Linda Miller - Snowflakes on the Sea

Nathan was standing in the corner beside a fully decorated Christmas tree, grinning like a little boy. With a flourish, he flipped a switch, and the tree was suddenly alight with colorful, glistening splendor.

“Merry Christmas, pumpkin,” he said.

Mallory’s sentimental heart twisted within her, and tears of delighted surprise smarted in her eyes. “Nathan McKendrick,” she whispered, “it is the middle of January!”

He smiled, the Christmas tree switch still resting in one hand. “Not in this house it isn’t. Aren’t you going to open your presents?”

Mallory’s blurred gaze dropped to the base of the fragrant evergreen tree and a number of brightly wrapped packages. In that instant, she knew where Nathan had been during the night, and how badly she had misjudged him.

“You went all the way to Seattle!”

Nathan shrugged. “It seemed the logical thing to do.”

“Logical!” Mallory choked, beaming through her tears. And then she raced across the room and flung herself into the arms of her own private Santa Claus.

Their embrace subtly changed the mood. The brief melding of their two bodies sparked a charge that lingered long after Mallory had opened the beautifully wrapped gifts that Nathan had originally mailed from Sydney.

Sitting cross-legged on the hearth rug, still clad in the soft-washed and somewhat shabby red football jersey, Mallory made a sound that fell somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. “There aren’t any presents for you!” she mourned.

He arched one eyebrow and folded his arms, and a wicked grin curved his lips as he assessed her speculatively. “I can think of one,” he teased. “And I can’t wait to unwrap it.”

Mallory turned the color of her football jersey, but her heart sang with the desire this man stirred in her. She looked at the glittering litter surrounding her, the sumptuous gifts, the Christmas tree. Finally, she dared to look at Nathan, who was perched on the arm of the old-fashioned sofa, looking even more handsome than usual in his dark blue velour shirt and gray flannel slacks.

“I love you,” she said, as awed by the intensity of her feelings as she had been the day she first faced them, more than six years before.

Though he was a tall and muscular man, Nathan moved deftly. Within a moment, he was kneeling on the hearth rug, facing Mallory. Gently he traced the outline of her cheek with a warm index finger. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse with emotion. “I hope you mean that, lady.”

Mallory shifted to her knees with as much grace as possible, and wrapped her arms around Nathan’s neck. Her answering pledge was in the kiss she gave him.

Tenderly, without breaking the kiss, Nathan pressed Mallory backward until she lay supine on the large oval rug. His right hand stroked her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, and then slid beneath the neckline of the jersey to close possessively over one warm, rounded breast. She groaned as his thumb brought the rosy center swiftly to a sensuous peak.

The kiss ended, and Nathan’s lips strayed, warm, to the sensitive place beneath Mallory’s ear and then to the pulsing hollow of her throat. She moaned once again as he drew the neckline of the jersey down far enough to expose a breast.

Idly he surveyed this first sweet plunder of his conquering, as though it were some rare and special confection, to be savored and then consumed slowly. After what seemed like an eternity to Mallory, he lowered his head and nipped gently at the peak awaiting him, causing his wife to writhe. She gasped with shameless pleasure as he softly kissed the pulsing morsel and then tasted it.

He laughed, his breath warm on the tender globe he fully possessed. “You like that, don’t you, pumpkin?” he teased in a rich, baritone voice.

Mallory nodded feverishly, unable to speak.

Nathan circled the pink fruit of her bounty with a warm, tormenting tongue. “Umm,” he murmured as his right hand moved over Mallory’s knee and then beneath the jersey to her firm, satiny thigh.

She squirmed, instinctively parted her legs in an early and desperate surrender. Her hands moved of their own frantic accord, to explore the muscular hardness of his back, beneath his shirt.

He shuddered with pleasure at her touch, and as his mouth closed hungrily over the breast that had grown warm and heavy for him he caressed her inner thighs with gentle fingertips and then tangled them in the nest of curls where sweet, ancient secrets were hidden.

Mallory whimpered as he parted the silken veil to pluck gently at the treasure sheltered there, bringing it to the same throbbing response as her distended nipple. “Yes,” she gasped as he drew the football shirt ever upward, unveiling the spoils of his impending conquest. “Yes—”

And suddenly she was totally bared to him, the jersey flung aside. She was grateful when he wrenched off his shirt and hurled that away, too. She could touch him then, entangle her searching fingers in the crisp dark hair curling on his chest, feel the loving, countering warmth of him.

Easily he lifted her, so that she was sitting on the edge of the sofa. Then, kneeling, he gently parted her knees, stroked the tingling, delicate flesh along her inner thighs. A primitive groan of surrender escaped her as he lifted one of her feet, and then the other, placing them so that the heels were braced on the sofa. This accomplished, he pressed on the insides of her knees until she was totally, beautifully vulnerable to him.

This time it was Mallory who drew back the sheltering veil, baring her mysterious, aching self to him. She cried out in throaty ecstasy when she felt his breath, pleaded raggedly until he took timeless sustenance at the waiting feast.

