Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  'God!' she gasped explosively.

  She was thrashing around on the bed now, hips grinding in rhythm with his finger, face screwed up in intense concentration. Her flesh shone bright with a sheen of sweat, and heavy shudders, foreshocks of an imminent orgasm, began to rack her entire body.

  He fingered her some more.

  'Oh, God!' she screamed. 'Oh, God, oh God, oh—'

  And only then did he finally thrust his own hips back until the blunt end of his phallus was lined up precisely with her opening.

  'Yes!' she breathed.

  A crazed kind of light seemed to glow from Dorothy-Anne's eyes and her hands clutched his shoulders, her fingers digging into the flesh.

  'Yes! Oh, Hunt, please!'

  For a moment he hesitated. Then, measuring his entry, and prolonging the exquisite agony, he very slowly pressed his way inside her until he had filled her entirely.

  For a moment she thought she might scream. It felt as if he had inserted something other than his cock, something alien and inanimate. Surely this was too huge, too rigid, and altogether too painful and intrusive to be a mere penis

  Then Hunt gripped her by the hips, pulled her closer, and thrust his pelvis forward a few millimeters more. Groin to groin they were now, joined like Siamese twins. And slowly, ever so slowly, he pulled back out, careful never to lose contact with her swollen clitoris.

  Now there was no doubt in her mind. The pulsating giant inside her was neither alien nor inanimate, but alive—alivel

  Oh, and how! And the sensations it aroused! They were truly beyond description, and ignited the heat that threatened to consume them both.

  Dorothy-Anne's eyes took on a glazed, luminous look.

  Is this pleasure or is it pain? She couldn't be sure. Where does the one stop and the other begin? And is there really a difference?

  She didn't know.

  What she did know, however, was that the farther he withdrew, the emptier she felt—and that she was desperate for him to fill her again.

  Her fingers dug deeper into his shoulders. But how utterly maddening, these leisurely, restrained maneuvers of his!

  Why can't he just get on with it?

  'Faster, dammit!' she croaked, her teeth clenched with agonized frustration.

  If he heard her, he didn't let on. With the precision of a brain surgeon, he slowly thrust forward again, sliding into her for what seemed an eternity. Again, the pain inside her blossomed in intensity until she thought she might faint.

  Slowly in . . .

  Slowly out . . .

  Slowly . . . slowly . . .

  She lost count of how many times he meted out those precise, patient measures, only that it was too slow. If he didn't speed it up, she would soon be climbing the walls!

  'Faster!' she urged. 'Please—please—'

  Slowly, he penetrated her to the hilt one last time, then shoved his arms beneath her back and half lifted her off the bed. Instinctively she scissored her legs around his hips and cleaved to him, her mound impaled against the very stem of his trunk.

  Now he began his assault in earnest, and a cry tore from her lips.

  Faster, faster!

  The physical momentum was like a furnace, and they were glued together, their sweat-sheened skin merging to create a single, mindless organism with but one intention, the fulfillment of ecstasy.

  Nothing else existed, only the reality of the flesh.

  Dorothy-Anne was in a delirium. Her mouth was agape as she panted and grunted in rhythmic time to Hunt's pummeling hips. The rushing of her blood roared in her ears, and her heart pounded like sledgehammers. He was her and she was him and they were one.

  And then the first explosions detonated deep in her core and her body spasmed.

  'Hunt!' she screamed. 'Oh, Hunt!'

  In her mind's eye she saw a vast plain of yellow daffodils, and then they shattered and became giant blooms of pink dahlias that erupted like fireworks, only to turn into blinding flashes of a thousands suns.

  Her screams increased in volume. They bounced off the teak bulkheads and echoed inside the cabin and finally burst out of the screened portholes and across the sea.

  And now her racking shudders triggered his own.

  Feeling the urgency rising from his own testes, Hunt let go of her, grabbed her brutally by the hips, and held tight.

  She fell backward, away from him, her shoulders, arms, and head hitting the mattress, her legs still fiercely locked around his waist. Pelvis to pelvis they were joined, seemingly in midair.

