Thank you all for your patience! It has been a while but I promise I tried to make this worth the wait. Some snags came along (one due April 7th) but I think you will be happy with this. Thanks especially to Unxious Custard, Jester79, Lookingwest, and FaithlessJuliet

Chapter Six: Passion

Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart! Else it may be their miserable fortune, when some mightier touch than their own may have awakened all her sensibilities, to be reproached even for the calm content, the marble image of happiness, which they will have imposed upon her as the warm reality. ~Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

Frieda's face was frozen in shock. Maybe catching somebody naked would bring about lust, embarrassment, a bit of ribbing at the undressed person's expense but this was an oversized reaction. She has to have seen a naked body before, he thought rationally. So why does she look shell-shocked? "Are you okay?"

"You're naked."

He could be patient. "Yes. I was taking a shower."

Shower. Water. Naked. This seems natural. Why had she gone upstairs? Oh…

She picked up the capsized laundry basket from the floor. "I was going to bring you towels." Frieda gasped. She scooped them up from the floor as she spoke, crumpling them into the basket.

Matt smiled ruefully. "You read my mind. I was kind of already in when I realized I didn't have anything to dry off with or wear." He made no move to cover himself but he did make sure to lock eyes with her. She wished he wouldn't do that. Her face felt hot enough to put a crater in the ozone layer.

It was hard not to notice the gleaming line of his solid build, his body rippled with movement. He had a soldier's body: strong, sure and with hardly an ounce of fat except she hardly ever saw him eat healthy so that made absolutely no sense! His chest, stomach, and legs were firm muscle and scarred in places. He had two slashing white lines tracing his right bicep, and a small healed bullet wound near his left hip. There was a suture scar just below it. The pale reminders of healing stood out against his rich olive tan. His skin was darker on his forearms and the back of his neck and he had a tattoo of a crucifix on his left pectoral. It was unsettling how beautiful he looked naked. He looked almost shy now, as if he'd just realized how intensely she was studying his body.

"You're beautiful." She said quietly.

He didn't know whether to object and say that men aren't beautiful or be relieved she didn't run at the sight of him. What was there to say? "Thanks. I was a little banged up when I got back. Healed up okay though."

"How did you get the one on your hip?" She figured it was a stupid question as soon as the question came out of her mouth. He got shot, what else could it have been?

The minute she asked, a haunted look came over his face. He looked as if he were remembering things as it happened. "Didn't move quick enough." He said shortly, with no real warmth. She regretted asking, it had to be a bad memory. "I'm sorry." she said softly. His eyes glazed over into a hazy green. He didn't seem to acknowledge her while trapped in that memory. She didn't know how to reach him, didn't know if she wanted to. But she did.

As if hypnotized, she reached out with cool fingers to touch his shoulder. "It's okay," She murmured nonsensically. He started at first, but the hesitant strokes that followed won him over. She brushed the twin scars tentatively. He jerked his head toward her, but he didn't move away.

The feeling of her feathery touch on his weather beaten skin made him close his eyes in pleasure. He tried to suppress the effect it had on his erection and knew without looking he had failed.

She was running her palm along his chest now, feeling the warm salty skin. She smelled soap and steam on him. Frieda knew she would never be able to use that soap again without thinking how alluring the scent was on his skin. His hands reached for her. She was sodden, rain soaked, and barefoot, but the touch of his large hands burned.

She smelled like earth, rain, and woman, he thought. It was a wild and bold scent that filled his senses and it called to him. When a woman touches a man, like Frieda was doing now, she renders the man entirely at her mercy. And right now, he wanted nothing more than to take her where she stood. She was shivering beneath his touch, and he pressed into her to warm her up. He didn't know whether he was taking this too far, but so far she hadn't shied away. Frieda wrapped her arms around him, effectively drawing him closer. He fiddled with the waistband of her skirt; she skimmed the length of his back. Neither knew why they did what they did, but they knew where they were headed.

She unbuttoned her blouse; he draped it down her shoulders to let it fall to the floor, landing with a squelch. He unhooked her bra; she pulled it off. The rest of her clothes followed in a bewildered order. It was only when she disposed of her panties that he saw the flicker of doubt.

