Separate Beds (37 page)

Melissa let it be known immediately that she resented being left in this strange room, in this strange crib, all alone. Catherine sighed and went back into the room, and immediately her daughter stopped crying.

“Melissa, Mommy's going to be right here all the time. You're so tired, sweetheart, won't you lie down?”

She laid Melissa down, covered her, and hadn't even made it as far as the door before Melissa was standing, clutching the rail and crying pitifully.

“Shame on you, punkin,” Catherine said, relenting and picking the baby up again, “you're going to hurt Grandma's feelings after she made this beautiful room all for you.” It was beautiful. It had all the charm Angela could so easily bestow on everything she touched: bright patches of gingham checks in pastel pink, blue and yellow, blended skillfully into tiered curtains, patchwork comforter and an adorable padded rocker. Turning around to study the room in the glow of the small night-light, Catherine stopped short at the sight of Clay standing in the doorway.

“Is she giving you trouble?”

“It's a strange room, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, crossing toward them to stand behind Catherine, talking to Melissa over her shoulder. “How about some music then, Melissa? Would you like that better?” And then, to Catherine, “Mother is starting the carols now. Why not bring her back downstairs? Maybe the music would make her sleepy.”

Catherine turned to glance past Melissa's blond head at Clay. The look on his face made her pulse race. She realized they were alone, the sounds of the piano and voices drifted up to them from below. Clay moved, extending a hand to touch her . . .

But it was Melissa he reached for, and in the next instant the weight was gone from Catherine's arm.

“Come on,” he said, taking Melissa, but never pulling his eyes away from Catherine's, “I'll take her. You've had her all night.”

Melissa fell asleep in Clay's arms during the singing, but when she was returned to the crib, her eyes flew open instantly and she began to whimper.

“It's no use, Clay,” Catherine whispered. “She's exhausted, but she won't give up.”

“Should we take her home then?”

Something in the way he said the word
home,
something in the beckoning, wistful tone of his voice made the blood clamor in Catherine's head.

“Yes, I think we'd better.”

“You get her dressed and I'll make our excuses.”

All the way to the town house they didn't utter a word to each other. He switched on the radio and found that every station was playing Christmas carols. To the lull of them, Melissa at last fell soundly asleep in her mother's lap.

It was as if Catherine had played this scene before, putting Melissa to bed, then coming down to find Clay waiting for her. He was sitting on a swivel stool this time, with his coat still on. He had one foot propped on a rung of the opposite stool, an elbow leaning nonchalantly on the edge of the counter. Something caught Catherine's eye, something he twirled between thumb and forefinger, something green. Silently he twirled it—back and forth, back and forth—and it held her gaze like the watch of a hypnotist. Then the thing stopped and she realized it was a sprig of mistletoe he held by its stem.

Staring at it, she stammered, “Th-the baby's . . .”

“Forget the baby,” he ordered softly.

“Would you like a drink or something?” she asked stupidly.

“Would you?”

Her eyes were drawn to his, to the level, unsmiling study in gray. The silence hummed, enveloping her momentarily. Then without moving a muscle, he said, “You know what I want, Catherine.”

She looked at her feet. “Yes.” She felt as if she'd turned into a pillar of salt. Why didn't he move? Why didn't he come and get her then?

“Do you know how many times you've turned me away, though?”

“Yes, eight,” she gulped.

The blood leaped wildly to her face as she admitted it. She raised her eyes to him, and he read in them the cost of each of those times. And in the silence the mistletoe again began twirling.

“I wouldn't care to make it nine,” he said at last.

“Neither would I.”

“Then meet me halfway, Catherine,” he invited, stretching out a hand, palm-up, waiting.

“You know what my conditions are.”

“Yes, I know.” He held the hand as before, in invitation.

“Then—then . . .” She felt like she was choking. Didn't he understand yet?

“Then say it?”

“Yes, say it first,” she begged, staring at his long, beautiful fingers, the palm that waited.

“Come here so I can say it up close.” It was almost whispered.

