Chapter 1 #4
Their grins smoothed out when MaryAnn washed over Roslynn’s strong shoulder then her tender one, the bruises already beginning to mar her skin.
Her freckles looked like fairy kisses. Across her chest was an endless swath of them, gathering in a “v” where the sun hit her, evidence of her long days and hard work.
MaryAnn washed her bicep, thick and bunched, then carefully washed Roslynn’s injured arm, tucking it back against her and under her breasts when she was through.
When her washcloth ran down the side of one large breast, Roslynn wobbled in the water and MaryAnn grabbed her—naked hand on naked hip—to steady her.
Standing there, starting at each other, MaryAnn could feel her own pulse against her sister-in-law’s soft, searing skin, and she was certain that it matched Roslynn’s heartbeat.
MaryAnn stepped close until her thighs pressed against the washtub, and she slid her hand along silky skin to the small of Roslynn’s back.
Her sister-in-law closed her eyes in bliss, and MaryAnn felt more proud than any time before.
She could give this remarkable, miracle of a woman pleasure.
She could soothe her pain. Like in her dream, but so, so real, she looked down, holding her woman, and ran the washcloth over her left breast.
Roslynn moaned.
Slowly, mesmerized, MaryAnn washed between and beneath, treasuring the heavy weight, the pale blue veins, the deep warmth just beneath the thin cloth.
She washed in shrinking, concentric circles until she reached the large, apple-pink nipple and then, with a boldness she’d never dared in her life, she lightly pinched through the cloth, just like she’d imagined in her bed.
Roslynn gasped, what MaryAnn’s feral brain recognized as a co-mingling of pleasure and pain, and her head fell to the side, her long wet hair brushing MaryAnn’s arm.
“Do you like that?” MaryAnn whispered. Roslynn nodded, panting against MaryAnn’s cheek. She did it again, pinching, pulling through the cloth, switching between breasts, bubbles foaming up and water glistening over Roslynn’s abundant, steamy flesh. MaryAnn’s mouth watered to taste.
But although they’d crossed the threshold, she wasn’t sure she had permission.
MaryAnn worked the cloth over her sister-in-law’s belly, working in languorous sweeps down and up, down and up, up her sides and down her back and generous bottom while holding her so, so close, Roslynn’s head all but on her shoulder, her soft pants in MaryAnn’s ear.
Roslynn’s good arm still hung at her side.
MaryAnn slipped to her knees. From there, it was so much easier to worship.
MaryAnn soaped the cloth again, then reverently laid it to her woman’s flesh.
She washed the muscular thighs, the trembling calves.
She put her sleeve in the water and washed toes then shins then the ticklish back of her knees.
Then she looked up the naked expanse of her gorgeous sister-in-law, standing glistening and rosy in the candlelight, and met her glorious eyes.
“Sister mine,” she whispered, a foot away from the ginger hair at the apex of Roslynn’s thighs. “Spread your legs.”
Biting her thin, pink lip, still holding her arm to her, Roslynn did as she was asked, so trusting, so sweet, and with every drop of terror that MaryAnn felt.
Still staring into Roslynn’s eyes, MaryAnn gently washed the inside of her thighs, first one, then the other, venturing slowly higher until she felt wet curls brush her fingers.
Still watching her face, she turned her washcloth, and the soft warm center of Roslynn was cupped in her hand.
Roslynn’s teeth were planted so firmly in her lip, MaryAnn was afraid she would cut through.
The washcloth was a thin wet barrier, but still, she couldn’t feel the folds.
She couldn’t feel the bud. She had to…she looked down as she tenderly washed her.
She could see flushed red rose behind the soapy curls, she could see glisten, and she dunked the cloth back in the water to clear the soap then pressed the wet rag to rinse her clean.
She dropped the cloth and leaned close to kiss between her sister in law’s legs.
Roslynn cried out and MaryAnn grabbed her thighs.
She did it again, again and again, what she’d dreamed of doing to Roslynn, what the happiest of wives in the colonia whispered about their husbands, kisses to that soft pleated flesh between wet curls until her tongue bumped, at last, that hard little nub, a twin to the one pulsing between MaryAnn’s legs.
She licked it ardently, tasting not soap and not water, but the wetness of Roslynn, the juicy richness of her pleasure as Roslynn’s moans filled the room.
MaryAnn clung to her woman, lifted her face, and took that delicious bud into her mouth. Sucked it.
“MaryAnn,” Roslynn gasped. “Oh MaryAnn.”