"It's been a while for me." She admitted shyly, covering herself with her hands. Gently, he pulled them away "It's okay, honey. Please baby, give me a chance to learn how to please you." She felt so hot, so embarrassed, and so out of her league, it wasn't funny. How was she supposed to know what pleased her? In living memory no one had bothered with her needs at all. "I don't know how to please myself, much less you," She confessed timidly. He kissed her softly, and pushed the bangs out of her eyes. "That's okay, sweetheart. I'll try something and you let me know how you feel about it. We'll do it like that," He whispered. He laid her out gently on the floor, the towels beneath her head. His lips brushed soft butterfly kisses everywhere. Her moans told him she liked when he licked her ear, when he kissed that spot behind it, when he suckled her neck, when his tongue teased her nipple. He alternately licked and blew cold air over them, making them as red and sensitive as raspberries. She had pretty breasts, firm if small swells, and they smelled clean and bright. He laid many kisses over her stomach, and he lightly bit the edge of her hip. The hair nestled between her legs was neatly trimmed with downy curls. She jumped when he ran a hand over her mound, but relaxed at the soothing noises he made. He parted her thighs, hands running over the oh so soft skin they uncovered. The pads of his fingers brushed her sex in an unexpected way, skimming her seam. It felt lovely. She wanted him to do that again. He rubbed a little harder to moans of approval until he came upon the small swollen pearl that made her cry softly. "That's good, baby." He murmured. He felt her pulse with heat, and slid a finger in. Her eyes went dark with lust, the silver disappearing into gunmetal. Ah, too tight. Not relaxed enough. So he slipped his middle finger into her folds, searching for that sweet spot. She responded wantonly. "Frieda, there is something I want like to say to you." He never stopped fingering her. "You are never going to forget tonight." Immediately he lowered his head and started to flick his tongue gently on her already slippery pearl. Her eyes widened and she let out a soft cry. Slippery became moist. Moist became wet. Then finally he was ready to feed his own needs.

When he slipped into her hot grip, he felt an odd sense of home, and an ancient understanding that this was an experience that could be repeated nowhere else.

Frieda woke up in the guest room an hour before dawn. After making love on the hallway floor, they'd left their sodden clothes in the bathtub to drain and stumbled into the nearest bed to fall asleep. She still felt the ache of satisfaction from the previous night, and she woke up feeling warm and at ease. There was another warm body in the bed, face pressed into the bed clothes, a heavy arm flung over her waist.

So this was what it was like.

Frieda had not been a stranger to sex and men. She'd given into her high school sweetheart's requests in eleventh grade, on the threat that they have sex or the relationship was over. She was probably foolish for doing that but sixteen year olds don't think of the world beyond high school. She had been under the impression that they would graduate and get married one day, like many of the residents of Springfield. She was wrong. They broke up three weeks later. A week later, her former sweetheart was dating the woman he would marry in two years.

The next one had been Ken Updike and he… well she didn't like to dwell on him. The point of the matter was that Frieda Howard was unaccustomed to…this. Pleasing her in bed, making her laugh, getting under her skin in such an affectionate way, sleeping next to her, the whole thing was completely foreign to her.

It made her panic that she didn't know what to do next.

Frieda needed time to think. She slid beneath Matt's arm and slipped into a robe hanging on the hook by the door. Barefoot (yet again), she padded down to the kitchen. Filling the kettle in the sink, she looked out the window. The cherry trees were heavy with fruit. They needed picking on top of everything else, painting, sweeping, mucking out, the whole nine yards. She sighed, thinking of all the work she had to do. Yesterday's mail dumped on the kitchen table was unopened.

Bank statement.

Bill.

Newsletter.

Late notice on a bill.

Last chance on a bill.

Take a good deep breath, Frieda. Then face the music.

Frieda didn't make much as a librarian. Due to cuts everywhere in the state, nobody did. There was no full-time work, no benefits, no vacation exempting the time off needed to put in time for the harvest. But what Frieda did have was her daddy's land. One hundred years ago it had stretched out sixteen acres. But the depression, bad harvests, and her father's debts had whittled it down to barely one. It was still too large to go wasted, too small to get on government assistance. The family farm was now a cherry orchard mainly, with a little space squeezed in for chickens and a single cow. The last pig had been slaughtered nearly six years ago. But it was all Frieda had. She'd made the switch to organic farming with a small loan and sold cherries to local towns. She'd felt the pinch when her mother got sick, but the farm couldn't make enough to pay her mother's rent without getting the second job in town. If her mother's illness was the lemon, the time spent at the library was the lemonade. She'd loved every minute of it.

And she was terrified of losing it. If she couldn't pay these bills, they'd foreclose on her. Without the farm she would be at once homeless and extremely poor. And where would she go? To her mother's place in town? No, at that point she wouldn't be able to pay for her mother to live there, and as kind as Mrs. Kline was, she couldn't dole out that much charity. Where else then? Out into the world beyond Springfield where not a soul knew nor cared about her? Unthinkable.

