Whispering Rock by Robyn Carr Page A

myself. I’m not a weakling. But it’s Brie…”
    “Jack, Brie needs you, and I want you to be there for her. I couldn’t be married to any other kind of man. I hope you have a little left over, that’s all. Because I love you so. I need you, too.”
    “I know I’ve disappointed you. I’ll do better…”
    She knelt on the couch beside him, facing him. “Kiss me,” she said. He leaned his lips toward her, pressing his mouth against hers. He even made a noble effort to move his mouth over hers, opening and admitting her tongue. But there was no passion in it, no desire. He didn’t put his hands on her, didn’t draw her near, didn’t moan with his usual hunger.
    She was afraid she was losing him.
    “Come with me,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to their bedroom. “Sit,” she said.
    She knelt in front of him and worked at taking off his boots. Then, rising on her knees, she began to unbutton his shirt. “This may not turn out the way you expect,” he said.
    “Shhh. We’ll see.” She opened his shirt, pushed it off his shoulders and began to rub her hands over the soft mat of hair that covered his chest. She kissed his chest, running a small tongue over his nipples, one at a time. She pushed him back on the bed and slowly opened his belt, the snap on his jeans, the zipper. She kissed his belly. She hooked her small hands into his jeans and tugged, bringing them down over his hips. Down off his long legs. It did not escape her that he was barelyrising to the occasion, and for Jack this was astonishing. He was known to spring to life at the mere suggestion there might be sex coming his way. But she wasn’t discouraged. Down came the boxers and she caressed a little life into him, then put her mouth on him in exactly the way he loved.
    And there was that moan that she had longed to hear. That deep groan. He couldn’t remain passive during this, one of his very favorite treats. There. He responded, perhaps in spite of himself, but she didn’t care. It was a start.
    Jack had never in his life had a problem that kept him from wanting sex. In fact, during the worst stress of his life, he found sex to be a wonderful escape. But not this time—this time he’d been numb. He was barely aware it had been happening to him, and then his wife let him know when she came after him, demanding a response, and he suddenly realized that he hadn’t deprived only himself in some pattern of grief. He felt her small mouth take him in, and his body allowed him blissful separation from his mind. He closed his eyes in luxury. She climbed on him, hot and sweet, and he ran his hands around her bottom and under the shirt she wore, up to her full breasts, and heard her hum in pleasure, “Oh, Jack—I have so needed your hands on me.” It hit him, how much they depended on each other. They should be helping each other through the difficult times, not closing off.
    He lifted the shirt over her head and brought her breasts down to his mouth, tasting their sweetness. Then he rolled with her, bringing her beneath him, filling her, listening to her pleased sighs and purrs. “Baby, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never meant to neglect you.” He moved and she bent her knees, lifted her hips to bring him deeper and deeper, her hands on his shoulders and arms, her mouth on his mouth.
    This is what he loved about his woman, his wife—that shewas as driven sexually as he. In this they had been beautifully paired and it had taken boldness on her part to bring him back to life. He’d never before suffered so long a dry spell, and it meant the world to him that she wouldn’t allow it, that she was desperate for him, that she was determined to have this back in their marriage. Thank God for her, he thought. Anyone else would have become moody, angry, taken offense or even ignored the drought. But not Mel; she was committed to him. Committed to this passion they shared. She would not give it up easily.
    He grabbed her small,