Balancing Act Page 6

  “I am. I think I’m what you call a late bloomer. I’m doing something I love doing and getting paid while I do it. As they say in encounter groups, I think I’m ‘realizing my potential.’ ”

  They were on the way back and nearing the path that wound beneath giant hanging hemlock trees that, if followed, would bring them up and around to the back of Rita’s cottage. It was eerie in the darkness, but down the center of the path was a white flood of moonlight. Prickles of electricity raced down Rita’s arms as she tightened her hold on Twigg.

  His embrace was neither expected nor unexpected. It was natural. Rita felt herself melting into his embrace as though she had been doing it for hundreds of years. He felt good. He felt right. His arms tightened, bringing her closer to him. No words were spoken, none were necessary. Gently, she felt his lips in her hair, on her cheek and throat. Tenderly, his fingers lifted her chin, raising her lips to his own. He was pressing her closer to his chest, crushing her breasts against him. His body was hard, muscular. Rita’s arms encircled his back. Without reason or logic she felt safe and secure in his embrace, and she faced her tumultuous emotions with directness and truth. She couldn’t help it, she wanted this man.

  Their eyes met in the moonlight and without a trace of embarrassment she was aware she could drown in that incredibly dark gaze and emerge again as the woman she wanted and needed to become.

  Seeing her moist lips part and offer themselves to him, he lowered his mouth to hers, touching her lips, tasting their sweetness, drawing from them a kiss, gentle, yet passionate. As the kiss deepened, searing flames licked her body, the pulsating beat of her heart thundered in her ears.

  When he released her, his eyes searched hers for an instant, then time became eternal for Rita. From somewhere deep within her a desire to stay forever in his arms, to feel the touch of his mouth upon hers, began to crescendo, threatening to erupt like fireworks. Thick, dark lashes closed over her blue eyes and she heard her own breath come in ragged little gasps as she boldly brought her mouth once more to his, offering herself, kissing him deeply, searchingly, searing this moment upon her memory.

  She kissed him as she had never kissed another man, a kiss that made her knees weak and her head dizzy. She knew, in that endless moment, that somehow this man belonged to her in a way no other man could ever belong to her, for however brief this time together would be. She had found him, a man who could make her feel like the woman she always knew she was.

  Twigg’s fingers were gentle as they danced through her hair. He sensed what she was feeling. There are needs of the soul that go beyond the hungers of the body. His voice was deep, husky, little more than a whisper. “Will you come with me so that we can make this a night for all eternity?”

  He waited for her answer, wanted to hear her say it, commit herself to it. Wordless agreement would not do for him, he realized, not with this woman whose skin was so soft and fragrant beneath his lips and whose eyes were lowered with shyness. “Tell me, Rita. It can be wonderful between us. I know it can and I want to show you.”

  He felt her indecision, was aware that a part of her had withdrawn from him. Intuitively, he knew that she had not been with another man since her divorce and that she felt his touch was strange and alien. He was tapping at the walls of her insecurity and he did not want to rush her, did not want to frighten her away, yet his own burning need for her prompted him to persuade, to insist. “Tell me, Rita,” he murmured against the hollow of her throat, sending little tremors vibrating through her.

  “Yes, yes,” she whispered huskily. Was that voice her own? A voice deep and singing with desire, a woman’s voice. “Twigg,” she murmured against his lips, feeling them soft and moist on her own, “I want you to make love to me.”

  Twigg was excited by her admission, each sensation heightened because she wanted him to love her. He captured her mouth with his own, entering with his tongue, feeling the velvet of hers. Together they knelt and fell into a soft bed of pine needles where she offered herself to him, allowing his hands to move over her body, exciting her, matching his hunger with her own.

  Mindlessly, she surrendered to his touch, barely aware that he was methodically stripping away her clothing. The chill night air did not touch her, not in his arms, with his body sheltering hers, giving her the warmth she so desperately needed. She grew languorous under his touch as his hands possessed her breasts, the soft tenderness of her belly, and the smoothness of her inner thighs. His mouth gently opened hers, his silken-tipped tongue exploring, tasting, caressing with a fervor that sent her senses spinning.