Everything depended on the harvest. She sighed knowing she'd have to take her allotted two weeks off. It wouldn't be enough but if she spent less time after and before work at the library, she could probably make up the difference. And what little was left would have to pay her mother's new caregiver and her (or was it his?) wages would be murderous.

She rubbed her eyes tiredly just as the orphan kettle started hissing. She snapped to attention and went over to the cabinet to pull out a battered blue mug and a tea bag. As she busied herself at the stove, the sound of wood scraping against wood. She started, nearly dropping the cup.

Matt Bennett had spent the night with women before, but in living memory he couldn't remember having encountered a woman like Frieda. He'd been with a woman or two who had been more experienced than him, maybe more adventurous than him (which, truth be told, had been more disturbing than erotic) but he'd never really enjoyed being with a virgin. They were too prim for his liking, too shocked by sex.

But Frieda, ah she was refreshing. He'd relished the feeling of her body buzzing and humming with arousal. Last night shy, frumpily dressed Frieda in her long skirts and shapeless shirts let her senses overtake her. And it had been magnificent. When they finally crawled into bed, he'd felt an alien sensation of content lying beside her small soft body.

Too bad his morning didn't start that way. Without opening his eyes, he'd patted the mattress space beside him only to realize it was empty. Well, he'd have to remedy that.

"Hi." Matt said softly. He stood barefoot in a loose pair of shorts. They looked suspiciously like the boxers she sometimes slept in. He caught her looking, and smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, I had to go digging for something to wear." He said, a bit self-consciously.

"It's okay." She said cautiously. She felt awkward standing in her kitchen with him. Especially after what had transpired last night! She was sure her face was redder and hotter than the old kettle had ever been. Gosh if someone would only say something!

"So, Mickey Mouse boxers, huh?"

Never mind. Could Matt ever keep his mouth shut?

"I like them!" She replied defensively. This was better. Arguing was better, more familiar. It was easier ground to deal with than thinking of the new turn they taken.

"Anyway, if my buying them says something about me, doesn't your wearing them say something about you?"

From the look of him, he wasn't having it.

"It says my clothes are soggy from last night and I don't want to sit naked at the table."

Heavens above, that was an image she wasn't able to unsee! It didn't take much imagination, just the removal of shorts that had been baggy and mid-thigh on her, and were now a little tighter and painfully short on him. She turned, if it were possible, even redder.

"I'm not thinking this." She muttered rubbing her temples. She should probably take the tea bag out.

"That makes me completely believe you." He said playfully.

Gosh, she was cute when she was shy. It was utterly perverse of him to prod, but he couldn't help it. She hadn't noticed her tea was had gone cold or that it was far too strong. Frieda just stared into it, as if she was contemplating drowning herself in the brew. He knew it was terrible of him, but he just had to push once more. Coming around behind her, Matt leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"Are you done thinking of me naked?"

Simultaneously, Frieda's head lifted up to smash into Matt's chin and nose while she dropped the cup, it smashing to pieces on the kitchen table while bits of china and tea flung everywhere.

"Shit!" Frieda shrieked, standing up to pull at her stained and sodden robe.

"Son of a bitch!" Matt cursed, holding his nose and chin gingerly as blood flowed down his face.

Frieda saw Matt, or rather the state of his injuries and lost it. "Tilt your face and pinch your nose! Don't get blood on my floor!"

"Blood on your floor! What about my nose?" He roared painfully. "Look at it! You probably broke it!"

"You probably deserved it, scaring me like that!" Fried retorted.

"Scaring you? I was trying to hit on you!"

"And a fine job you did of that!" She answered furiously. Good God, it was almost his life's worth flirting with her. He had to admit he did a ham handed job of it, but did she have to maim him?

They came to a truce cleaning up the mess that had ensued. The bleeding had ceased and Frieda had even found a small Band-Aid to tape over the bridge of Matt's nose. It had become oddly comfortable having another human being in the house and she felt almost reluctant he had to leave. Then something unexpected had happened while she emptied the china shards into the trash

"So, what next?"

She was stumped as to what he meant.

"Well, I have to do some chores outside, and you probably are going back home-"

"Nope." He interrupted cheerfully. "We didn't get to have a lie-in this morning."

Frieda was stunned. "You mean you want to spend more time here?"

"That's right," He said, tossing her over his shoulders. Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline in disbelief.

"You're a masochist, you know that?"