Curled in the Bed of Love Read Online Free Page A

tequila in his hand. Her senses, elongated by alcohol, discern the prism shape and sharp taste of each crystal of salt dissolving on her tongue.
    â€œI’ve been wanting you to put on a dress,” he says.
    Smoothly, he slips her opened dress from her shoulders. The brush of his fingers against her skin shrinks her nipples to hard knots. He fishes the wedge of lime from his drink and runs it over her breasts, making her shiver. He leans over her to lick the taste from her.
    It has been a long time since Claire felt desire. Her body feels full, as if the blood in her veins is holding still, pooling under Sam’s touch.
    He lowers his mouth to hers, his lips hard, his tongue seeking brutally in her mouth. His kisses, so unlike Russell’s, demand a greedy response. As her hands roam over Sam’s ribs, she shares with him astonishment at the strangeness of their contact—to have known each other’s bodies so long ago is to have forgotten them.
    But one hunger is kin to another and another, a span that knows no borders, and suddenly panic flutters in Claire’s throat. She pushes up on her elbows, struggles to rise.
    â€œI know,” Sam says. “We shouldn’t. But we can.”
    She raises her arm as a barrier. “No.”
    He rolls to the side, watches her tug at the disarray of her dress. “You’ll come back. Another time.”
    She gets up and shuts the door, careful to let the latch click quietly, habit absurdly taking hold again.
    She finds Russell sitting on the deck, waiting for her. She has a moment of hating him for his patient faithfulness. Then she sits beside him and curls her hand in his.
    â€œIf I could make it hurt you less,” Russell says.
    In the dark she can’t tell where the land ends and the bay begins. Still she can faintly smell brine on the wind, discern the tree-tufted spine of the Inverness Ridge against the sky, imagine the waves pounding brutally at the unprotected shore beyond. This same glorious, erratic creation took their child, without intention, without malice, even though her body feels the blow as aimed.
    Russell says, “We’ll try again. We still have time.”
    The night loosens her, tugs her beyond the modest confines of reassurance. How still and solid darkness and the shapes it reconstitutes can seem, when below the surface the tectonic plates grind against each other with the accumulated force of sixty million years of yearning.
    â€œI don’t want to have to keep trying,” Claire says, and now she can hear the low rumble of an ancient abyss, split, straining to open beneath her once again.

comfort
    I’ve forgotten how long I told them I’d circle the block before coming back for them. Now I’m stuck behind a truckthat’s backing slowly into a driveway. I picture my customers standing on the corner looking bereft. Though they’re more likely to be irritated, impatient, checking their watches to count off the minutes I’ve stolen from them, I prefer to imagine them as little lost lambs. Most people who rent a limo by the hour splurge only on a special occasion like a wedding or a prom night or a twenty-first birthday. They’re usually so shy on finding themselves in the lap of luxury that I can’t help wanting to give them their money’s worth, hold doors open, provision them with champagne and fluted glasses, unfurl their umbrellas before they step out in the rain.
    It’s not like me to lose track of time. Probably I should make it a rule not to think about Linnie when I’m on the job. But we’re at that point. Last night, my night off, she made me dinner at her apartment. Her best china, chicken stuffed with gooey cheese, lit candles on the table. After dinner we sat on the sofa to drink and talk, and she swarmed all over me, leaning against me when we kissed, running her hands up and down my chest, moving myhands down to her hips. It was nice. But when it