As if rising from a tranquil pool on a summer’s day, I come slowly awake. Without looking at the clock, I can tell it is still early and the sun has not risen yet. I float languidly in that twilight realm between fully awake and asleep, my brain disconnected, thinking of nothing in particular.

I stretch slowly and become aware of the warm female body in front of me. My hand is resting comfortably on the round fullness of a breast, my hips snugly against a pair of soft buttocks. My nose detects the faint scent of yesterday’s shampoo and the sweat leftover from the previous night’s passion. My ears detect the sound of her gentle snores, indicating that she is still lost in the realms of Morpheus. I can only hope she is dreaming of me.

The woman in front of me is the love of my life, my spouse for better and for worse, Lorette. While still only half awake, I feel my affection for her rising in me, as inevitable as the sunrise, as unstoppable as a tidal wave. I squeeze her gently with my arm, so full of emotion I cannot express it adequately.

Her hand squeezes mine where it is resting on her breast and she sighs in her sleep. I have an amazing woman.

I feel myself starting to get hard; apparently she has not managed to completely wring me out yet. I lift my hand from her breast and brush back her tousled hair from the nape of her neck. When my lips touch her, she starts getting goose bumps all up and down her soft back and arms. She tastes divine, of girl and sweat and love.

I continue to nibble around her neck, up by her ear down to her shoulder. My other hand slides down, fingertips barely touching her, to rest back on her breast. More goosebumps rise in the hand’s wake, and the nipple hardens. She has very big, responsive nipples, and I still find them amazing all these years later.

I can tell, from the sound of her breathing, that she is half awake now; her body is pure sensation, her brain not kicking in to muddy the waters with rational thought.

She rolls slowly to face me, giving me access to her tender throat. Her eyes are still closed, and a small, sleepy smile graces her lips. We do not say a word, letting our bodies do all the talking. Faintly, I hear that old country song in my head. You say it best when you say nothing at all.

I gently move her onto her back and begin worshiping her soft body. There are still remnants of our juices on her thighs and tummy, causing me to become even more excited. I have thoroughly marked this sexy female as mine.

I nibble down from her throat to her breasts. They are not huge boobs, but they are sensitive and responsive. I am gentle with them because I have already sucked them into sensitivity the previous night and causing her pain or discomfort is not something I like doing. She arches her back and strokes my hair, these simple gestures telling me without words she approves of my actions.

I feel her breathing pick up as I work my way down her body, over the heavy swell of her tummy to her soft thighs. They are so smooth and tender and sexy. She has not shaved in a few days, and the light dusting of hair makes her look and feel even more real, somehow.

It isn’t long before I am in front of her moist center. She sports a full bush between wide curvy hips. She is an avatar of female sexuality.

By this time, I am achingly hard and I want her badly. I slide up and we wrap our arms around each other. Her breathing is rapid in my left ear; I can feel her heart hammering under me.

Almost without thought, I am sliding inside her. It is like slipping into a long forgotten dream, like coming home. She is still hot and slippery from our previous bout of lovemaking before sleep, and this feeling drives me onward to greater heights of excitement.

She moans quietly in my ear, not wanting to wake the kids down the hall. Dimly, as though in another world, I feel the cats jumping off the bed, roused by our activities (and probably less than happy about having their repose disturbed.) Her legs come up and wrap themselves around me, and her hands lock together at my shoulder blades. Her hips begin to rock, responding to the hot length buried inside her. As I move within her, I nibble on her earlobe with the lightest touch. This causes her inner muscles to clench and her breathing to speed up. We are racing toward that precipice, our movements speeding up to a fever pitch.

I rise up onto my elbows in order to get a deeper angle and so that my pubic bone hits her clitoris on each in-stroke. Her eyes are still closed, her mouth hanging open as she scoops in air, still trying to keep quiet. Our breathing becomes panting and we slide deliriously onward.

She crashes over the edge first. Her hips jerk upward, her hands clench into claws on my back and her head tilts back. I feel her flutter around my length and suddenly I am there; nothing can stop it. I drive in deep and my hands tighten on her shoulders as waves of fire rocket out the end of my erection. My own orgasm heightens hers and we ride the wave together.

We come down from the high, me lying spent on top of her while her hands stroke my back. She is a sturdy country girl, so my weight does not bother her. Again we do not say a word, our feelings seeming to be communicated through osmosis and in a deeper language than mere words can convey.

“I love you, Peaches,” I whisper in her ear. It seems such an inadequate sentiment, but they are the only words I have; I’ve never been much of a romantic...

“I love you too,” she murmurs back to me, and I can hear the sincerity and love in her voice.

I groan and roll off her reluctantly. I always want to be close to her, but life gets in the way.

Looking at the clock, I see that it’s barely seven in the morning. It is one of her rare days off from her shift as an aid in one of the local hospitals, and we planned a busy day with the kids the previous evening. Life as a parent never stops.

“I guess we better get up and start making breakfast,” I say with some rue.

“I suppose,” she says, yawning and stretching like a well satisfied cat. Then, burying her face back in the pillow, she whines: “But I don’t want to.”

“I know, but you know they will be in here any minute bouncing and shrieking,” I say, smiling a little.

She sighs, then slowly sits up, rubbing her small but strong hands over her face. “Yes, I guess they will. Be a dear and get the shower going, would you?”

“Sure. Not a problem.” I reach over and stroke her rumpled head fondly. She looks so adorable in the morning.

