He'd been so anxious to bed her he'd insulted her, a thing that had never happened to him before. Rightly she'd foisted him off with an argument about the tablecloth.
That was why he had lain beside her last night without attempting to claim his rights as bridegroom. This morning, however, he wondered if that had been a mistake. After living through a night of sheer torture, breathing the sweet smell of her hair on the pillow, he remembered that his baser nature seemed to be one of the things she liked best.
His thoughts drifted toward a plan of action. Beginning a marriage without a wedding night was not particularly promising. Especially when in-the-bed affection was the most that he had to offer her.
As his mind conjured the possibilities, he was interrupted by the bell over the front door. "Come on in, we're open," he called out.
"I know," a small voice answered.
Cleav turned as his wife approached him. Stepping behind the counter, she casually made her way along the shelves, hesitating occasionally to straighten a jar or examine a tin. Slowly, almost shyly, she made her way toward him, her fingers running lightly across the polished oak countertop as if gathering strength from those things familiar.
She was scrubbed and shiny but wearing her usual threadbare attire. Cleav, however, thought only of the things he'd planned to say.
"I'm ..." the two began simultaneously.
A slightly embarrassed giggle was shared.
"Ladies first," Cleav suggested.
"No, you go ahead," Esme offered quickly.
Cleav absently checked the shine on his shoes as he answered. "I'm sorry about last night," he said simply.
Esme's cheeks flamed bright red. Was he apologizing for his inattention in their bed? Her pulse beat so vigorously in her throat, Esme nearly choked.
"I'm very glad that you've brought your mother's tablecloth to our house, Esme."
He looked up at her then. His eyes, so deep and blue, were sincere.
Esme nearly gasped at her own foolishness. Of course he had been talking about their argument, she assured herself disdainfully.
"You were right, really," Esme answered with feigned calm. "Your mother undoubtedly has many tablecloths, and most of them will be better than the one my mother made."
"But your mother made it," Cleav answered. "That's the point after all. This is your home now, and you certainly should bring your things into it" Cleav looked at the woman before him and wondered how to proceed. "I spoke foolishly last night" he began, "because I'm a foolish man. I was thinking more about kissing your lips than about the words that were coming from them."
Esme's eyes widened, and the lips he spoke of parted prettily in surprise.
"You were?" What was she to say? She had wanted to kiss him, too. She had wanted more than kissing, she admitted to herself. She wanted to feel the strength of his arms around her again. She wanted . . . she wanted everything. Their time was not lost. Their shaky start would not set them back. Esme refused to allow either to happen.
Without giving herself a chance to think about her actions, the new bride raised herself on her tiptoes and softly pressed her mouth against her husband's.
At Cleav's startled reaction, Esme's hopes sank. "I know I don't do it right," she admitted and lowered her head shamefully.
Cleav's eyes softened. "You're a bright young woman," Cleav told her easily as his arms encircled her. "All it takes is a little practice, and I'm willing to do my part."
Bending his head slowly forward until her lips were only a hair's breadth from his own, he hesitated. "This is my part," he whispered.
Teasing his mouth slightly over hers, he captured the fullness of her upper lip between his teeth. Tenderly tugging with playful passion, he urged her mouth open. Then he captured the warmth therein.
"Mmmm, you taste so good," he murmured.
Esme didn't reply. This time she returned the embrace more slowly. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stroked the fine brown hair that was perfectly trimmed at the nape of his neck.
Ending the kiss, Cleav pulled away only by inches. But inches was too far for Esme as she sought his lips again. The warm, lush taste of his mouth was a forbidden fruit she was suddenly free to access. Curiosity mixed with desire as she sought to know every approach and texture of his lips.
"Am I kissing you, or are you kissing me?" she asked huskily.
Quiet, tender touches suffused them with warmth as Cleav pressed delicate love bites on her neck and Esme answered them with grateful kisses to his temple.
