Iceman

Buckhead Springs

Donna had packed most of his wardrobe, it appeared, and he joked with her about it as he unpacked slacks, hanging them back in the master closet in their bedroom, “You tryin’ to get rid of me or what? I'm only goin’ for a couple of days. I got enough clothes in here to stay a month. You guys tryin’ to get rid of me?"

“That's it. We're trying to get rid of you,” she said, coming up behind him, encircling his waist with her arms, and resting her head and upper torso on his back. He managed to get the hook of the hanger back over the rod and turned into her hug, lifting her face up to his.

“Mmwa,” she said, kissing him wetly.

“Those are my sentiments exactly,” he told her, kissing her again. Slowly and gently. It had been a perfect evening. Jonathan had been so docile Jack had decided not to chance telling her about some information he'd picked up about possible allergy therapy. Grains. Fiber. Dairy products. He'd forgotten the other things. Warning signs. He'd seen a video of kids whose behavior was similar to the little boy's. But it had been a quiet night and he wanted to keep it this way. They put their son to bed and finished packing for his trip to Texas in the morning.

“Do you really HAVE to go?” she finally said.

“I dunno,” he sighed. “I suppose not. But it'll cut us a little temporary slack. Media's not going to let Tina Hoyt go down as long as it'll get numbers. We're probably in a ratings sweep or whatever,” he said, his cynicism borne of long experience with the dauntless crusaders of electronic journalism and print.

“How'd you like to cut ME some slack,” she whispered into his ear.

Their mouths mashed hotly together. He could never get enough of her.

Big, beautiful breasts that curved slightly upward like the surreal cartoon boobs in the men's mags, the bazooms of a busty, firm young girl, still nice and high, each crowned with a full, inviting cherry. Long, silky hair, and—most of all, best of all—that attitude of delicious sensuality that was so natural and sweet. He'd come to love Donna so much.

Eichord was still awed and pleased by his wife. By the elegance of her movements. He'd seldom known anyone so totally natural, and he liked to watch the sexy way her femininity asserted itself, the feral way she held herself, her openness as they made love. She was a joy to watch at any time, but especially in their intimate times together. Yet he even liked to watch Donna run, or walk, or just curl up on the sofa. He enjoyed her awake, asleep, animated, or in repose. He thought of his lady as a mysteriously female person who was absolutely open in her ways. An eternal mystery that could still take his breath away.

“What?” she asked him.

“I said there's no bloom off these roses, honey,” Jack muttered.

“I love you,” she told him.

“Hmmmm.” He smiled, moving back a little so he could look at her. He could not say what was in his heart at that moment. Speechless, he wanted to tell her as he looked at one of the most beautiful shapes in nature. Right up there with the rainbows and sunsets and oceans and snowy meadows. Exquisite perfection, beautiful as innocents. Pure and purely feminine.

What was it that old Spanish painter had said about the most beautiful shape—was it an egg? Or the eliptical figure 8 recumbent—the infinity sign? The Greek letter? Or was it the breath-catching sight of the female S-curve, the most perfect line in nature? The glorious S of the breast and buttocks.

Jack Eichord traced a gentle, surprisingly warm line under his wife's loose clothing. “You got a great S, you know that?” he said.

“Your S ain't bad either,” Donna said, each of them beginning to satisfy the other's hungry needs.