Slowly, slowly, she reached to touch the tips of his fingers with her own. But he did not move them until she herself had traveled a share of the distance, telling him what she, too, wanted, as her cold palm slid over his warm one. His fingers closed over hers in slow motion and he pulled her toward him more slowly yet. Her heart slammed against the walls of her chest and her eyes drifted to his as he reeled her close, settling her there against his open legs, his one foot still propped wide onto the rung of that other stool. There was no question then about what it was he wanted. His heat and hardness spoke for itself. He pressed her firmly, securely against his loins, then closed his eyes as his lips opened over hers. The mistletoe grew lost in the long sweep of her hair. She felt his hand, warm and forceful against her buttocks, holding her tight while his warmth and hardness branded her stomach. His kiss became all seeking and fevered, a wild crushing of tongue and lips, and she felt their teeth meet, then tasted blood, but had no thought for whose it was. His hands came one to each side of her face, and he jerked her fiercely away from his lips, looked into her eyes with a tortured expression.

“I love you, Cat, I love you. Why did it take me so long to realize it?”

“Oh, Clay, promise me you won't ever leave me again, so I know what I'm getting into.”

“I promise, I promise, I promi—”

She stopped his words by flattening herself against him with such force that he grunted. He pulled the whole long, supple, welcome length of her against him. She felt his raised knee rubbing possessively against her hip and wound her arms around his neck, holding him tenaciously. Then she felt herself hoisted off the floor as he swiveled the stool around and in a single motion half leaned, half fell, pressing her back against the edge of the counter. But it cut into her shoulders, so she pushed him back, turning him, taking him with her on a brief journey together on that swiveling stool until she stood again on the floor between his open knees. They kissed, warm against each other, and somehow while they did it, the stool began twisting back and forth, back and forth, almost like the mistletoe had done twirling earlier in his fingers. And each time the stool moved, Clay's erect body brushed provocatively against hers while she rose up on tiptoe to meet it, brushing harder each time. She felt his hand leave her hair and seek the knot of her belt. Dimly she thought about helping him, but leaned against his loose hold instead, pleasured at the feel of his hand there between them, then at the touch of the belt as it glided down the backs of her legs to the floor. One-handed, he opened the dress, touching the skin of her throat first with his fingers, then with his lips, then moving lower, lower, lower, until his hand lay warm on the lowest part of her stomach. He backed away to look at her while he wrested the dress from her shoulders, and when he saw the brief garments beneath, he groaned and buried his face in the band of bareness between bra and panties, wetting the skin there with his tongue.

“Did you know I wore these on my wedding night?” she asked in a husky voice that sounded strangely unlike her own.

“Did you?” His eyes burned into hers, his hands traced the lotus petals along the top of the bra. “But tonight will be our wedding night.” Then both of his arms went around her, and she felt her bra go tight, then loose, then fall away in his hands. His head swooped forward while hers dropped back. His kiss fell upon her bare breast, and a faint growl sounded in her arched throat as his tongue circled the nipple, then the edges of his teeth rode lightly against the cockled point. Strangling in delight, she threaded her fingers in his soft hair, directing him to her other hungering breast. Carried away, his teeth tugged too hard and she flinched, her nostrils distended. With a sound of apology deep in his throat, he suckled more lightly. Deep in her body, sensations sluiced and impatiently she tugged at the shoulders of the leather topcoat he still wore. Without taking his mouth from her flesh, he freed his arms, let her take the coat from his shoulders and drop it, unheeded, behind him, followed by his sport coat. Nuzzling each other, dropping kisses wherever they chose to fall, he worked the knot from his tie while she unbuttoned his shirt. Then it joined the rest on the floor. One-armed, he brought her back where she belonged, with her naked breasts against his bare chest. He eased away from her then, to watch the sight of his hands cupping her breasts. He flattened one hand against her stomach and ran it down inside the front of her bikini until he touched her intimately.

“Do you want me to take the rest off?” he asked, nuzzling her neck, tonguing her skin there, even tasting her perfume now.

“We're in the middle of the kitchen, Clay.”

“I don't give a damn. Should I take it off or will you?”

“This was your idea,” she whispered coquettishly, smiling against his hair.

