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I went inside, checked all the windows and doors. By the time I reached my room and completed my nightly tossing-Oprah-off-the-pillow ritual, I was calmer.
Malachi had been right to say no. I wasn't ready. Although -
As I stepped out of my clothes and pulled on a nightgown, I let my hands drift over my breasts, let my fingers trail between my legs.
I felt ready.
But the body was different from the mind. I might want him more than I'd ever wanted anyone, physically, but mentally. . . I wasn't sure.
I had a difficult time waking up the next morning. My head heavy, my eyelids stuck together; I felt dopey yet strangely on edge.
When the shower spray hit my body, I yelped as if the droplets were electrical charges. The water pressure had never bothered me before - except for a lack of it - now the pounding set my teeth on edge.
I didn't want liquid cascading over my skin; I wanted his hands sliding down my arms, up my rib cage, cupping my breasts, thumbs tracing the nipples.
My head fell back; the water beat on my throat; my own hands followed the path my mind made. It had been a long time since I'd done this, too.
As my skin hummed again as it had hummed last night, I slipped my fingers between my legs and began to finish what a mere kiss had started.
The combination of the memories, the pounding spray, and the rhythmic press of my own hand made me come gasping in less than half a minute.
To my amazement, the self-inflicted orgasm did little to diminish the frustration I'd awoken to, a feeling that hung around me like Pigpen's cloud of dust throughout the day, making me jumpy and far too short with everyone I met.
The Full Moon Festival officially opened with a short ceremony in the town square at 9:00 a. m. I was set to give a welcome speech; the high school band would play "Georgia on My Mind," and we'd be off and running with a sidewalk sale by all the local merchants, as well as the first show by the Gypsies that evening.
Instead of a suit or slacks, I donned a mint green dress that complemented my figure, the waist nipped in, the skirt full and fabulous, the hemline hitting just below the knees. When this dress was accented with my grandmother's pearls and pumps in the same shade, I resembled June Cleaver with a French twist.
I'd just finished my speech and stepped back from the podium to light applause from the fifty people who'd bothered to show up when a stray breeze caught the skirt and made it billow nearly to my waist.
The warm air on my bare legs, the brush against the still-damp crotch of my panties, made me cry out in both arousal and alarm. I slapped my hands against the fluttering material and glanced up to check how many people had noticed.
Luckily, the band had started to play the Ray Charles classic as soon as I'd finished, and no one heard my outcry. A few people smiled at my discomfiture, but not maliciously. Everyone had an embarrassing moment or two in their past.
Then I noticed a man dressed in black and white walking away from the crowd. Even without the long dark hair and lithe, almost-catlike gait, I'd have recognized Malachi Cartwright. He stood out like a crow among peacocks.
Had he been listening to my speech? I'd passed my gaze over the crowd before, during, and after the welcome, but I hadn't noticed him.
The last notes of the song faded and what was left of the crowd, mostly the parents of the band members, clapped.
I hung around to make sure everything was being broken down and put away before I headed for the office.
"Lovely performance," Joyce said as I entered.
"The band's really coming along. "
"I meant your Marilyn Monroe imitation. " She waved at my skirt.
My face heated. "I was going for June Cleaver. "
"Unless you were auditioning for Leave It to My Beaver, you missed by a mile. "
"Leave it to what?"
"Porn," she said simply, and tapped a few keys on her computer. "Actually has a plot. June and Ward enjoy a rare weekend without the kids and - "
"Stop. " I slapped my hands over both sides of my head. "My ears. Are they bleeding?"
"Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm dead. "