Her fingers entwined in his thick hair, her breath coming in tearing gasps, Mallory reveled in his hunger, in the warm strength of the hands holding her knees apart, so that she could not close herself to him. As his tongue began to savor her in long strokes, Mallory shuddered and gasped a plea and loosed her fingers from his hair to again spread the veiled place for his full satisfaction and her own.

Tremors, both physical and spiritual, rocked Mallory’s entire being as he brought her to a release so savage that she sobbed out his name. Quivering with molten aftershocks, she was too stricken to speak again, or even move.

“I love you,” he breathed against the moist smoothness of her inner thigh.

Finally, after at least a partial recovery of her senses, Mallory met his eyes. She did not need to speak to relay her message; she wanted to be filled with him, to sheathe him in the rippling, velvety warmth of her and hear his familiar, rasping cries of need and violent, soul-searing satisfaction.

Understanding, his eyes dark with a wanting to match Mallory’s own, Nathan moved back a foot or so, still kneeling on the floor, and moaned as his wife slid from the sofa’s edge to face him. He trembled, closed his eyes and tilted his head back as she opened his slacks to reveal his straining manhood. For the next several minutes, Mallory enjoyed his magnificence at her leisure, with her eyes, her fingers, her mouth. Her spirit soared at his words of tormented surrender.

In a smooth motion born of passion and desperation, Nathan grasped Mallory’s slender waist, lifted her easily and then lowered her onto the pulsing pillar that would make them each a part of the other.

They moved with a rhythm as old as time, increasing their pace as the swelling crescendo building within both of them demanded. When the explosion came, it rocked them, and they shouted their triumph in one voice.

They were still one person, still shuddering with their fierce mingling, when Cinnamon began to bark in the kitchen and they heard the back door open with a cautious creak. “Nathan!” called Eric Moore, the lead guitarist in Nathan’s band. “Hey, Nate—I know you’re in here somewhere! Mallory?”

Nathan cursed and scrambled to his feet. He was fully dressed again before Mallory had managed to wriggle back into the discarded football jersey.

“Stay where you are, Eric!” Nathan ordered in ominous tones as he strode out of the glittering, cluttered living room without so much as a backward glance. “And next time, knock, will you?”

Still sitting on the floor, Mallory cowered against the front of the sofa, trembling with resentment and a wild, inexplicable loneliness. The conversation taking place in the kitchen was couched in terse undertones, and she understood none of it. She sighed. Understanding the exact situation wasn’t really necessary anyway. The fact was that, once again, Nathan’s dynamic, demanding life was pulling him in another direction.

Mallory was thoroughly annoyed. She had been planning to give up her role in the soap opera in order to devote more time to a marriage she knew was failing. And all her efforts would mean nothing if Nathan could not or would not meet her halfway.

She stood up slowly, feeling hollow and broken inside. Was Diane really the threat she appeared to be sometimes, or was Nathan’s career his real mistress?

Mallory stooped to recover the toy kangaroo that had been one of Nathan’s gifts to her and then held it close. She could hold her own against a flesh-and-blood woman any time. But how could she compete with thousands of them? How could she hope to prevail against the tidal wave of adoration lavished upon Nathan McKendrick every time he sang his soul-wrenching compositions?

Still clutching the stuffed kangaroo, she sank to the sofa in dejected thought. Obviously the physical passion between her and her husband was as formidable as ever. Still, Mallory knew that a lasting marriage required more than sexual compatibility, more than romance.

She sensed, rather than saw or heard, Nathan’s return to the room. He stood behind her, and though Mallory knew he wanted to touch her, he refrained. His voice was a low rumble and caused tremors in Mallory’s heart like some kind of emotional earthquake.

“I’ve got to go to Angel Cove for a little while, Mallory,” he said. “Diane is doing one of her numbers again. Do you want to come with me?”

Mallory did not turn to face her husband; she simply shook her head.

“Babe—”

Mallory held up both hands. “No—I’m all right. Just go and straighten everything out.”

“We’ll talk when I get back,” he muttered, and Mallory could tell that he was already turning away. “Pumpkin, there is so much to say.”

Yes, Mallory thought, there is so much to say, and it is all so painful. “I’ll be here,” she said aloud, wishing that she could crawl inside the pouch of the toy kangaroo and hide there forever. “Nathan?” she whispered, on the off chance that he was still near enough to hear.

He was. “What?” he asked, somewhat hoarsely.

“I love you.”

He came to her then, bent, brushed her temple with his lips. A moment later, he was gone, and the glistening beauty of the decorated room was a mockery.

Mallory sat very still for a long time, absorbed by her own anguish and confusion. It was only the smell of burning turkey that brought her back to her senses.

She took Nathan’s awkward attempt at culinary competence from the oven before wandering into the bedroom to dress. When the telephone rang, she was standing in the kitchen, trying valiantly to salvage at least a portion of the incinerated fowl.

“Hello!” she snapped, certain that the caller meant to make yet another impossible demand on Nathan’s time.

“It’s me,” said Pat, Nathan’s sister, in a placating tone. “Mall, I’m sorry if I’m intruding—”

Mallory loved Pat, and regretted the tart way she’d spoken. “Pat,” she said gently. “No, you’re not intruding. It’s just—”