“Like hell.” But in one swift motion he had her panty hose and bikini down to her knees, then he picked her up effortlessly and set her on the edge of the counter, hooking a stool and sending it out of the way with a foot. He knelt down, raised his eyes to hers as he removed first one high heel, then the other, then with a sweep of both hands had her last two garments lying in a soft heap on the floor. He moved up next to the counter and she raised her arms, looped them around his neck, opened her knees and looped them around his waist and said, “Take me upstairs to our bedroom.” He pulled her off the counter until she was astraddle his waist, her ankles locked behind him. Her naked flesh was pressed against his navel and the smell of her perfume was like a cloud about them as they walked that way, kissing, upstairs to the bedroom. He stood by the lamp and said, “Turn it on.” She let go of his neck with one hand and reached.

Standing beside the bed he whispered “Let go” into her mouth.

“Never,” she whispered back.

“Then how can I get my pants off?”

Without another word she unhooked her ankles and fell backward with a bounce onto the mattress, lying there watching him while he unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers, never taking his eyes off her. When he was naked, he knelt above her on one knee, his hands on either side of her head.

“Catherine, I know I'm a year and a half late asking this, but are you going to get pregnant out of this?”

“But if you'd asked that Fourth of July, we wouldn't be here now, would we?”

“Cat, I just don't want you pregnant for a while. I want to enjoy you flat and thirsty for a while first.”

“Flat and thirsty?”

He realized he'd given himself away, so he leaned his head down to kiss her and stop her questions. She turned her mouth aside.

“What does that mean, flat and thirsty?”

“Nothing.” He nudged around at her lips, trying to get her to stop talking and touch him.

“You answer me and I'll answer you,” she said, avoiding another pass of his lips against hers.

If she got mad at him now, he thought, he'd never forgive himself for opening up his big mouth. But he had to answer.

“Okay. I read your diary. All that stuff we did with the wine—that's what I meant by flat and thirsty.”

She burned now, but not with anger, with embarrassment and sensuality. “Clay, I feel like I'm dying of thirst right now, and believe me, I won't get pregnant.”

She could feel his muscles quivering on each side of her head. His voice was racked as he asked. “Then how long do I have to hang here before you touch me?”

No longer, she thought, no longer, Clay, and reached to touch him lightly with the backs of her fingers, measuring his ardor with feather-strokes that robbed him of breath. The months of want drifted into oblivion at her first caress. The days of searching had their answer. Her hand explored, enclosed, stroked, cupped and thrilled, until Clay's elbows turned to water. He collapsed beside her, reaching, seeking her warm skin. Her stomach was a little softer now, but the old hollows were back below her hipbones. Her thigh was smooth and firm, lifting at his touch to free the spot his hand sought. As he moved toward it, her hand fell still upon his tumescence. Sensing her urgency, her expectancy, he lay his head upon her breast and listened to the thunder of her heart beneath his ear as he touched her depths for the first time. It thundered there in double time, and he could feel it lifting the weight of his head with each beat. Outwardly she lay limp and passive, but her heartbeat told the truth. He moved his fingers once, and she lurched and gulped for air. He rolled half over her, kissing her eyes, her temple, the corner of her mouth, her lips which lay slack, as if what was happening to the inside of her body robbed her of the will to do anything but drift in the grip of pleasure. He aroused her with butterfly touches, bent again to cover her breasts with kisses, sliding his lips over her stomach, feeling it rise with each lift of her hips. Low animal sounds scraped from her throat, then his name, repeated as an accent to each thrust she could no longer control.

He spoke her name—Cat—over and over, letting her soar, experiencing a new high, a sharing of purpose with her as he brought her near climax and sent her shivering. This, he knew, was what he had not given her the first time, and he meant to make it up to her all the other times of their lives.

“Let it happen, Cat,” he whispered hoarsely.

But suddenly he knew he had to share the sensation to its fullest. Easing onto her, he sought and found, entered and plunged, murmuring soft sounds; lovesounds that took on their own meaning.

She shuddered and arched first, and he was close behind her, so close that the film of dampness dried from their skins at the same time.