I pull on a bathrobe and head across the hall to the bathroom. After taking care of business in there, I start up the shower. It comes on with a roar and I make a note to check all the valves under there-a project I never quite seem to get around to.

I adjust it just the way she likes it (gently easing a curious cat out of the way) and turn to find her standing in the doorway. There is a smile on her lips that I don’t quite understand.

“What?”

“I just like the way you move,” she says, somewhat inexplicably. She is always doing things like that; making odd remarks and cryptic comments. It’s just something about her, like the dimple in her chin.

We step into the shower, and I marvel again at how pretty a wet female-especially this one-is. Water drops running over her soft, round curves, hanging suspended off her nipples, like dew drops from flowers in the morning. There is no time to play, however; we must begin the day of seeing to our rambunctious brood, and the never ending work on the house that we are renovating.

We wash each other with great enjoyment, our years of familiarity with each other not diminishing our pleasure one jot. Over the sound of rushing water, I can hear foot steps and childish voices as the kids scamper about through the hall. “What’s on for today?” I ask after we finish the shower.

“not sure. What’s the weather supposed to be like?” She hands me a towel, then begins to use one on her wet hair.

“According to what I read last night, supposed to be clear today, high around sixty. Not too bad for late September,” I say.

“How about we start winterizing the garden? Then we can grill something for supper.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll pull out some steaks, hamburgers and hot dogs for the kids.”

“Better make it chicken. You know how Elise likes your barbecued chicken,” she smiles. “Hmm ... I do have a chicken that isn’t working too hard,” I muse.

“Well then, you better get it off its lazy tail and put it to work,” she says, now brushing her short hair. IT was the one thing I didn’t care for; I wished it was longer. But she wouldn’t hear of it.

“Perhaps I better. No freeloaders in this house,” I say. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

I throw on a pair of sweat pants and a tee shirt, then head downstairs. The sound of the television greets me as I walk into the living room. Both Elise (eight) and Ben (eleven) are sitting on the floor, folding laundry. They’re good kids-at least most of the time. Bens’ father had been killed in an accident shortly after his son’s birth. Lorette told me she wasn’t too broken up over it; the guy had been something of a loser anyway.

“Then while the hell did you sleep with him,” I had asked.

She shrugged. “I was lonely.”

There wasn’t much to say to that.

Elise’s father hadn’t died but had been up front that he couldn’t handle being a father. He came by every so often, and sent child support at least semi-regularly. during the occasions of his visits I made my self scarce. Not because I was afraid of him or anything, but because I found it uncomfortable to be in the presence of another man whose penis had been inside my wife. Irrational, I know, but I can’t help it.

“What did you guys want for breakfast?” I call out, entering the room.

“Pancakes!” both of them cry in unison.

“Yeah, Rob, you make the best ones,” Lorette says, now put together in one of her old scrub tops and jeans.

I pretend to groan. “I see how it is. I’m just a domestic slave!”

Ben pretends to crack a whip. “Better hop to it or Mom will lock you in the shed,” he smirks.

I snicker at his antics and head for the kitchen, Lorette on my heels.

Two hours later, all four of us are out in the garden, picking the last of the tomatoes and peppers. We would then turn the soil and cover it with straw and compost for the winter, ready for a fresh crop in the spring.

It is a clear, crisp day, hovering around fifty-five degrees. This is quite a change. Last week, temperatures hovered in the nineties during the day and dropped only to the lower seventies at night. Minnesota can be like that, nearly as bipolar as the mountains of Colorado.

“Hey, Rob, any idea where the canning pot is?” Lorette calls from the other end of the garden, where she is crouched on the ground picking herbs.

“Uh, last time I saw it was a couple months ago in the garage,” I call back.

Ben and Elise came up to me, lugging buckets of tomatoes. “Where do you want these?”

“Over there by the shed,” I say. “Got to get them all washed, you know.”

This is Lorette and her kids’ first time having a real garden, so I am directing them, for the most part. Technically speaking, it is also my first time having my own garden, but I have worked in several before, so I know (mostly) what I am doing.

“I found a slug on one of the plants,” Elise says, shuddering. “I didn’t get any tomatoes off that one.”

“Let me go have a look,” I say, suppressing a snicker. Girls and slimy things ... very juvenile of me, but I can’t help it. “It’s that one, there on the last row,” she says, pointing and refusing to go near it again.

I head over and crouch to check out the plant. Indeed, a fat slug is oozing lazily over the roots. Usually, where you find one, others have come before, so I check out the leaves and see that they are chewed and brown looking. I squeeze a few of the fruit and find them squishy and yielding. Most have holes in them, too.

I stand up and dust off my hands. “No point harvesting from this plant,” I call. “I guess some of the local wildlife wanted tomatoes al fresco before us.

“Too bad, but we have a pretty good haul here anyway,” Lorette says. She stands up and stretches, doing wonderful things to the front of her old scrub top. “I guess we probably have twenty or thirty pounds.”

“What the heck are we going to do with all those?” Ben asks. He stands by the shed and stares, bemused, at the buckets.

“We’re going to turn them into jars of sauce and paste,” I tell him. “Watch and be amazed.”

“You always amaze me,” Lorette says, coming up and wrapping an arm around my waist.

“Gross,” both Ben and Elise say simultaneously, pretending to gag. “Not in front of us, please.”