August 28th

"It's chilly in here."

Roz snuggled deeper under the covers. "We are in a barn."

"I was the last one to put wood in the stove." Greg removed his earbuds, lifted the comforter and leered at her. "Hmm, that sounds so . . . so dirty. How about you get up and do the honors and then I'll put some wood in your stove."

She rolled her eyes. "Blackmailer."

"Moi?" Greg put on an injured expression. "You think I'd stoop so low?"

"Of course you would. Okay, fine." She pushed back the covers and ran to the stove. With the speed borne of long practice she opened the door, raked up the embers with the poker, shoved in two chunks of wood, made sure the new logs would fire, latched the door shut and scurried back to the bed. She dove under the comforter and shivered.

"Hey!" Greg glared at her. "You're letting all the cold air in!"

"Too bad," Roz said, and huddled in on herself. The wind outside picked up and she winced as it howled deep and low, and hurled splatters of rain against the wall. "Maybe we should go to the house."

Greg sighed and wrapped an arm around her, brought her close. "Buzzkill. We'll be fine until the walls fall in on us. Might as well have some fun until then."

"You're just so reassuring," Roz teased. She rested her head in the hollow of his neck and shoulder. Through the freed buds she could hear music. "What are you listening to?"

For answer he put both buds in her ears. "James Booker," he said softly.

The music was beautiful, and poignant with wistful sorrow and a deep melancholy that suited the wild night outside. Roz listened, caught between enjoyment and the memory of when he'd told her how music had gotten him through tough times. The thought of Greg alone and in pain, trying to find solace or maybe even oblivion, made her heart ache. When the track was done she pressed her face to his neck and fought back an urge to hang onto him tight. "I love you," she said.

"Hey . . ." He moved back a little and looked down at her, tipped her face up to his. "It's just a song."

"I love you," she said again.

"Okay, that's enough," he said, and reclaimed the buds. He looked as if he was torn between amusement and annoyance. "It wasn't supposed to make you feel sorry for me. I was hoping for something more along the lines of sex, sex and more sex."

"I don't feel sorry for you," Roz said. She tried to find the right words. "You've told me about what it was like in Princeton, and before that. It . . . it hurts me to think you were ever . . . alone, you know? I understand what that's like."

Greg sighed. He rolled on his back and stared up at the rafters. "Can we not have this conversation?"

Roz almost smiled. She dared to put a hand on his chest, let it rest lightly over his heart. He made a noise almost like a growl but didn't pull away. She leaned close and whispered in his ear. "We don't have to talk at all, if you want."

He turned his head. His eyes glittered in the flickering light of the wood stove. Roz kissed him, and made sure it was anything but gentle and tender, felt him relax as he opened to her. His tongue stroked hers. When the kiss ended she let her hand slide down below the waistband of his sleep flannels. He'd already started to rise. She worked him a little and he groaned softly and shuddered. With visible impatience he moved on his side, struggled out of his pants and tugged at her panties. She did smile this time as she lifted her bottom, removed the cotton undies and tossed them to the floor.

They took their time, deliberately kept the pace slow so the fire between them grew. When Greg tugged a pillow in place over her left thigh Roz watched him, and reached up to bring him close when he eased into her with a soft moan. It was a long and sweet ride, his mouth on hers. He left little kisses and inarticulate bits of words, her name in among them. She moved with him, delighted in the feel of his body against hers, the gathering sweetness as he drove deep and steady, his gasp and the push of his lean hips as he came. When his callused fingers found her clitoris she arched up, close to her own release. He brought her, stayed with her climax to take her higher, so that pleasure broke in her like a storm surge, to flood her mind as she hung onto him and cried out above the wind and rain.

They lay together for a long time afterward, content to be in each other's arms. The neglected iPod played on somewhere under a pillow. Roz could just make out the words over the piano.

Everybody knows I'm crazy over you

And no one else but you can tell anyone

Just how much, how much, how I love you, love you, love you, love you

I guess that's all there is to tell . . .

Roz nuzzled Greg's cheek. "Think I like James Booker," she said. He chuckled.

"It's a song about unrequited love," he said, and ran his thumb over her bottom lip. "Something you won't ever have to worry about."

She kissed him, felt him smile. "Just for that I'll sleep on the wet spot tonight," she said, and enjoyed his soft laugh. He brought the comforter up over her shoulders and brought her head to rest on his shoulder. She fell asleep warmed inside and out as she listened to the steady thump of his heart and his music as well, soft but true against the storm that raged on beyond the walls.

'True', James Booker