  Cruelly now he plunged in and out, freed from all restraint, and went at it like a madman.

  Harder, harder!

  His face was contorted in agony and his hips pistoned like an engine, slamming himself in and out, in and out—

  —in and out—

  Picking up speed and tempo.

  —in and out, in and out, in and—

  Dorothy-Anne reached one hand beneath herself and felt for his testacies. She caught them, cupped them in her hand, and squeezed the heavy sacs gently.

  'You've got such beautiful big balls!' she marveled. 'Oh, Hunt! You've got the biggest balls I've ever seen!'

  She squeezed them a little harder and an animal growl rose from his throat.

  Below him, she screamed again as another wave of orgasm washed over her, and her hold on his scrotum tightened.

  Now he was unable to hold back any longer. As the torrent rose, Hunt's growl became a roar and he rammed himself inside her to the hilt. Then he abruptly ceased moving and froze, his hands clutching her hips, his phallus motionless inside her.

  And then she felt it. The huge live thing buried deep within her. It throbbed and contracted mightily as he filled her with his seed.

  The ejaculation seemed to take forever.

  For a long time neither of them moved. Then, still joined at the hip, they collapsed together, lying face-to-face and holding each other closely. Their hearts were pounding, and they gulped breath after ragged breath.

  'Now, that,' he said, between drawing deep mouthfuls of air, 'certainly qualifies as an earthshaking event.'

  'How earthshaking?' she asked softly. 'Seven point five?'

  'On the Richter scale?'

  She nodded. Her eyes were pale and bottomless and her nude body gleamed in the dim light.

  'I'd say it was more like an eight,' he said, smoothing her damp hair back from her face.

  She stared at him. 'In that case,' she suggested thickly, 'shall we try for a nine?'

  Already, he could feel his slumbering giant stir inside her.

  He laughed. 'Well, maybe an eight and a half,' he allowed.

  Her voice was husky. 'I'm up to it if you are.'

  'Isn't that supposed to be my line?'

  'Whoever's,' she said, and shrugged. 'Want to go for it?'

  He smiled. 'Why not?'

  48

  Morning shed a different light on the events of the night before.

  Guilt, regrets, and the pain of departure weighed heavily.

  Dorothy-Anne was up and dressed by the crack of dawn. Tiptoeing around, she opened the door of the main cabin, then stopped and turned around. She stared at the bed.

  Hunt slept on. He was lying on his back in the tangle of sheets, one leg cocked, knee in the air, arms outspread. His mouth was slightly agape and he was snoring softly.

  She debated waking him, but was spared making the decision, because, as if by some telepathic alarm that was activated by her merely looking at him and thinking about him, he awoke suddenly and looked straight at her.

  'Hey,' he said sleepily, his tousled hair giving him a boyish charm. He turned on the full wattage of his pearly whites. 'You're up awfully early.'

  Dorothy-Anne stared at him. He was irresistible, even first thing in the morning, but this was one morning she was very definitely going to resist. 'I've got to get back to Eden Isle,' she said coolly. 'Then head straight home, Hunt.'

  If he heard the detached and somewhat fo
rmal tone in her voice, he didn't act like it. He jumped out of the bed and padded over to her on bare feet, his magnificently lean and muscular body totally naked. He leaned his arms on the cabin wall, one to either side of her. 'How about a good-morning kiss?' he said, nuzzling her with his day's growth of beard.

  Dorothy-Anne's body suddenly went stiff and she looked away.

  'Hunt,' she finally said, 'I've really got to hurry.' Then she looked into his eyes. 'Sorry.'

  When he felt the tenseness in her body and saw the look on her face, he drew back. He had noticed that she was curiously withdrawn and quiet. 'Uh-oh,' he said. 'It's like that, huh?'

  Dorothy-Anne didn't respond.

  'A case of the morning-after guilts.' He gently chucked her under the chin, then turned and headed for his clothes, obviously deciding not to pressure her.

  'How about some breakfast?' he said, beginning to get dressed. 'I scramble a mean egg.'

  She shook her head. 'No, thanks.'

