Was he a masochist for loving Suzanne with all the madness that went along with her? Did it mean he was as addicted to her, as she was to the drink and drugs that she used to numb her insecurity and problems in her life? Or was it just that he was a fool for not moving on, of letting go, that the part of his personality that was competitive would not allow him to admit he had lost, even in love. He felt Tracy start to wake, her body slightly stretching, her legs moving out from between where they had been laying trapped between his, her arms uncurling. Bending his head he kissed her shoulder, ‘Afternoon. Welcome back to the land of the living.’ Turning on her back yawning she looked sideways at him, ‘Did I sleep long? Sorry.’ ‘We both did. I woke up about ten minutes ago.’ Sweeping the hair from her forehead with his fingers he asked her, ‘Hungry? If we can make it past the shower this time I’ll buy us a late lunch.’ Stretching her arms up over her head, her generous freckle covered. Two fingers were back inside her. She was making delighted and delightful sounds. She tried to say something but was sufficiently aroused as to be incapable of coherent speech. She was rocking her hips. She was near orgasm. I moved on top of her and entered using my incremental technique. Her hips seemed to be saying to my hips: ‘Welcome home’ and ‘Now, isn’t this more like it.’ It all just felt totally right. When I was totally inside not just my hips were feeling the: ‘Welcome home.’ At this same time I had a profound knowing: I was making love to Joan Donaldson and not some ghost of Jean. It was very much ‘making love.’ Making love with her was very much the right thing to do. She was in ecstasy. She wrapped her arms and legs around me and held me tight. Her first orgasm came quickly. She shuddered and screamed. I continued to thrust deeply into her and she was rapidly on her way to another. Finally we climaxed together. As we did she dug her fingernails into my back. I bled. It.
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