Flicka pressed her cheekagainst Dieter’s, and his rough stubble ground against her skin.
The desert sun shone on the trees and the yard, and the babies babbled happily to each other.
A question occurred to her, a question about the nameDieterand the nameRaphael,but she didn’t ask it.
She didn’t want to know.
That night, after Dieter fell asleep, she reached for his shoulder, just to feel his skin under her palm.He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just loose shorts.
That initial reach was the hard part. After that, his skin soothed her, comforted her, and she wanted more of his solace with every passing minute. The slim, rougher lines tickled her fingertips, and she traced his scars over his chest. Her hand trailed over his rounded pecs and the scant softness of blond, masculine hair between them.
She scooteda little closer, letting her arm settle over his chest.
His breath remained smooth and slow, definitely asleep.
Flicka cuddled closer.
He moved under her arm.
Flicka almost jumped back, but no, she had given up the darkness and pain.
Dieter wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head under his chin, sighing,“Flicka.”
