passion in her waiting to be set free.
And he intended to be the one to do it.
Suddenly she wrenched herself free, and turned to him leaning back over the stove. He yanked her forward.
“Stop.” She panted, and leaned further back.
“Foolish woman. You’re about to set yourself on fire.” He pulled her into his arms.
“Oh.”
He moved her a few steps from the stove, released her, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Is supper ready?”
“Yes. You can sit down.” She patted her hair and turned back to the stove, picking up the cooking spoon.
He pulled out a chair and plopped into it. “Where’s Bertha?” Not that he cared where the cook was, he just wanted to have some inane conversation to calm his body down. If such a thing were possible after touching her the way he had.
“She had to visit her mother for a few days. She’s sick with the flu.”
So they had the house to themselves. Instead of calming down, he now had visions of stripping Calliope right there in the kitchen and taking her on the table. Or laying her down on the carpet near the fireplace and making slow, tender love to her in front of the roaring flames. Perhaps he would grab hold of her on their way upstairs later and brace her against the wall, taking her fast and hard.
Good Lord. What the devil was wrong with him? She was his wife, not some whore from the local saloon. He stared at her as her bottom moved back and forth as she stirred whatever it was in the pot. No longer hungry for food, he popped up from his chair. “I think I’ll skip supper. I have a few more chores to finish.”
With that idiotic statement he fled the kitchen and the house, running like some pimply youth who was confronted with his first prostitute.
***
Calliope stood with her hands fisted on her hips, gravy dripping from the cooking spoon onto the floor. Well, what was that all about? Two minutes ago he was starving and now he decided he didn’t want supper.
She turned back to the stove and moved the pot over. Since she’d grown up with a housekeeper and cook she wasn’t much of a cook herself. But since Bertha had to leave she’d made the effort. The least he could have done was eat the blasted thing. Whatever the thing was that she’d made. It started out as stew, but looked more like soup.
Sighing, she sat at the table and thought about her husband. The very reason she wanted to have a marriage in name only was because she didn’t want to fall hopelessly in love with the man and then turn into her mother who allowed her father to run every part of her life. Intimacy with a man did that. Made you fall in love. She didn’t want love. She wanted a nice, normal life with a partner more than a husband.
Although, truth be known, she was having some problems with the partner idea. Not that Stephen didn’t have good plans, but if she allowed him too much freedom the farm would no longer be hers and she would be right where her mother had been all her life.
Feeling weary all of a sudden, she ladled out a bowl of stew-soup and grabbed a piece of bread. Not really tasting her food, she finished her meal and washed out the bowl and spoon. After leaving a full bowl on the stove to stay warm, she put the rest of the stew-soup in the cooler and left the kitchen.
Two hours later she dimmed the oil lamp in the parlor and headed to bed. Stephen had stayed away all evening. Doing what, she had no idea. There certainly hadn’t been that much in the way of chores to finish up. She brushed her hair, fixed a long braid for sleep and slipped into a nightgown. White and virginal. Just like her.
Did she really intend to remain untouched her whole life? Would Stephen even stay if she insisted on it? Once again her face heated up when she thought about what they’d shared in the kitchen before he fled. She would be lying to herself to pretend she hadn’t been affected by his touch. Much too affected, in fact. It had taken all of her resolve to push him away
And he intended to be the one to do it.
Suddenly she wrenched herself free, and turned to him leaning back over the stove. He yanked her forward.
“Stop.” She panted, and leaned further back.
“Foolish woman. You’re about to set yourself on fire.” He pulled her into his arms.
“Oh.”
He moved her a few steps from the stove, released her, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Is supper ready?”
“Yes. You can sit down.” She patted her hair and turned back to the stove, picking up the cooking spoon.
He pulled out a chair and plopped into it. “Where’s Bertha?” Not that he cared where the cook was, he just wanted to have some inane conversation to calm his body down. If such a thing were possible after touching her the way he had.
“She had to visit her mother for a few days. She’s sick with the flu.”
So they had the house to themselves. Instead of calming down, he now had visions of stripping Calliope right there in the kitchen and taking her on the table. Or laying her down on the carpet near the fireplace and making slow, tender love to her in front of the roaring flames. Perhaps he would grab hold of her on their way upstairs later and brace her against the wall, taking her fast and hard.
Good Lord. What the devil was wrong with him? She was his wife, not some whore from the local saloon. He stared at her as her bottom moved back and forth as she stirred whatever it was in the pot. No longer hungry for food, he popped up from his chair. “I think I’ll skip supper. I have a few more chores to finish.”
With that idiotic statement he fled the kitchen and the house, running like some pimply youth who was confronted with his first prostitute.
***
Calliope stood with her hands fisted on her hips, gravy dripping from the cooking spoon onto the floor. Well, what was that all about? Two minutes ago he was starving and now he decided he didn’t want supper.
She turned back to the stove and moved the pot over. Since she’d grown up with a housekeeper and cook she wasn’t much of a cook herself. But since Bertha had to leave she’d made the effort. The least he could have done was eat the blasted thing. Whatever the thing was that she’d made. It started out as stew, but looked more like soup.
Sighing, she sat at the table and thought about her husband. The very reason she wanted to have a marriage in name only was because she didn’t want to fall hopelessly in love with the man and then turn into her mother who allowed her father to run every part of her life. Intimacy with a man did that. Made you fall in love. She didn’t want love. She wanted a nice, normal life with a partner more than a husband.
Although, truth be known, she was having some problems with the partner idea. Not that Stephen didn’t have good plans, but if she allowed him too much freedom the farm would no longer be hers and she would be right where her mother had been all her life.
Feeling weary all of a sudden, she ladled out a bowl of stew-soup and grabbed a piece of bread. Not really tasting her food, she finished her meal and washed out the bowl and spoon. After leaving a full bowl on the stove to stay warm, she put the rest of the stew-soup in the cooler and left the kitchen.
Two hours later she dimmed the oil lamp in the parlor and headed to bed. Stephen had stayed away all evening. Doing what, she had no idea. There certainly hadn’t been that much in the way of chores to finish up. She brushed her hair, fixed a long braid for sleep and slipped into a nightgown. White and virginal. Just like her.
Did she really intend to remain untouched her whole life? Would Stephen even stay if she insisted on it? Once again her face heated up when she thought about what they’d shared in the kitchen before he fled. She would be lying to herself to pretend she hadn’t been affected by his touch. Much too affected, in fact. It had taken all of her resolve to push him away
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