  When his hand moved between her thighs, rising upward, she moved against his touch and she heard the response to her passion in the catch of his breath and the deep, deep sound that came from his throat. “You’re so beautiful, Rita. So beautiful. I love the way you want me to touch you.” His voice was softer than a will-o’-the-wisp, and she wondered if she only imagined it.

  He tore away his clothes, eager to be naked against her, wanting the warmth of her touch on his body. Rolling over onto his back, he took her with him, trailing his fingers down the length of her spine and returning over and over again to the roundness of her bottom. He invited her touch, inspired her caresses, always watching her in the dim moonlight, reveling in the heavy-lidded smoldering in her eyes. He wanted her to take pleasure in him, wanted her to find him worthy of her finely tuned passions. Did he please her, he wondered as she smoothed the flat of her palms over his chest, her fingertips gripping and pulling at the thicket of hairs. Her mouth found his nipples, licking, tasting, lowering her explorations to the tautness of his belly and the hardness of his thighs. He reveled in her touch, in the expression of her eyes as he took her face in his hands and held it for his kiss.

  Putting her beneath him once again, he kissed the sweetness of her mouth, her eyes, the soft curve of her jaw. Her breasts awakened beneath his kisses; she arched beneath his touch.

  She sought him with her lips, possessed him with her hands, her own passions growing as she realized the pleasure she was giving him. The hardness of his sex was somehow tender and vulnerable beneath her hand as she felt it quiver with excitement and desire . . . for her. His hands never left her body, seeking, exploring, touching . . . she wanted to lay back and render herself to him, yet at the same time she wanted to possess him, touch him, commit him to memory and know him as she had never known another man. Instead of being alien to her, his body was as familiar to her as her own. She felt her body sing with pleasure and she knew her display of passion was food for his.

  Rita was ravaged by this hunger he created in her. She wanted him to take her and bring her release. “Take me,” she breathed, feeling as though she would die if he did not, yet hating to put an end to excruciating pleasure.

  He put himself between her opened thighs, his eyes devouring her as she lay waiting for him. Her soft, chestnut hair reflected the silver of the moon, her skin was bathed in a sleek sheen that emphasized her womanly curves and enhanced the contact between their flesh. Sitting back on his heels, his gaze locked with hers as his hands moved over her body. Rita met his eyes, unashamedly, letting him see the hungers that dwelled there and the flutter of her lashes that mirrored the tremblings in her loins. His hands slipped to her sex and she cried out softly, arching her back to press herself closer against his gently circling fingers. “You’re so beautiful here,” he told her, watching her eyes close and her lips part with a little gasp.

  He gentled her passions, fed her desires, brought her to the point of no return and smiled tenderly when she sobbed with the sweetness of her passions. She climaxed beneath his touch, uttering her surprise, whispering his name. His hands eased the tautness of her thighs, kneading the firmness of her haunches and smoothing over her belly.

  When she thought the sensation too exquisite to be surpassed, he leaned forward, driving himself into her, filling her sheath with his pulsing masculinity. Her body strained beneath his, willing itself to partake of his pleasure, to
be his pleasure. The fine hairs of his chest rubbed against her breasts. His mouth took hers, deeply, lovingly. His movements were smooth and expert as he stroked within her, demanding she match his rhythm, driving her once again to the sweetness she knew could be hers.

  Her fingers raked his back, feeling the play of his muscles beneath his skin. She found the firmness of his buttocks, holding fast, driving him forward, feeling him buried deep within her. He doubled her delight and she climaxed again, and only then did he raise up, grasping her bottom in his hands and lifting it, thrusting himself into her with shorter, quicker strokes.

  Her body was exquisite, her responses delicious, but it was the expression on her lovely face and the delight and pleasure he saw there that pushed him over the edge and destroyed his restraint. The total joy, the hint of disbelief in her clear blue eyes, the purity of a single tear on her smooth cheek, were his undoing. He found his relief in her, her name exploding on his lips.

