Setting the cup down, she wrapped both her arms around my neck. Spike produced a poor excuse for a bark, raspy and attenuated by his stubby bulldog larynx.
“Oh, Spikey,” she told him, snaring her fingers in my hair.
“If you stop to pet him,” I said, “I’ll start snorting.”
“Stop what?”
“This.” I kissed her, ran my hands over her back, down to her rear, then up again, grazing her shoulder blades. Starting at the top and kneading the knobs of her spine.
“Oh that’s good. I’m a little sore.”
“Bad posture,” I said. “Not that I’d ever preach.”
“No, nothing like that.”
We kissed again, more deeply. She relaxed, allowing her body—all 110 pounds of it—to depend upon mine. I felt the warmth of her breath at my ear as I undid the straps of her overalls. The denim fell to her waist but no farther, blocked by the rim of the workbench. I stroked her left arm, luxuriating in the feel of firm muscle under soft skin. Slipping my fingers under her T-shirt, I aimed for the spot that tended to pain her—two spots, really, a pair of knots just above her gluteal cleft. Robin’s by no means skeletal; she’s a curvy woman, blessed with hips and thighs and breasts and that sheath of body fat that is so wonderfully female. But a small frame meant a back narrow enough for one of my hands to cover both tendernesses simultaneously.
She arched toward me. “Oh … you’re bad.”
“Thought it felt good.”
“That’s why you’re bad. I should be working.”
“I should be, too.” I took her chin in one hand. Reached down with my other hand and cupped her bottom. No jewelry or makeup, but she had taken the time for perfume, and the fragrance radiated at the juncture of jawline and jugular.
Back to the sore spots.
“Fine, go ahead,” she whispered. “Now that you’ve corrupted me and I’m completely distracted.” Her fingers fumbled at my zipper.
“Corruption?” I said. “This is nothing.”
I touched her. She moaned. Spike went nuts.
She said, “I feel like an abusive parent.” Then she put him outside.
When we finished, the coffee was long cold but we drank it anyway. The red scarf was on the floor and the wood shavings were no longer in a neat pile. I was sitting in an old leather chair, naked, with Robin on my lap. Still breathing hard, still wanting to kiss her. Finally, she pulled away, stood, got dressed, returned to the guitar top. A private-joke smile graced her lips.
“What?”
“We moved around a bit. Just want to make sure we didn’t get anything on my masterpiece.”
“Like what?”
“Like sweat.”
“Maybe that would be a good thing,” I said. “Truly organic luthiery.”
“Orgasmic luthiery.”
“That, too.” I got up and stood behind her, smelling her hair. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” She laughed. “You are such a guy.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Depends on my mood. At this moment, it’s a whimsical observation. Every time we make love you tell me you love me.”
“That’s good, right? A guy who expresses his feelings.”
“It’s great,” she said quickly. “And you’re very consistent.”
“I tell you other times, don’t I?”
“Of course you do, but this is …”
“Predictable.”
“One hundred percent.”
“So,” I said, “Professor Castagna has been keeping a record?”
“Don’t have to. Not that I’m complaining, sweetie. You can always tell me you love me. I just think it’s cute.”
“My predictability.”
“Better that than instability.”
“Well,” I said, “I can vary it—say it in another language—how about Hungarian? Should I call Berlitz?”
She pecked my cheek, picked up her chisel.
“Pure guy,” she said.
Spike began scratching at the door. I let him in and he raced past me, came to a short stop at Robin’s feet, rolled over and presented his abdomen. She kneeled and rubbed him, and his short legs flailed ecstatically.
I said, “Oh you Jezebel. Okay, back to the sawmill.”
“No saw today. Just this.” Indicating the chisel.
“I meant me.”
She looked at me over her shoulder. “Tough day ahead?”
“The usual,” I said. “Other people’s problems. Which is what I get paid for, right?”