Forever And A Baby. Margot Early
cautious with his trust.
Her body settled against that form under his jeans. Wanting. She should ovulate in a day, maybe two.
The deck was damp, the cabin door dewy. She unlocked it, opened it. She should say just the right thing, in just the right tone. But she wished she could tell him she was scared to death.
The sole bowed and bent beneath her weight. The utilitarian table, flipped up and out of the way. Nothing like a stateroom, just slim berths throughout and a wider berth forward of the galley. “That’s it,” she said, under a bare bulb.
The light made them naked, even in their clothes, everything so unreal, especially the stranger touching her lip.
“It doesn’t have to be good,” she said. “For me.”
“Doesn’t your orgasm increase the chance of conception?” Throwing aside his shell. Unbuttoning his plaid wool shirt. T-shirt underneath.
Her legs turned watery. She switched off the light. The boat was dark, except for the geometric patches of blue-gray from the dock lights and the portholes.
“It’s unnecessary.” Squeaking words. “I’m fertile; I’ll ovulate soon. And I’m really not interested in your patented techniques learned on the women of Africa.”
Ghostly blue and black dyed his face. The tilting of his lips was less than a smile. He nudged her toward the narrow berth. A bulkhead beside it had separated, a cheap panel peeling down like banana skin. All smelled damp and old. Only the mattress was new.
“You don’t have any diseases, do you?”
A faint shake of his head. He watched her. “You like me?”
Dru swallowed. “Enough.” She discarded her sweater. “I don’t want you to make love to me. Just sex. I wish I had a turkey baster with me. Why not artificial insemination?”
The hard mattress brought her too close to him.
“I wish I knew,” she said, “what’s in it for you.”
His lips tracked her jaw. His hand held her side, fingers spreading, guiding her down. “I can wait till you figure that out.” His nose near hers.
“It’s so appealing to be wanted as a one-night stand.”
“This is not a one-night stand. You’re coming back to the Sahara with me. My first three wives will be jealous and cruel to you, but you won’t be spending much time with them, anyhow. You and I will make love all day.”
His kiss warmed her lips, parting them. Their legs twined, the teeth of two combs fitting together. His skin swallowed her voice. “We weren’t going to do it…like that.” The words collided, falling on each other, never quite standing up, defeated by coursing blood, mating rites.
He said, “It’s the only way I know.”
Making love.
He was full of lies.
Dru searched her memory. Did Omar ever press his mouth to her as he spoke? Had they ever spoken this way? She was wild at his smell. At hard limbs. At a man her age. Her ears filled with shrieking winds, the sound of desire. It was evil, so cruel, to want anyone but her husband, the only man she’d ever known.
Evil to think, even for a second, It’s never been like this.
Hot shivering.
Permission. Omar had given it.
She sat up, shaking rapidly, jerking in blurred time. Her body had not been hers. Almost. It was now. Mine. Dru despised Omar, then imagined, then believed, she knew what he wanted—for her to know this about herself, to come to the point of refusing his Trojan horse. “Sorry. I can’t.” She scrambled her vibrating, quivering body over Ben’s and put her feet on the floor. Yes. The sole. Standing. Swaying. The hollow tinkling of water on the hull amplified. Unable to speak for trembling. “I w-won’t m-m-make l-l-l-love to anyone b-b-but m-m-my husband.”
He was half up. His powerful body eased out of the berth. She followed his face, but he never rose. He dropped to the warped and peeled linoleum, kneeling, stretching himself toward her on the sole like an unwashed man praying in the desert, not for the end of a sandstorm or for nightfall or shade or a drink of water or five times a day for God, but for goodness.
She had learned posture at the age of four and then how to keep her weight low and her head high, how to put grace in every gesture of her hands, every turn of her head. She had learned the dances of the Berbers and their nomadic relations, the Tuareg, of the Bedouins, of the Indians and Egyptians. There were dances for women and dances for men, dances for weddings, pregnancy and birth, sickness and death.
His dark head was bowed, and she recalled the advice of the Chinese, their remedy for lovesickness. For Omar, she must go home and dance the guedra, not the trance dance but the love dance. And then make love with him.
She did not thank Ben Hall. She said, “You should go.”
Slowly, he rose.
“I’m sorry this happened,” she said.
He nodded, lips tight. Briefly, he spoke in Arabic. He called her sister. He told her he loved her.
He told her goodbye as the Arabs do.
Which was to wish her peace.
THE KNOCKING INTERRUPTED her drowsing. She opened her eyes to light from a day she knew, without looking at the portholes beside her, was gray.
“Dru?”
The pants she’d worn the night before were heaped against the locker. She dragged them on and let her long T-shirt do as a top. Climbed from her berth and crossed the decrepit linoleum in her bare feet. To open the cabin door further and let him in.
She squinted at the object he held up.
And swallowed. “Where did you get that?”
“The hospital. The supermarket doesn’t get their turkey basters for a few weeks.” His cheeks darkened. “I told a nurse that it’s…a home project.”
If he’d blushed like that, no wonder the nurse had parted with the Tomcat catheter.
He murmured, “So…Sabah il-kheyr.” Good morning. “Let’s make a baby.”
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