Still disturbed by his rough handling of Leigh, Jarek worked quietly, rubbing another layer of finish to the bedroom set. In the bald, bold lights if the shop, the wood gleamed. The windows were open, carefully screened against insects as a fan gently blew away the fumes.
With each stroke of his rag, Jarek thought if Leigh's smooth skin, the darkening mark of his fingers. He wished he could remove the bruises as easily as he could smooth away an unfortunate scratch on the wood.
The small red stripes her nails had made on his back had quickly faded, and they were dear to him, marks of her passion.
How could he ask her to live with him and not touch her?
How could he live with himself,if he hurt her in his passion?
