With his eyes steadily holding hers, Sam tucked a finger beneath her chin and slowly raised her mouth to his. Marjorie’s eyelids fluttered closed as she awaited the warm sensation of his lips settling over hers. He didn’t keep her waiting long. His arms encircled her, drawing her gently against his hard chest.

Their lips met in an unrushed exploration, as though they had all the time in the world and there wasn’t any reason to hurry anything. His mouth was moist and pliant against her own, moving with such gentleness, such care, that a tiny shudder worked its way through Marjorie, and with it came a helpless moan.

After torturous seconds Sam’s lips reluctantly left hers. He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder and inhaled a calming breath. He’d felt physically drained when he’d arrived. Now he was alive, more alive than he could ever remember being. Holding Marjorie, touching her, energized him, filled him with purpose, exhilarated him, eased the ache of loneliness that followed whenever he returned to an empty house after a delivery.

The wealth of sensation took Marjorie by surprise. A simple kiss—their first—had left her with a hunger as deep as the sea. Emotion clogged her throat, and she held him to her, her fingers weaving through the thick strands of his dark hair.

“Marjorie?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you always smell this good?”

Her eyes remained closed, and she grinned. “I think it’s the popcorn.”

“Not this. It’s roses, I think.”

“My perfume.”

“And sunshine.”

“I showered when I got home.”

He shook his head, declining her explanation. “And something more, something I can’t define.”

“That’s probably the popcorn.”

Sam shook his head. “Not this,” he countered softly. “Not this.”

The reluctance with which he loosened his hold thrilled her. They straightened and went back to watching the movie. He tucked his arm around her, and she rested her head against his shoulder. The warmth of his nearness convinced her that the man beside her was indeed real and not the product of a fanciful imagination or some delayed anesthesia-induced illusion.

A multitude of unanswered questions ran through her mind. It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out everything she felt for him, but she feared ruining this special evening.

“So you enjoy old movies,” he said, the thought pleasing him.

“Especially the classics. They did romances so well in those days.”

“You like romance?”

Marjorie nodded and hid a smile. “I’m liking it more all the time.”

“I am, too,” Sam agreed, and turned her toward him. He wanted to kiss her again, taste her sweetness and experience once again that special power she possessed that filled him with such energy.

It was a long time before Marjorie saw any more of the movie. Or cared.

Six