Free Forbidden Fruit by Annie Murphy, Peter de Rosa

into bed.
    That was when the torment began.
    Was this a one-night stand brought about by his illness and the drugs or the beginning of a long romance? Was he mine or wasn’t
     he? Had I won his heart or lost him for good? What would the future bring to him, to me, to us? Did he already hate me for
     making him hate himself? Would he have such guilt that he would ask me to leave Ireland for the sake of his soul?
    Strange, how after passionate lovemaking, I could not answer any of the big questions. Later that morning, he would dress
     as a bishop. Where would I stand then?
    Apart from the fact that the inert sex-odor in the room still made me want to flee, there was only one thing that would put
     my mind at ease. I rose, slid out of my room, closing the door quietly behind me, and, after only a few paces, just as quietly
     opened Eamonn’s door.
    This was the first time I had seen his bedroom. It was far bigger than mine, with two heavily draped french windows leading
     onto the patio, a whole wall with windows onto the sea. The noise of the sea was louder, more evocative here.
    I took in the two double beds with Eamonn lying in the first of them under an exquisite laced eiderdown of apricot silk. I
     saw the raised yellow velvety wallpaper, the olive-gold drapes, a chaise longue, an old Turkish rug, black with reds and oranges
     and other warm colors threaded through it. And Eamonn’s black uniform so redolent of death: the gold ring and pectoral cross
     on the antique mahogany dresser; the black stock, the shirt, surprisingly multicolored in reds, grays, and greens, the starched
     collar, the pants, folded neatly on a high-backed chair with his polished shoes beneath and a red sock of ambition inside
     each of them.
    He heard me come in. Maybe he was expecting me. But the next few seconds were critical. This was his space. I had dared to
     cross his threshold. It must have been obvious to him that this was territorial. This was the bitch seeing if she had the
     same rights as the dog. What would he do?
    Leaning on one elbow, his eyes completely clear, he said, “What on earth are you doing
there
?”
    I felt I would die. I had made the most terrible mistake of my life by confusing love with the effect of drugs. Like Eamonn,
     I had climaxed too soon.
    I tried to think of some excuse. I had come to say sorry or to check that he was feeling better.
    Giving a typical scowly smile, he flipped the covers over. “Just come on in, Annie.”
    Lifting my nightdress over my head, I rushed across and jumped naked into bed with him and removed his pajamas. I had rights.
     I belonged here.
    As my head hit the down pillow, I knew he loved not just my body but me, Annie Murphy. He could, as some men do, have rejected
     me because he had no immediate urge on him and needed sleep. But he didn’t. He cared for me.
    This was
our
room. I no longer hated or felt threatened by those clerical clothes. So much harness. My body fitted him much better. Womanly
     pink was his proper color, not black.
    We lay together relaxed and possessive in one another’s arms. His temperature was back to normal.
    After a while, he began to stir and stormed my body again. His lips brushed my nipples, which surprised him by the change
     of texture; he felt with wonder the wiriness of my pubic hair, my flesh smoother than a petal pressed between thumb and forefinger.
    Once more, he disappointed himself for not being the perfect lover he had perhaps always been in his fantasies.
    “I have a problem here,” he sighed, expecting too much of himself. “I’ve mastered so many things but this has me beat.”
    “It’s all right, Eamonn,” I said. “It’s going to be all right.”
    He kept apologizing, as he stroked my body. “It’s not fair on you, Chicky Licky. You deserve better.”
    “It will come,” I assured him, “don’t try to force it,” and I stroked him back to sleep like a young boy in my arms. We were
     one spirit if not yet one flesh. My