  'Coffee, then,' he said, pulling on a shirt. 'It won't take but a minute.'

  'Okay,' Dorothy-Anne said, making an effort to appear more at ease than she felt. 'A quick cup of coffee, then I really have to go.'

  'You got it,' he said affably. 'Why don't you make yourself comfortable, and I'll bring it to you.'

  He turned to her. 'How do you like it?'

  'Black is fine,' she said, and turned and left the bedroom. She realized that they knew very little about their likes and dislikes, about the quotidian details that made up the daily business of living.

  She sat in the saloon, thumbing through an old boating magazine, looking at the photographs but not seeing anything, her mind a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions. The night had been one of utter magic, but now all she wanted to do was run. It was so crazy, she thought. It made no sense. She wanted to be with Hunt, yet she felt she had to get out of here.

  He came in from the galley, carrying two mugs of coffee. 'Here you go,' he said, handing her one of the mugs, a smile on his handsome, tanned face.

  'Thanks, Hunt,' Dorothy-Anne said, taking the mug and sipping the coffee. It was very strong, but tasted delicious.

  Hunt sat down in a chair opposite her and sipped his coffee, looking over at her tentatively.

  In the ensuing silence, she could swear that the sound of the waves slapping against the sides of the boat and the occasional cries of gulls were amplified, making the quiet all the more awkward.

  Finally, Hunt put his mug down. 'You want to talk about it?' he asked.

  Dorothy-Anne took another sip of coffee, then shook her head. 'I don't know what to say, Hunt. I just . . . I guess I'm just confused, and a little scared.'

  'Dorothy-Anne,' he said, sensitive to her obvious discomfiture, 'I'm not going to push you, but you know as well as I do that what we did last night was wonderful. It was beautiful, and there was nothing wrong with it.'

  Dorothy-Anne gazed into her mug thoughtfully. 'I guess . . . ' she began hesitantly, 'I guess its all just moving a little too fast for me, Hunt.' She looked up at him. 'I need time. Time to sort out my feelings.'

  Hunt took another sip of coffee, then stared at her. 'I'll be waiting for you,' he said softly. 'But I want you to remember what I said last night. I'm going to give it up with Gloria, and I hope that you'll allow yourself to give the two of us a chance.'

  Dorothy-Anne sighed. He was so responsive to her needs. So understanding and gentle. Dammit! But she still had the overwhelming urge to be alone to think things through, to get a grip on the maddening swirl of conflicting thoughts and feelings going around in her head.

  'I better get going, Hunt,' she finally said.

  'Okay,' he replied. He got to his feet immediately. 'I'll get the Zodiac fired up. Ready?'

  Dorothy-Anne nodded. She took a last sip of coffee, put her mug down, and stood up.

  'After you,' he said, an easy smile on his face, then he followed her out onto the deck.

  On the short trip back to Eden Isle, they were both silent, the only sound the roar of the Zodiac's outboard engine. Once there, Hunt went with her straight to the landing strip.

  'Do you mind if I call you?' he asked when she was ready to board the Hale Companies' 757-200.

  Dorothy-Anne turned to him. 'No,' she said. 'I don't mind at all. But I'm going to be awfully busy when I get back, Hunt.'

  'Okay,' he said, and suddenly he leaned over and kissed her chastely on the cheek. 'I love you,' he whispered into her ear. 'Just remember that.'

  Dorothy-Anne stood motionless, and when he pulled back and stared into her eyes, she merely nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  'See you,' he said, and she turned and climbed the boarding stairs.

  Once in the huge jet, she headed straight back to her private suite in the rear. She sank into one of the custom-designed sofas and strapped herself in.

  Glancing out a porthole, she saw Hunt standing there, his hair ruffled by the wind, looking for her. She gazed at him for a moment, then depressed a button and coromandel screens slid over the portholes, completely blocking her view. It was too painful to see him standing there, knowing that he wanted her—knowing that she wanted him.

  God, he is so perfect. So very much the man of any woman's dreams. So very much like . . . Freddie.

  Tears, unbidden and unexpected, came into her eyes now. Oh, Freddie, what have I done? Why have I betrayed your memory like this? Why have I acted as if you were never a part of me?

