AB by André Jensen Page B

admired her voluptuous form in silhouette. She hugged the beam, one with the
    house. It was constructed to carry her footfalls, to shelter her sleeping head. It was
    designed to protect her from the elements…and to offer her freedom.
    He joined her under the roof. He folded his arms across his chest and pressed his
    shoulder against the wood column. “I purchased it this morning.”
    “It’s too big for you.”
    “I don’t intend to live here alone.”
    Slowly she lifted her eyes, the bronze pools shimmering in the sunlight. “I’m sure you’ll
    be very happy here with your brothers.”
    “Bite your tongue, woman.” He stroked her lush hair. He coiled a long lock around his
    finger. He was brimming with a dream: a dream of solidarity. “It’s your home, too,
    Sophia.”
    She munched on her bottom lip, the playful banter no more. “I know.”
    James sensed the turmoil in her heart. He splayed his fingers and raked his hand
    through her tresses. He gripped the base of her skull, then separated her from the
    column. She slipped her arms around his waist instead, and he sighed with satisfaction to
    feel her limbs curled around his body, embracing him in a sturdy hold. It was quiet inside
    his soul when he was with her. He ached to keep it that way.
    She sighed and buried her features in his chest. “I can’t live with you.”
    He had anticipated the objection. “It’s two miles from your father’s home. You can
    prepare his food and see to his needs during the day, every day if you like…and then
    come home to me.”
    She seemed to struggle with the proposition, the dream. “But he’s helpless.”
    “He’s not helpless,” said James. “He lived for years without your care, remember? And
    you’ll still be with him for a good portion of each day. He’ll grow accustomed to the
    change.”
    She was quiet.
    “What is it, Sophia?” He kissed the crown of her head. “Do you fear censure from the
    islanders?”
    She snorted. “I don’t care what the islanders think of me.”
    “Then what’s wrong?”
    “Why are you doing this?” She looked up at him earnestly, seeking truth. “What do you
    want from me?”
    “I want you.”
    The words wel ed inside him with fierceness, resounded in his head. He breathed the
    words and the meaning they conveyed: he wanted her. He wanted to be with her. He
    wanted to protect her. There was no other way to describe the profound need he had to
    return to land.
    He brushed her sweet lips with his mouth. “Well?”
    “Irie,” she consented in her native patois.
    The garden was brimming with orchids and honeysuckles and ginger lilies, tart fruit
    trees and sweet spices. A cool sea breeze whisked through the botanical paradise, stirring
    the flora into animation.
    James was at the garden’s edge. He eyed the sweeping landscape, rolling with bright
    bushels of both native and imported species, pulsing with vivid life.
    Sophia was nestled amid the floral splendor. A white orchid with a brilliant red center
    kissed her ear as she pruned its leaves with tenderness. The blossom reminded him of
    burning passion buried deep within the soul. A heat soon swelled in his belly, his blood: a
    comforting heat.
    James watched the woman from afar. So lovely. More lovely than any of the delicate
    blooms. She was kneeling, her bare toes buried in the moist soil. She had pinned her hair
    in a loose swirl and draped her limbs in a flowing white shift.
    She cared for the garden, for him with such passion, and it welled inside him, the
    profound and stirring sentiment…
    She stilled.
    She closed her eyes. She had sensed him. She waited quietly for him to come and greet
    her. She beckoned him with her silence.
    Slowly he moved away from the trees. He approached her crouching figure. He
    hunkered behind her, overwhelmed with rampant desire.
    Softly he bussed her throat.
    I love you, Sophia.
    He lifted off his haunches and headed inside the plantation house. He swaggered
    across the portico,