I finally finished one of the many KB stories I have stored on my PC. A post season-7 story.
Please visit my updated website where I've finally brought all my fanfic together! http:/rhondastar./
Moments She Remembers
Standing in the shower. On honeymoon, all those years ago. They'd spent all afternoon in bed, exploring every inch of the other's bodies with a slow deliberate sensuality that she'd never known before.
The only incentive to rise and dress was the thought of the delicious meal soon to be served in the hotel restaurant. And perhaps the walk afterwards, in the balmy night air, by the ocean.
Bringing her car to a halt she remembers that walk with relish, the sand between her toes, the feel of her husband's hand in hers. Her stomach heavy from good food and her head swimming nicely with fine wine. Every fibre of her being was alive and singing with joy, complete and utter happiness.
The shower though, she remembers that more acutely than the rest. A moment of tenderness that stands out to her even now, years later.
How your body feels when you've been lying about in bed for hours, where hot sheets have stuck to supple skin and the fragrance of sex lingers. She stood under the hot water letting it even out every crease of her skin, palms flat against the cool tiles of the cubicle.
Behind her she heard the door click open and felt Bill's hands sliding over her shoulders, his mouth following where his fingers had been. She leant back against him, his chin resting on her shoulder now as his hand covered her stomach.
"You're sure you need food?" he asked huskily.
"I'm absolutely sure," she smiled twisting her head sideways and kissing him. "Even you must need a break."
"I hardly see it as a chore," he turned her round in his arms, sliding his hands around her waist, hers over his shoulders.
Her grin was provocative. "I should hope not. At least not yet, give it five or six years."
He laughed, she felt his chest vibrate against her back. "We have all the time in the world."
Now as she walks she hears odd tunes replaying in her mind, caught on the breeze. And sketches of him form, she wishes she could paint or draw, record every image that lurks in her head. Every memory.
She likes the way his fingers glide over the strings of the guitar. The way he hunches over it and becomes someone other than Bill Buchanan, or maybe a different aspect of Bill Buchanan flowing out along the strands of music he plucks into the night.
He doesn't play that often. And certainly never to anyone but himself, she's allowed to listen just because she's as much a part of him now as he is part of her. She relishes this idea as she twirls the diamond ring on her finger and takes another sip of her tea.
The night is cooling after a harsh summer's day. The sun had long since set before either of them got home, and dinner had been salad and chicken breasts barbecued, he doesn't mind her lack of cooking skills and she doesn't mind his all-American style of barbecuing almost any piece of meat brought into the house.
He sits on the step of the back door which leads from the kitchen to the garden, barefooted and in jeans and a white t-shirt. She watches his toes tap out the beat on the floor and her fingers imitate the movement along the edge of her mug.
He told her before she had a lovely singing voice, but they were high on new love and riding in her open-top sports car, speeding down the highway to the beach for a long weekend and she doubts his thoughts went further than getting her into bed.
Things have strained somewhat since then. Months apart and the rawness of distance, guilt, breaking his heart and fusing it back together. But the love never ebbed, she knows that, and his trust has returned, slowly.
Humming to the tune she slides her mug onto the counter and tiptoes behind him, kicking her sandals aside, enjoying the feeling of the light summer dress swaying around her hips after the strictness of her suit. She bends behind him, kneeling, hands sliding over his shoulders she feels him relax and lean back against her, pressing into her breasts. She kisses the top of his head as he finishes the song.
"That was nice," she whispers into the crisp night.
"Hmm," he hums and leans fully into her, "this is nice too."
She grins by his ear, before leaning down and kissing his cheek, her fingertips stroking his upper arm. "Do you realise how gorgeous you are?"
He turns his head to kiss her as well; her weight against his back making him feel incredibly warm and content. "You are."
Sliding her hands over his chest she reaches for his guitar, "Don't look at me like that, now is not the time to teach me how to play." Moving back a little she gently places the guitar to one side. "Want to play me instead?"
"Are you propositioning me?" he asks while he slowly shifts on the step to face her. The wooden decking might be a bit hard, but she's there and soft and fragrant and he's head over heels for her anyway.
"Perhaps, you are my husband." She stands up, holding his hands and moving to stand outside, in front of him. "I want to make sure it stays that way." His fingers fold with hers and she leans back for a moment, secure in his hold.
An idea occurs to her and that mischievous grin he likes so much spreads as she loosens her hands from his, steps back and very quickly and slyly removes her panties from beneath her dress, throwing them over his shoulder and onto the kitchen floor as she leans forward against him, his arms surrounding her.
He eyes her with raised eyebrows and a grin forming in the corners of his mouth. "You are very forward, Mrs. Buchanan. I like that."
"I know," she giggles rubbing his nose with hers. "Am I succeeding in seducing you?"
He pulls her against him, his hands cupping her ass to press her even closer. "What do you think?"
"I think that all that weight I lost in DC, all the stress, has crept back on and I'm curvier than ever." She slides down onto his lap, bracing her hands on his shoulders, parting and wrapping her legs around him.
"I like your curves a whole lot." He runs his hands up and down her sides, her back, over her shoulders and finally around to her breasts. "Very much."
Groaning she rolls her hips against his, "Bill, you make me feel so good." She presses her lips to his neck, tenderly kissing the pulse there, "Let's get drunk and stay up all night making love."
"I'm up...for it." they both laughed, already drunk on the heady feeling.
"I can feel that," she's still laughing, gazing down at him, blessed in his embrace. "I love you," she whispers finally resting her lips on his and drowning in a deep kiss.
He holds her tightly, returning her kiss "I love you too."
Running a tired hand through her hair Karen reluctantly opens her eyes; she remembers the warmth of the breeze at the coast, the way it tangled through her hair and left her skin fragrant like the sea. Here, the wind is cold and grey, a prequel to the coming storm.
She hates being alone, it hasn't taken long for her to figure that out. She's used to a hectic lifestyle, noise and chaos, and even off-hours she was never alone. Family, friends, her husband and their life together. Now it's just her.
There have been moments over the past twelve months she's fleetingly thought of meeting somebody new, but then that would be her third husband and really he could never live up to what she'd lost. She gave up her first marriage, and her children, to be with Bill, and it had taken years to win her daughters back. Now at least she had their company every couple of weeks. But it was unlikely there'd be another marriage, maybe the occasional companion, maybe even a partner.
Wiping her gloved hand over the heavy, aging stone she scooped aside the autumn leaves, crackling in her palm. A small, insignificant stone marking the fact he even existed, so like him to ask for nothing monumental. It had been her choice to have at least something, some physical symbol of him she could visit.
Despite the dampness of the earth she sits, long coat covering her legs, and stares absently at the inscription, his name, dates. And the memories return, she wonders now how accurate they are, has she altered elements to make them fit a little easier? If he re-told the stories would there be things she'd forgotten, embellished, skipped over?
Bill with his guitar propped in his lap and a glass of red wine in the other.
Carrying their old dog in from the cold when her legs went out from her one winter, and how he sobbed when he returned from the hospital without her.
She smiles thinking of the useless arguments they had, hours spent rowing over inconsequential things when all was said and done.
Her hair is greying now and they want her to retire, but she refuses, so instead she'll be shifted sideways to some office shuffling paper, away from the action, let some young headstrong take over. What she once was.
It isn't fair to say a part of her went with him. It isn't his fault. She should pull herself together, it's been a year, but she spends her time drowning in the past. It's where she wants to be. It's where she finds home.