Free Heat Wave (Riders Up) by Adriana Kraft

were the
children to protect.
    “Right,” Maggie groused,
sensing old stirrings in her loins. Rolling over, squeezing a pillow tightly
between her thighs, she wondered how long it had been. She missed the feel of a
man holding her, caressing her neck, grazing her nipples, kissing her lips. She
missed running her fingers lightly across a man’s back, feeling straining
muscles, knowing she was the reason for the hardness pressing against her hip.
    There were these
haunting moments when she missed Mason so terribly. He would never again touch
her in those intimate ways. There hadn’t been desire or time for men since his
death. She hadn’t looked at another man in that way.
    Not until Ed
Harrington. He’d been in her dreams more than she wanted to confess.
    What would he be
like in bed?
    She’d only made
love to one man. Maggie chewed on her lower lip. Would it be the same with her
hired man? Different? Could it be even better?
    Absently, she
brushed her fingers over her aching breasts through the thin, worn nightgown. She’d
been a teenager when she first made love with Mason. Now she was a mature
woman…So what was she doing thinking and behaving like a teenager?
    Slipping the
sleepwear down her torso, Maggie pulled gently on first one rising nipple and
then the other.
    “Oh my,” she
moaned. It’s okay. It’s okay to feel, to be aroused, to want.
    Maggie’s head
lolled back and forth, swaying with the erotic electric charges radiating from
her breasts upward to her nape and downward through her inner thighs to her
toes.
    A litany
reverberated from one tiny brain cell to another: It’s okay to seek
satisfaction .
    As if of the same
mind, her fingers moved leisurely over her belly, first sketching invisible
circles clockwise and then counterclockwise around her navel. In that balance
of concentric movement, awareness of time was lost. No reality existed beyond
those bubbling internal sensations straining for more tactile encouragement,
demanding release.
    Descending lower,
her hand sought the warmth of her loins. Her palm paused, resting as if waiting
further instructions.
    Maggie’s breath
came haphazardly. Cupping her mound, she pressed tentatively inward. Her lower
torso jerked upward. A finger slowly penetrated. Without further hesitation,
her thumb skimmed her clit. A second finger slid easily into her wetness.
    Maggie thrust
urgently against the slickness. A tiny red-orange ball pulsed somewhere within.
It grew, spreading in ever larger circles. Perspiration beaded across her upper
lip. Her breath stopped. The ball exploded, dissolving muscles and bones into
nothingness.
    Curling into a
fetal position, trapping her fingers deep within, Maggie screamed into a
pillow.
    Minutes later,
still quaking, she reclaimed her fingers. How long had it been since giving
herself the chance to feel that exquisite touch? Months. Nearly a year. This
was only the third time since Mason’s death.
    Keeping remnants of
shame at bay, Maggie reveled in the warm toasty afterglow. How she had missed
that simple, elemental act. By denying herself all these months of such
exquisite gratification, had she been punishing herself, trying to atone for
her husband’s death? This gift of life, she decided firmly, should not be
sacrificed to the past.
    What would it be
like to make love to a man again? A real man. She hugged herself. What would it
be like making love to him?
     
    “Did you sleep
well?” Harrington inquired, when Maggie pulled out a chair at the breakfast
table.
    “Very. I’m afraid I
overslept. Don’t know how long it’s been since that happened.” Maggie focused
on breakfast options, hoping no one could fathom what she had been doing not so
long before.
    A squabble erupted
between Sammy and Lester over the last warm pancake, diverting everyone’s
attention from Maggie’s flushing cheeks. And Eddie began screaming so as not to
be left out.
    Thankful for the
diversion, Maggie smiled at the children’s mom scolding