Free The Scarlet Letter Scandal by Mary T. McCarthy Page A

stroked him as her tongue gently explored. She knew she could make him come in a very short time, something they didn’t have much of at the moment, but she wanted more.
    She stood and he returned the favor, getting on his knees to pleasure her with his tongue. She ran her hands through his curly salt and pepper dark hair. After a few minutes, he stood and turned her around to face the water. Taking his aching member into his own hand, he pressed her rear gently with it. She reached behind her to grab his ass and pull him in closer. She wanted to feel all of it. He was taller by several inches, so he had to bend a bit to allow himself to feel the soft space between her legs. He circled his hips with slow thrusts that drove her insane. She placed her hands on the cool copper cap atop the wooden piling to allow leverage to push her hips toward him. He thrust into her again, holding her tight toward him. She arched her back a bit and sighed. It took only moments for them to come together, struggling not to yell out into the quiet Chesapeake Bay evening.
    Silently, they returned to the sweatshirt and tote bag, sitting down on the edge of the dock and dangling their feet above the glistening water. He took out the wine, opened it, poured two cups, and handed one to her, smiling. The verbose lawyer in her wanted to say something to him, to thank him, to tell him how that brief but passionate encounter was simply perfect. But she had learned something from him. Sometimes, silence says it best.

M aggie finished sweeping the Wings vintage clothing shop in Keytown, again. The refinished floors were gorgeous, bringing out the caramel-colored patina of the 1880s pine. But the sanding and staining and polishing had created a mess that seemed to go on forever. She’d worked all morning moving the racks of clothes back in (without scratching the new finish) which had created a whole new cleanup job.
    Maggie began steaming a rack of vintage items that had been consigned that week. Soft hits of the ’70s and early ’80s played from the speakers Dave had hung on the shop’s four ceiling corners. Currently “Even the Nights are Better” by Air Supply played and she mouthed the words, not even realizing she did it.
    She was relaxed from the weekend on the island. Since she’d been spending most nights at her old Victorian with Dave, she was having fewer “daymares,” the gripping panic attacks she’d been struggling with for years. She figured it was better for her to be sleeping with someone else than sleeping alone, which reminded her too much of her childhood nights spent wondering when her mother would come home, and nights in foster homes where she could hear unpleasant things from nearby rooms and through paint-chipped, seedy-neighborhood windows.
    Reuniting with her first husband had brought a peaceful balance to her life she didn’t think possible. She had forgotten how it felt to have the comfort of routine, the security of knowing she was truly loved by another person despite her faults. Love could be a pain in the ass, but it had its advantages. Sleeping better was only one of them.
    Just last night, Dave had taken her in his arms in the kitchen and danced with her. Dancing in the kitchen was something they’d done many years before, when their daughters, now off to college, had been little. Even through the tragedy of the loss of their son, there were times they still held each other and swayed to whatever music was playing. Sometimes, when Dave held her in his arms, she’d be so relaxed that she’d open her eyes and find herself in a different part of the kitchen, not even realizing they’d been moving.
    Dave had encouraged her to seek therapy for the panic attacks. Though she was nearly fifty, it still affected Maggie that her mother had abandoned her to the foster care system so many years before. But Maggie didn’t want to talk to some stranger on a couch. Besides, the current state of “settling down” that