An Old Fashioned Romance

From Dustry Britches by Marcia Lynn McClure

“Let me kiss you, Dusty,” he mumbled. “For old times’ sake. Just once…to close that ol’ creakin’ door and heal the wounds. All right?” His voice had a dreamy, low, provocative tone.

Dusty shook her head—felt the warm moisture welling in her eyes. She couldn’t! She couldn’t endure the pain of it, the longing, the hurt it would leave!

“We used to be friends, me and you. Old friends…that’s what we are. Old friends that left scars on each other. Let me kiss you…and not goodbye this time. Just…I’m sorry, old friend.”

He stroked her cheek softly with the back of his hand.  He took her face between his hands, caressing her lip softly with his thumb. Immediately Dusty’s heart ached with longing, loss, hurt, fear. Her hands went to his wrists as she tried to pull away. “Please,” she begged him—a tear trickling down her face. “I can’t let…”

“Let me close it, Dusty,” he whispered. “We both need that.”

She would beg him next—beg him to stop. Yet, with every fiber of her body and soul she wanted him to kiss her—wanted to be held in his arms, kissed, even ravaged by him! She wanted that fourteen year old girl who had lost her heart so long ago to suddenly grow up into a woman and be able to win her cowboy.

“I’m sorry, Dusty,” he whispered softly. “I never wanted to hurt you.” His lips touched hers tentatively. She couldn’t breathe! She thought she’d die for want of being able to embrace him—hold him—taste his kiss again. “I never, never, never wanted to hurt that little girl,” he added.

“I know,” she whispered.

His mouth was fully on her own—warm, moist, lingering, and much, much more firmly than it had been five years before. With each successive kiss, his mouth endeavored to coax her into joining him—into participating in the delirious physical dialogue. Dusty felt her hands relax and move down to his waist. He broke from her for a moment—a roguish twinkle in his eye as he whispered, “Maybe that little girl never did grow up.”

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