She slid her hands to the back of Roslynn’s full thighs, held on, and pressed her mouth into her sweet, sweet meechee.
MaryAnn licked and slurped and sucked until Roslynn’s strong, horse-riding thighs quaked against her cheeks.
She twisted her face and lapped and lapped, like she was a kitten and Roslynn was the sweetest of creams.
The ecstasy that overcame MaryAnn when she was dreaming of Roslynn overcame Roslynn. She called her pleasure into the steamy air, cried it out, declared it, as her body quaked, sending water in waves to the floor and a delicious wetness onto MaryAnn’s tongue.
MaryAnn felt herself grabbed, pulled to her feet by one indominable hand, then, glory of glories, she was pressed to Roslynn’s naked, wet, quivering body and kissed.
Roslynn was kissing her. MaryAnn kissed back.
Their kisses were greedy, messy, unlearned, sliding and searching until MaryAnn captured Roslynn’s cheeks and focused her mouth, nibbled her lip then tasted with her tongue like she’d dreamed, glorious feasting upon the mouth of her woman.
Roslynn yanked on the lace edging the bib of her dress. “Closer.”
“The tub,” MaryAnn gasped weakly. “Your arm.”
“Get in,” Roslynn said, pulling until MaryAnn had no choice but to obey, climbing over and in as Roslynn tugged at buttons and ribbons with one hand, groaning at her ineffectiveness until MaryAnn was shedding her own clothes, was settling Roslynn back into the water so she wouldn’t jostle her arm, then stretching over her, naked and as sleek as an otter, offering her body as Roslynn was finally able to touch and feel and explore.
Roslynn sucked on MaryAnn’s tongue as she pressed her fingers into MaryAnn’s meechee. Through the glad madness, as their calls and cries filled the farmhouse, MaryAnn heard the running retreat of the animals to the bedroom.
They made love in the tub until the water cooled, then took the dinner and the liniment to MaryAnn’s bed.
The next few weeks was a time of glory and terror.
Three nights out of four, MaryAnn lived as she ought.
She prepared a hearty dinner for her husband and stepsons, she kept a tidy house, she milked the cow and fed the chickens and—when the hens raised the alarm in the middle of the night—shot over the head of that coyote, making him think twice about returning.
Three nights out of four, she lay in her quiet bed and prayed to be forgiven.
But on the fourth nights, MaryAnn lived as she wanted. Every fourth night, she lived the happiest life she’d never dreamed to live.
On the fourth nights, Roslynn came home.
They made love. Shivering through nights without her, MaryAnn toppled her to the floor the instant she came through the door, the animals leaping and bounding around them as if this desperate, hungry thing was play.
Roslynn, with her healed shoulder, was just as eager and hungry, wrestling for dominance and easily winning.
They’d make love until dawn—on the couch, on the countertop, finally and luxuriously in bed—then MaryAnn would cobble together something for Roslynn to take away in the pails.
But as the fourth nights continued and the desperation eased, their hearty kisses turned into gentle ones, into wanders to the kitchen where MaryAnn put the finishing touches on Roslynn’s favorite dishes while Roslynn set the table and shared her day.
They sat across the table from each other, glad to look into their beloved’s face, and discussed the growing calves, the cows they’d lost, MaryAnn’s triumph with that coyote.
They talked, twined on the couch, of their pasts. Their fears. Their hopes. Their foolish fantasies and determined dreams. They walked in the near pasture, Tucker and Cat scampering around them, full of joy and not speaking at all.
Love, I love you, my love, fell so often and readily from their lips that neither remembered who said it first. They never spoke of the future. They never—except to relay a message or request—spoke of Samuel.
Not speaking of the future, of MaryAnn’s husband and Roslynn’s brother, didn’t stopper MaryAnn’s growing fear as the end of the calving season approached.
How could they share this house again without touching?
Without loving? And, if they did touch, and were discovered…
how could she risk it? Losing her home and family.
Losing Roslynn. Forcing Roslynn to lose everything she held dear.
Samuel was a gentle man. But she could be risking their very lives.
It was Adam—of course, Adam—who noticed her mounting anxiety.
“You’re doing well, I hope,” he said in question one night, pausing as he scooped his frijoles up with a scrap of tortilla, as adept now as any of her tíos. He had a worried furrow on his young, handsome brow.
She looked down at her untouched plate. “Of course I am,” she said.
“I reckon…it’s a lonely time.” She wanted to weep at his continued concern. “It’ll end soon.”
Then he smiled, reassuring and sweet, with no idea that the time’s end was what she feared most.
“Yes,” she whispered.