laugh that sounded infinitely sad. “The other point in this odd triangle.”

      She lifted one hand and pushed back the stubborn lock of hair that fell over his forehead. His uncle’s was the same, she’d noted. A family trait.

      Tears filled her eyes again.

      He brushed them off her lashes with his finger, then he kissed the moisture off her cheeks. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

      As sudden as the tears had appeared, passion took their place, rushing through her in a great tidal wave of hunger that had been suppressed much too long. Gazing into his eyes as he tried to understand her outburst, she knew they were too vulnerable at this moment to stay in the room alone.

      Knew it, but didn’t stir, didn’t suggest they go.

      She laid her hands on his chest and soaked in the warmth there. She touched his throat, followed the strong cords of his neck, explored his jaw where muscles quickly contracted and relaxed.

      Running her fingers into his hair, she cupped his head between her hands. With the lightest of pressure, she brought his face closer to hers. She felt his breath on her lips. She opened her mouth, licked her lips. He did the same. They were ready for the kiss.

      Forever after, in all the seasons of all the years to come, she would have to acknowledge she had been the one to make the final move.

      Slowly, savoring the moment, she touched her mouth to his. That was all it took.

      The shudder that ran through him entered her and sent a tremor all the way to her toes. She pushed her sandals off and wrapped her legs around his. He pulled her closer, rolling so he half lay on her.

      Hunger, so great it overlaid the earlier grief that had filled her, became an unreasonable force inside her. She tugged at his shirt until it was free of his jeans, then moved away enough so that she could unfasten the buttons.

      His hands closed over hers. “What are we doing?” he asked, his voice dropping a register.

      She shook her head slightly, negating the question. “Don’t talk,” she whispered. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, her hands feverish now, restless with the need that drove her past thought and spoken words.