Manroot by Anne J. Steinberg

his chest hair as she hid her warm face against his shoulder.
    “ You’re so lovely,” he murmured.
    He lifted her hand and placed a kiss in her palm. His lips were warm and moist; they moved, covering her neck among her silken hair. She felt the moistness as he kissed her ears, and the shallow sound of his ragged breath thundered in her ears. Her whole body quivered with anticipation, and like a symphony it moved slowly, but seemed to mount. Her white cap fell to the floor, and a tinny shower of hairpins began to slide from her hair. For a very brief instant she felt a stab of fear, fear of the magic that had brought him to her. She was less afraid of his smooth hands that crept up her stockings until they touched her flesh. Settling deeply into the chair he arranged her to him; she felt the sharp contrast of his beard stubble and the warmth and softness of his lips.
    He tasted of mint. As he coaxed her with his tongue, a separateness overcame her. Only the sensations of her body were real, yet unreal. A slow warmth enveloped her. Outside somewhere, a bird called and she felt a part of it. The world, it was not a window anymore; he had opened the door for her.
    Gently he lowered her to the floor; the oriental rug beneath them was enough. It took all of her concentration of feeling, his mouth now sucking gently at her breast, his hands gentle, searching under her skirts. The clock somewhere in the hall chimed seven. The windows rattled with a new wind; she welcomed the weight of him as he lowered his body above hers.
    Feeling his face pressed into the hollow of her neck, with an instinct as old as time she joined him in th e rhythm with total abandonment, for the first time feeling pleasure. This was love; it had nothing to do with the other.
    The shade rattled and darkness descended as a clap of thunder resounded; the sound loosened the mirror on the dresser and it tilted fo rward. In the gloom, she could see the back of his head, his undershirt white as snow, her dark legs wound around him, holding him, their movement back and forth in the motion of ecstasy. Dreamlike, she stared into the mirror and knew.
    After a time, he slu mped upon her; she heard the rapid sound of his breath. Not knowing what had happened to her, she felt spent and drained, her limbs weak.
    He rose on one arm and smoothed her hair back from her face and looked down at her. “Who was it?” he demanded, his voice icy.
    She searched his face, not understanding.
    “I thought you were different, not like the others.”
    Katherine felt confusion. It had been wonderful – his warmth, his touch, but now his eyes were cold as glass, demanding something of her.
    “ Justin? – Mr. Taylor? – one of the traveling drummers? Who loved you before me? ”
    Her lips trembled; she knew no answer.
    His fingers bit into her flesh, demanding. “Who have you been with like this?” A strange, frantic jealousy filled him. She was so fresh, so beautiful. She was a mirage – yet no different from all the others.
    “ I’ve loved no one,” she whispered.
    He smirked. “This is not the first time, oh no, not by a long shot.”
    “ I’ve loved no one,” she pleaded.
    He sat up, looking down at her. “I’m not a fool,” he sneered. “You have known other men. How many were there? Five, ten – how many?”
    “ Oh.” She realized what he meant. She struggled to sit up, looked down at her hands. “It was not like this – it was not the same. It was ugly, painful. I never wanted it – it was my father. I had to…” She began crying, her shoulders quivering with her sobs.
    “ Your father? The son of a bitch!” He rose and began pacing the room. “Your father, the bastard, he should be in jail. Where is he, this bastard?”
    “ He’s gone,” she whispered.
    A wave of tenderness rose within him. He came to her, lifted her gently, and placed her on the bed. He bent toward her, murmuring, “It’s okay. I promise you, it’ll be okay.”
    He undressed