Balancing Act (5 page)

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.

R
ita 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, loving 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.

 

 

Lunch was enjoyable. They sat in Rita’s copper and brick kitchen with the new hanging fern in complete contentment. There was none of the awkwardness that Rita had feared, no gaps in the conversation. Instead, there had been smiling eye contact, shared laughter, and hearty appetites. It was Rita who glanced at her watch and signaled that lunch was over. Twigg obliged by getting up, kissing her soundly on the mouth. “I have to know something, Rita,” he said seriously. “Was there any time last night when you thought about those twelve years? The truth now.”

Rita grinned. “Not one minute. If you find yourself at loose ends tonight and want to take a break, why don’t you come by and meet Ian? I’m sure he’ll enjoy meeting you and you’ll have lots in common. Maybe he can even find a market for your articles. Don’t feel you have to come; it’s an invitation, pure and simple.”

Twigg loped back to his cottage, his steps springy and buoyant. Damn, he felt good. Rita made him feel good. At lunch she had been so helpful when he discussed his work with her, suggesting he might approach the article from a different point of view.

Perhaps he would walk over to meet Ian Martin, if only to see what he was like. In his gut he knew the friend-agent had more than a professional interest in Rita. It was obvious the way she talked about him. Yes, he would like to meet the man. Ian Martin would have to be a blind fool not to see Rita for the woman she was: talented, interesting, beautiful.

Leaning against the porch rail, his tall, lean frame striking an angular pose, Twigg tamped and lit his pipe. She had the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen. And she loved the sea, she had told him. And talking to her, discussing things with her, was enlightening, challenging. That was one lady who had an opinion, but unlike others he had known, she was also willing to see the other side.

Drawing on the pipe, the pungent smoke filling his mouth, his thoughts went back to the night before, as they had through most of the day. Rita Bellamy, woman, writer, beautiful lover. She had a way of making a man feel cherished. He laughed. It even sounded silly to him that a man would need cherishing; that was something women said they wanted from a man. But a man needed it too, needed to feel important and worthy. He could still almost feel the tenderness of her soft arms as they surrounded him, bringing him to her, welcoming him. There was an honesty about her, sharp and clear, with none of the calculating withholding he had experienced so many times before. She was exciting and stimulating and downright sexy. And yet, she was vulnerable too, and he supposed that was what made her seem so young to him, with a special brand of innocence that was lost to most women before they hit twenty.

Twigg frowned. He was thirty-two years old, and to all intents and purposes, completely alone in the world. He had friends, certainly, but no family of which to speak. It had occurred to him that a wife and children would ease this particular sense of aloneness, and yet he knew it was not the answer. Not for him, at any rate. He had never met a woman he wanted to marry, and he never considered his bloodline so superior that he wanted to propagate it. His work, his friends, and now Rita. That was all he needed. Good, better, best.

Ian Martin arrived shortly before seven o’clock. Rita heard his car in the drive and quickly switched off her computer. He would have no complaints with the work she was to deliver to her editor. She had caught up, for the most part, and if she started early in the morning, she would definitely meet her deadline.

Ian Martin was a tall and distinguished-looking man in his early fifties. A widower with married children. He carried a bottle of wine, a briefcase, and a bedraggled bouquet of daisies.

“They were fresh when I left the city.” He laughed as he kissed Rita lightly on the mouth. He stood back to survey his client and felt a frown pucker his face. She was lovely, vibrant, with a new and curious glow about her. She wore her beige silk blouse open at the neck, all the way down to the shadowy cleavage between her breasts. The taupe skirt was cut slimly with a daring slash halfway up her thigh. Heeled shoes, sheer hose, and jewelry! He smiled at her a trifle nervously, wondering what she had done to herself. Where were her blue denim jeans and sweatshirt and run-down sneakers? The uniform she had adopted these last two years. He hadn’t seen her looking this smart since before her divorce.

“It’s good to see you, Ian. How are things back in the big city?” she asked warmly as she embraced him.

“Not much different from the last time I saw you. Life does go on in publishing. My firm has taken on several new clients, and we have great hopes for a movie deal for one of them. I also brought your last royalty statement with me. It’s a good one and I banked the money for you.”

Following her through the living room into the kitchen where he struggled with the cork in the bottle of wine, he was surprised when Rita turned to him, touched him on the arm and said softly, “Ian, you’ve been an excellent friend and business manager, but it’s time for me to begin handling my own affairs.”

He looked shocked, his hazel eyes narrowing as though trying to see through to her reason. Gently, she calmed him. “Ian, dear, please don’t misunderstand. It is simply that I believe it’s time for me to involve myself in my own finances and certainly time I involved myself in life again. I want to try my own wings.” She laughed, quickly softening the statement. “Of course, I would always hope you were waiting to catch me should I begin to fall. I’ve become too dependent on you, and in many ways I’ve taken advantage of you. I don’t want the time to come when you begin to resent me as a burden.”

“Rita, darling,” he murmured, pulling her into his embrace. “As if I could ever resent you. Surely, you know how much you mean to me. I love doing for you.”

She was aware of the scent of his expensive cologne, the smoothness of his cheek as he pressed it against her brow. He must have used his battery-powered electric shaver on the drive up. Dear, fastidious Ian. So concerned with outward appearances. “Have I told you how lovely you look this evening,” he said in a deep, intimate tone. “It’s time you came out of that shell you built around yourself and remembered the woman you are.”

Deftly, Rita extracted herself from his embrace, making a great fuss of selecting glasses for the wine. “You’re right, Ian, it is time I crept out of my shell. That’s one of the reasons I feel I must take over my own affairs.” She meant her words to be strong, but she heard the softness in her tone, the vaguest hint of a whine and cajoling. She hated herself for it. Damn, wasn’t she entitled to make her own decisions concerning the money she earned? She would like to try her hand at a little high finance, as Brett called it. Why did she always need someone to do it for her?

“Remember that tax-free fund I told you about several months back?” Ian poured the wine as he spoke; she watched the bold onyx ring on his pinky finger reflect the light. Hadn’t he heard what she had said? Was he going to ignore her?