  They lay together, legs entwined, her head upon his shoulder as he stroked the softness of her arm and the fullness of her breasts. His lips were in her hair, soft, teasing, against her brow. “You’re a beautiful lover,” he breathed, tightening his embrace, delighting in the intimacy between them.

  Rita was silent, enjoying this aftermath to their lovemaking. He had pulled her light jacket over her shoulder to ward off the chill, and his long, lean leg was thrown over hers. She was as snug as a bug, she smiled to herself, breathing in the scent of him and nuzzling her nose against the furring on his chest. His hand played with her hair as he told her how incredibly soft it was, almost as soft as her skin.

  “It hasn’t been this way for me in a very long time,” she told him sincerely. For a moment he was so quiet she thought he had fallen asleep. Wasn’t that what men did immediately after making love? Leaving the woman filled with emotions and thoughts and no one to share them with?

  “I know it hasn’t, Rita.” She liked the way he used her name rather than the impersonals of “honey” or “sweetheart.” “I knew we could share something wonderful.”

  Rita tilted her head, looking up into his face. “Was it wonderful for you, Twigg? Oh, that’s silly. I sound as though I’m fishing for compliments and that’s not what I mean at all.”

  He looked down at her, smiling. “Yes, it was wonderful for me. How could you think otherwise ? Oh, I see,” he said, suddenly comprehending. “I’m the one with all the experience, the free lifestyle, a part of the new morality. And I got all this experience while you were busy being faithful to your husband, and hence, I must have had sexual experiences more wonderful than tonight.”

  Silently, Rita nodded, burying her face against his chest; she could not meet his eyes. That was exactly what she had meant. It was still a marvel to her that he had wanted to make love to her at all. She had never considered herself a beauty nor particularly desirable. Oh, perhaps when she was young, but certainly not since her marriage to Brett had fallen apart. The beauty and sensuality she should have felt about herself was instead imparted to the heroines in her books.

  Turning over until he was looking down into her face, Twigg gently touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “You are beautiful, Rita, and tonight was wonderful. So very wonderful,” his mouth claimed hers, softly, tenderly. “I could make love to you again and again and again,” he told her, chuckling. “Only I don’t know if I’ll ever get these pine needles out of my behind. What say we run up to your place and try out that new bed of yours? I want to hold you in my arms all night long, Rita Bellamy. I don’t want to leave you until you’re sleeping, otherwise I might never have the strength to leave you at all.”

  Laughing, they ran up to the cottage, dropping shoes, leaving behind jackets and picking pine straw out of their hair. And Twigg was as good as his word. He made love to her again, tenderly, lovingly, making her feel beautiful, truly beautiful. And only when she slept did he leave her to her dreams of him, a soft, slow smile lifting the corners of her lips.

  Chapter Five

  Rita awakened, stretching languorously beneath the butterfly sheets. Her first conscious thought was that something so good had to be right. As he had promised, Twigg hadn’t left until she was asleep, nestled in the comfort of her own dreams. She lay quietly, allowing her thoughts to soar back to the night before. A warm flush worked its way up to her face. Making love in the woods in the middle of the night with a man she had known less than three days. In pine needles, no less! That was something Rachel would do!

  She touched her flushed cheeks, felt how warm they were. Then she explored her nakedness beneath the sheets. Were her breasts fuller somehow? They were certainly more sensitive. She felt warm and wet between her legs. That was different too. She had just been starting to think of herself as “dried up,” a term she had often heard her mother use after menopause. Menopause! Christ, she wasn’t menopausal yet! And she wasn’t on the pill! “Oh, no,” she moaned, turning her face into the pillow. What was it her mother had said? Only the good girls get caught. The bad ones are too smart. Another moan of horror. Rita had always thought of herself as a good girl. No. She wasn’t going to think about it, but she wasn’t going to be a fool either. She liked making love with Twigg, and if he’d have her again, she’d gladly share her bed with him. She would do what the big girls did, what Rachel had been doing since she was seventeen years old. Birth control. Sensible. Easy. Certainly practical.

