Part 23 (2/2)

been his most precious hour with her.

She was, in that hour, so completely his.

The radio beside the bed was on, as was the television at the foot of

it. He'd chased away the silence of his rooms with voices. When he

touched her, she was all the music he needed.

So he savored. He undressed her slowly, watching her, absorbing her.

The shudder of traffic outside the window-later he would remember it in

bases and trebles. The small, yielding sounds she made were pitched low

in countermelody. He could even hear the whispering song of his hands

gliding over her skin.

There was sunlight pouring through the window, and the big, soft bed

yielding under them.

Her body was already changing, subtly, with the life growing in it. He

spread his hand over her rounded stomach, amazed, dazzled, humbled.

Reverently he lowered his lips to her flesh.

It was foolish, he thought, but he felt like a soldier returning from

war, covered with scars and medals. Perhaps not so foolish. The arena

in which he'd fought and won wasn't one he could take her to. She would

always wait for him. It was in her eyes, in her arms as they tenderly

enfolded him. That promise and patience was on her lips as they opened

for his. Her pa.s.sion was always steadier than his, less selfish,

balancing his edgier and more dangerous urges. With her he felt more of

a man, less of a symbol in a world that seemed so hungry for symbols.

When he slipped inside of her, he spoke at last, saying her name on a

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