He came awake with a start, instinctively scanning the room as if waking in strange places was habitual. His gaze stopped on Isolde, and he smiled the beautiful smile that had charmed across three continents. “Have I been sleeping long?”
“A few minutes. Sleep, though; I can wait.”
“I can’t.” Rolling on his back, he held out his arms. “Come here and tell me about your farming.”
“In an hour I’ll tell you about my farming,” she quietly said, rising and slipping off her robe.
He grinned. “That’s what I meant.”
As it turned out, they didn’t speak at all unless whimsical, sporadically uttered love words could be characterized as speech. Or screams, sighs, and pleasurable growls.
And when, finally, both were sated and it was possible to consider that a world lay beyond the confines of the bed, Oz lifted his head from Isolde’s shoulder, smiled down at his wife, and content now beyond his wildest imagination, softly said, “I have come to rest now from my travels.”
With his black hair brushing her cheek and the pulse of her heart beating wildly with love, she met his affectionate gaze and smiled. “Welcome home.”
Susan Johnson