  Squeezing her eyes shut against the morning light, she threw her arms up over her head. Practical! If she had been practical, she never would have become Twigg’s lover.

  Lover! Was that what she was now? She blushed. Imagine me, Rita Bellamy, a lover!

  Her body felt a renewed bite of desire as she remembered the night before in Twigg’s arms. He had loved her, totally, completely. Seeming to enjoy it. No, not seeming. He had enjoyed it! She knew from the way he touched her, kissed her, loved her. Why should she doubt him now? Just because he had admitted to her that he was finding staying in the Johnson cottage intolerably lonely? There were plenty of girls in town, and with his charm and good looks it wouldn’t be difficult to persuade someone to share his bed. Girls. Is that how she had thought of herself, just for an instant? The Women’s Liberation Movement would be aghast to know that she, Rita Bellamy, nearly forty-four years old, had thought of herself as a girl. As they would have it, from the age of five on, the members of the female sex were supposed to think of themselves as women.

  That was just plain stupid. Of course she was a woman, but was it so wrong to admit, even for a moment, that within her nearly forty-four-year-old breast beat the heart of a sixteen-year-old girl? That she could feel a hunger for a man just by remembering the feel of his hands on her flesh and the sound of his voice in her ear as he told her how beautiful she was, how desirable he found her? No, it wasn’t stupid, it was delicious, and she was going to enjoy it for all it was worth.

  For the entire time she was in Twigg’s arms she forgot about the age difference and the midriff bulge and the not-so-firm breasts. But now, suddenly, in the full light of day, those same fears came back to punish her. What was Twigg thinking, feeling? She wished she knew. She groaned and rolled over in the bed. How empty it was. A smile tugged at her mouth. She would take a bed of pine needles any day of the week. If he had said she was lovely, desirable, then she was. Period. And she wouldn’t spoil it all by thinking she had made a fool of herself. All she wanted to think about was how his eyes had greedily devoured her and how his hands and body had reminded her she was a woman.

  She moved beneath the sheets, feeling the ache and soreness in her thighs. It was a good ache, a good soreness, proof that she had not dreamed last night but had actually lived it.

  Touching herself, she smoothed the flat of her hand over her belly and downward. He had said she was beautiful there. His words came back to her, his voice, the sound of his whisper, shooting new thrills and excitement through her.

  He had stayed awake, caressing her, lovin
g her, until she had been the first to fall asleep. And she had slept in the crook of his arm, feeling completely at ease as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  The ticking of the clock invaded her reverie. Glancing at the clock, she realized it was nearly nine o’clock! There was a spring in her step when she bounded out of bed and headed for the shower. That certainly was a positive. She hadn’t bounded out of bed since Charles was seven years old and had croup in the middle of the night.

  No breakfast this morning. Quickly, she towel dried herself and dressed in dark slacks and a shirt of watermelon cotton. She had invited Twigg for lunch. She was behind in her work and Ian was due this evening. God, she was going to have to hustle if she was to get anything done. Tuna for lunch. If it was good enough for her, it would be good enough for Twigg. She fished around in the freezer for a package of chicken and set it to thaw on the sink. Ian liked broiled chicken in lemon and butter.

  Cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, Rita stared at the computer screen. Don’t fail me now, she pleaded. Don’t make me regret last night. With all her willpower she forced her mind back in time to the seventeenth century and the Dutch East India Company and the trouble she had created for her characters. Today she was going to have them set sail for Sumatra and be hijacked by marauding pirates. She had to concentrate and make sure there were no loose ends anywhere. Imagination, go to work, she ordered as she turned the computer on.

  Nearly two hours later she broke for a cigarette and another cup of coffee. Work was going well. She could spare the ten minutes to shift into neutral and rub her aching shoulders. She could feel the tenseness and the expectation as the hands on her watch crawled closer to the time Twigg would arrive for lunch. One o’clock she had said. It was barely eleven now. She had plenty of time before she had to make up the tuna salad.