I’d like to be friends again--truly I would.” “Then it…

““I’d like to be friends again--truly I would.” “Then it will be so.” He nuzzled her ear. “But Hunter, don’t you see? We’re married. ” “Ah, yes, married.” Hunter’s mind circled the word, trying to imagine what images it conjured for her. “And good friends, yes? Trust. This last time. My hand upon you has brought pain?” “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “I have beaten you?” “No.” She pressed closer to him and encircled his neck with her arms. “Oh, Hunter, what must you think of me?” “I think there is big fear inside you.” “Without cause. You’ve never been cruel to me, never, and yet…” A shiver coursed through her. In a rush, she told him of the many times she had heard her aunt Rachel whimpering late at night. “I keep telling myself it won’t be like that with you, that Henry’s mean as sin and that’s why she cries, but--” She broke off and swallowed. “What if that isn’t it? What if it’s as horrible as it sounds?” Seeing through her eyes, Hunter found himself smiling again. He considered telling her that many women whimpered when their men loved them, but he decided it would be unwise. He ran his hand up her slender back, aching to touch her soft skin instead of leather. He controlled the urge, reluctant to shatter the mood by startling her. “No more fear, eh? If I grow angry, I will bring you my mother’s spoon.” She sniffed and laughed. “A lot of good a spoon would be.””

— Catherine Anderson