After the Loving. Gwynne Forster

your words, woman. I’m serious even when I’m joking.”

      “Who’s joking?”

      She heard him suck in his breath and could barely stifle a laugh. He was a tough man, and he worked hard at hiding his feelings, but she knew when a man wanted her. And he did. The question was whether he’d do anything about it.

      “Let’s see how you talk when you’re not hiding behind a telephone wire,” he said.

      “Really! And I’d like to see how you act when your ironclad control slips. Lord, please let me be right there when it happens.”

      After a telling silence, he said, “Would you say those same words if I was there with you?”

      I may regret this, but what the heck! Right now, I’m batting zero. “If you doubt it, honey, step out into the hall.”

      His labored sigh reached her through the wire. He was two doors away, and he might as well have been in Baltimore. The silence bored into her like a screw tearing through wood. Had she angered him?

      “You still there?” Only air and the sound of her own breathing. She lay the phone on the table, but didn’t hang up on the chance that he still held the receiver. After brushing her hair, she inspected a navy blue cotton caftan, decided that it would have to suffice and sat on the edge of her bed to put darts at the waist and shorten it.

      A knock on her door sent her blood racing like a spooked thoroughbred. She grabbed her chest as if to slow down her heartbeat. Knock. Knock. A greater urgency characterized the second knock, sending the unmistakable message that he would knock until she opened it. With unsteady fingers, she threw the garment on the chair, then got up and walked in her stocking feet to the door. Another knock followed by, “Open the door, Velma,” startled her as her hand reached for the knob.

      “Hi. I mean, what’s the matter?”

      He stared down at her. “You got the nerve to ask me that? If I had been dressed, I’d have been here ten minutes earlier. Now, what was that about seeing me without my control?”

      Did she dare? She stepped back, the better to see his eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

      “What did you say?”

      She folded her arms across her chest to hide her shaking fingers. “I said I’d like to see how you act when your ironclad control slips. Looks to me like it’s firmly in place.” She looked at her watch, realizing that she enjoyed needling him, that the more she did it, the more secure she felt.

      His eyes darkened, but that didn’t unnerve her; no matter what color they happened to be, they lured her to him the way a magnet attracts nails. “Don’t you think I’d better finish what I was doing so we can eat? You threatened to punish me if I made you starve. Remember?”

      He leaned against the doorjamb, casual-like, but exuding an energy she hadn’t known he possessed—a sexual energy that encircled and entrapped her, kindling a fire at the edges of her nerves. In his yellow shirt, short-sleeved and open-collared, and with his arms folded across his chest, the sight of his hard biceps and prominent pectorals made her mouth water. She hadn’t seen him that way before: a big jungle cat—hot, powerful and ready to pounce.

      Why didn’t he say something? It was as if he was waiting for her to burn all of her bridges. When she lowered her gaze, it fell on his flat belly and meandered downward to the flap of his tight jeans. Barely half aware of her movements and gestures, her gaze traveled back to his face. Quickly, she shifted her glance, only to see him ball his fists, loosen them and ball them again. She felt his heat then, and tremors streaked through her as the rough male in him jumped out at her, heating her blood and driving it straight to her loins.

      Mesmerized, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his face, and as he seemed to drag her into him, she rubbed her hands up and down her sides. Frustrated. Up and down. Up and down. His stance widened and, nearly out of her mind with the sweet and terrible hunger that gripped her, she threw back her head and rimmed her lips with the tip of her tongue.

      “Why don’t you—”

      He stepped into the room, reached out, brought her to his body and lifted her to fit him, securing one hand on her buttocks and the other on the back of her head.

      “Russ!”

      He kicked the door closed with the back of his foot. “Open your mouth. My God, I want you!” With a harsh, terrible groan, his mouth came down on hers. Then she had him inside of her at last, knew his taste, knew the hard thrust of his tongue as he plunged in and out of her, simulating the act of loving. More. She had to have more of him. All of him. With her nipples beaded and hard, she moved against his chest, and when she sucked his tongue deeper into her mouth, he let the wall take his weight and his hand tightened on her hips.

      Her blood raced. Her mind shut down and she rubbed her left nipple. The hand that had held her head caressed her breast, and teased her nipple, drowning her in a pool of sensuality, and her hips began to undulate against him, leaving no doubt as to what she needed from him. Suddenly, he attempted to push her away, but she wouldn’t be denied. She had him at last and didn’t want to let go. Her weaving body invited his entrance, and he rose against her, hard and strong. Weakened by the force of her own libido, she slumped against him in what they both recognized as surrender.

      Cradling her in his arms, he sank into the lounge chair beside the window. “I can’t talk about this right now,” he said. “Just…I’d like us to stay here like this for a few minutes.” She sat on his lap with her head against his shoulder and his arms tight around her, and couldn’t have said a word if he had asked her to. She didn’t know how long they remained in that position. Her only thought was that she never wanted to leave him. But she understood the decision was and never would be hers alone, for she had known from the start that Russ charted his own course.

      After a long while, he said, “It’s been about an hour, and I feel as if something’s eating away the lining of my stomach.”

      She hoped that didn’t signal his intention to pretend he’d never kissed her out of her mind.

      “And you promised some sweet revenge. If it’s anything like what you just meted out, I can’t wait.”

      He set her on her feet and got up. Rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Still like to challenge me, huh? Don’t do that, sweetheart. I never accept a challenge unless I am sure I can win, and I won’t play games with you.”

      “That isn’t a challenge,” she said, a little miffed. “Aren’t you used to women telling you the truth?”

      “Let’s say I’m not used to expecting it. What were you doing that was supposed to take an hour?”

      She pointed to the blue caftan that lay across the back of the desk chair. “Hem that and fit it with darts front and back.”

      A frown clouded his face before slowly dissolving into a grin. “You’re kidding. Because of what I said?”

      “I figured if seeing me in these graceful, flowing caftans gave you something akin to gallbladder, I’d better find something else to wear.”

      The frown returned. “Gallbladder? I didn’t—” She stared at him as a grin circled his lips, spread over his face and lighted his eyes seconds before laughter poured out of him. “Ah, Velma. Baby, you’re precious.” He gathered her to him, looked down into her face and grinned. “I’m too hungry to start that again. Come on. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

      She slipped her feet into her high-heeled shoes and, with her hand in his, tripped down the stairs. At the bottom, she stopped. “Russ, how long has it been since you heard that piano?”

      “I don’t know. What I’ve been concentrating on had nothing to do with music. Let’s walk down there and see what she’s up to.”

      Just before alarm set in, she saw the note on the piano: “Dear Aunt Velma, I’m