  Three short months. That's how long it had been since his death. Three short months, that's all. Three short months, and she had completely forgotten his ever having existed. Three short months, and she had completely forsaken him.

  And for what? she asked herself. One night of unbridled physical pleasure. One night of sex. Pure and simple.

  Guilt washed over her. Guilt that she hadn't given him a thought while she was with Hunt. Guilt that she hadn't even given their children a thought while she was so selfishly indulging herself. Guilt that she had allowed any of this to happen.

  But Freddie's gone, she reminded herself. Gone. Now and forever. There is no bringing him back.

  Oh, Freddie, she cried silently, what am I to do? What would you have me do? What?

  But no voice came to her; there was only the distant hum of the jet engines in the silence. There were no magical answers she could pull out of the air to assuage her guilt, to relieve her sorrow.

  She thumbed the tears from her eyes, then closed them, resting her head back on the couch.

  Then she suddenly realized with a shock that while she was racked with a guilt she didn't know how to cleanse herself of, she still, undeniably and irrevocably, wanted Hunt Winslow.

  She craved him like a drug. Already she missed his lean, muscular arms around her, his lips on hers, his manhood in her. Already she needed the sense of peace and understanding that he gave her, the unconditional love that he felt for her. And that—yes!—she felt for him. There was no denying that.

  Would Freddie deny me that? she wondered. Would he want me to go on living without the same loving shelter he always provided for me?

  She didn't think so.

  Was it possible that one could love a second time as completely, as purely, and as beautifully as the first time?

  When a first love had been as perfect as hers and Freddie's was it even conceivable that it could happen again in one lifetime? She wasn't sure she knew, but she was convinced that Hunt had been right about one thing: What they had done had been wonderful. It had been beautiful. And it had been anything but wrong.

  Why, oh why, then, did she still feel guilty, ashamed, unfaithful? Her mind so consumed with these thoughts, it wasn't until the jet was preparing to land that Dorothy-Anne suddenly realized that, for the first time since Freddie's death, she had not once felt a fear of flying.

  49

  Christos headed up Market Street on foot, checking out his reflection in the plate glass windows. Used to be, he'd get on Amber's case abo
ut it, she was always doing that. Course, she never looked any different from one day to the next. Same old hip-hugger jeans, short, itty- bitty little tops that left her navel exposed, shapeless Levi's jackets, long straight hair.

  Same-o, same-o.

  Thing was, he had something to look at, having stopped in a floozy men's store where he'd shelled out a wad on new threads. Which he wore out, no shopping bags, thanks, and could you dump this old shit?

  So here he was, struttin' his stuff in a new band-collared black shirt and a three-button Calvin Klein sport coat. The kind with lapels and pocket flaps. Cut like a suit jacket, man, but cool, not being fabric, but icy blue glove leather. His 501s and beat-up Westerns made a nice contrast.

  No doubt about it: clothes made the man. Got the chicks checking him out, too.

  He was thinking, A gold Rolex Oyster would hit the spot. Maybe he'd mention it to Gloria in passing, see if she'd spring for it. Pretty sure she'd be happy to, the way she was constantly looking for things to give him. Sure, why not?

  Strolling on, it wasn't long before he reached his destination, the stretch of used car lots with colorful little plastic pennants fluttering in the breeze, dealers trying to turn used cars into goddamn fiestas.

  The new duds worked magic. The first lot he stopped at, a salesman with fifty extra pounds around his middle came rushing out. Practically rubbing his hands, booming, 'You lookin' for a car, or just wheels?' and going, 'Har-har-har!' All that excess flab jiggling like Jell-O.

  Christos didn't say a word. Just took his time moseying around. Not seeing anything he wanted, and moving on up the street to the next lot.

  It had the same little pennants strung all around, the cars sporting painted-on prices on the windshields. This time a smarmy little guy with a pencil-line moustache and a loud plaid sport coat came charging outside.

  'Just lookin' for wheels?' he asked cheerfully. 'Or a whole car?' Showing teeth like big white tiles.