What is Love?

by Saks, Tessa

  “I love you, baby,” he whispered.

  How she had longed to hear those words. Words of love, to her … to his wife.

  But he wasn’t saying these words to her. An icy tremor chilled her passion. Those tender words were for her—for Samantha Miller. It was Samantha he loved, not her. Ellen pushed this thought away as she returned his kisses. But her anger still surfaced, extinguishing any loving feelings as it engulfed her. She fought the tug-of-war in her heart as she tried to let go of her pain, to savor the moment and relax into pleasure.

  When she stopped and looked up at him, he smiled at her, with adoring eyes and genuine affection. Her heart swelled. Here he was. He was hers now, after years waiting. His hands slowly slid down her neck and traced around her breasts, creating shivers of pleasure—a pleasure she hadn’t felt in years—how many years had it been? Too many to count, endless years of neglect and longing. But now … this, his touch against her skin. Desire swept over any residual anger, overwhelming it, extinguishing it. She reached up to touch his chest, the same chest that she touched when they first met, the same chest she lay her head on after lovemaking, the same heartbeat … the same man.

  All the years’ resentments washed away as he thrust himself on top of her. She knew she was ready. She felt wet … a wetness that had dried within her long before they had stopped making love. A wetness now flowing … flowing with love and tenderness, with forgiveness. She wanted him—desperately. Chills raced through her thighs as he gently spread her legs apart.

  “You love it, don’t you girl,” he panted, then reached down and turned her over, twisting her onto her stomach. “Come on, you know you want it.”

  Her stomach buckled with disgust. How many fights had originated from this position? How many nights had she wept with shame from such a depraved act?

  Soft flesh prodded her from behind. “Come on, Daddy wants in.”

  Ellen tried to roll over. “Please don’t do this, you know I don’t like—”

  He stopped her and grabbed her hands. “Oh no you don’t, you know you want it, you bad little girl. You want to be punished, don’t you?” He grabbed his necktie and tied her hands to the headboard. Ellen stared at the headboard as the room spun and nausea mixed with dread. The harder she struggled to free her hands, the harder he pressed into her. He held her hips, jabbing her like an animal. She cried out to stop, but he continued with increased virility.

  “That’s it, you bad girl,” he grunted. “You want more, you better beg.”

  “I hate this. I hate you. You know I hate this,” Ellen cried out.

  “Oh, poor baby,” he whispered, slowing down briefly before accelerating. Her hands tightened around the rough wrought-iron curls of the headboard, her head hitting against them with each thrust. “That’s it, you’re a bad little slut, aren’t you? Come on, bitch,” he panted.

  “Stop it, Jonathan!” Ellen yelled. “Just stop!”

  “Oooh … you love it, don’t you? You want more? I’ll give you more.”

  As he pumped harder and faster, her anger and humiliation rose in unison. Rising steady, increasing … until … until a wave overtook her. It was like a bursting of tingles mixed with waves of rage. She panicked and gasped, releasing the headboard as he grunted, making his final hard thrusts and slamming her head into the metal filigree.

  Jonathan collapsed onto Ellen, his sweaty chest sliding across her back. Disgust and embarrassment surfaced within her. Ellen bit her lip as she held back the tears forming in her eyes. Jonathan flung himself beside her, panting like a Great Dane.

  “Untie me, for heaven’s sake!” Ellen demanded. Jonathan wheezed and coughed, sputtering like an old car out of gas. He propped himself up and leaned over her, untying her hand. Sweat dripped onto Ellen’s back as his belly pressed against her.

  “There you go, baby girl,” he said as he struggled to free her other hand. Ellen rubbed her wrists and rolled onto her back, pulling the sheet over her body. She turned away from him and closed her eyes.

  “Wow, you were crazy—that was fun.” He laughed as he slapped his belly and collapsed beside her.

  “Crazy? I was crazy? You call that fun?”

  “I thought … it sure felt like you enjoyed it, my pretty little tramp.” He rubbed her arm.

  Ellen slapped his hand away. “You thought … you’re such a bastard.”

  “I’m a bastard? Since when have you stopped liking it rough?”

  “Since now. Since my … illness. I … I can’t do it like that,” Ellen said, wondering how he could find pleasure behaving like a brute.

  “You’re serious?” he asked, then rolled onto his side and kissed her shoulder.

  She pulled away. “Yes, I’m very serious, that’s not making love, that’s … that’s disgusting.” Ellen sat up, holding the sheet over her chest.

  Jonathan lay back and rubbed his face several times, as if washing it. “Okay, I’ll back off. I don’t understand. What do you want?” He turned to face her.

  “For you to make love to me, soft and caring.”

  “You must be joking—you? The hot little tramp, the one who taught me all this?”

  Ellen pulled at the sheet but Jonathan was lying on it, pinning it to the bed. She rose, quickly reaching for the hotel robe. “I can change,” she said, as she slipped into the robe and tied the sash around her waist.

  “Yes … yes, you sure can.”

  “I don’t want to be a little slut and all that stuff … that rape stuff.”

  “But you enjoyed it. You always have, so I don’t see—”

  “I did not enjoy it!” Ellen screamed. “You enjoyed it. You weren’t thinking of me at all. You’re selfish.”

  “I’m selfish? Honest to God, you sound just like Ellen. What the devil’s gotten into you? I’m selfish? Coming from you? Unbelievable.”

  Ellen went into the bathroom and stared at the young face reflected in the mirror. She hated the face that stared back at her. What would Samantha have done? She tried to visualize the same scenario with Samantha. Poor, young, desperate Samantha. She probably did go through all this humiliation and game playing just to win him. How pathetic. How sad. She leaned over and splashed cold water over her face.

  “Come here, baby, Daddy’s sorry. Come on. Let me make it up to you,” Jonathan called out.

  Ellen left the bathroom and stood over the bed. He reached up and pulled on the ties of her robe.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Ellen slapped his hands away. “Not now.”

  Jonathan pulled his hand away and stared at her, looking like a wounded puppy, then glanced away, folding his arms over his chest. “Well, what the hell do you want?”

  “Hold me,” she said as she crawled in under the sheet. “Just hold me.” Jonathan put his arm over her and pulled her close, his heart racing, pounding its rhythm against her body. This was what she had wanted all along, to have his arms around her and his love inside her.

  Her mind flashed to her first meeting with Jonathan as Samantha, in his office, with the door locked, the tenderness in his caresses and his warm kisses. She rolled over and kissed him. He returned her kisses and gave her a gentle squeeze. She filled with sadness at the tenderness he was capable of giving to Samantha—but not Ellen, not his wife.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Her eyes watered as she thought about how long she had waited for tender words and kisses. “Oh my sweet baby,” he said, wiping tears off her cheeks. Ellen thought of the irony that her tears only worked as Samantha. That he was immune to his wife’s tears. She kissed his cheek softly and as she did, her robe opened.

  His hand reached down between her legs. “Shame to waste this erection,” he smiled.

  ***

  During the next three weeks, the Horvath residence was a hub of activity. Teams of painters arrived, including the company Rory worked for, but much to Sam’s disappointment, he never did. She kept herself busy as truckloads of furniture and fixtures came and went. Once Sam decided to
host her grand party, the house had to be completed in time, which meant rush orders, plenty of overtime for everyone, extra teams and round-the-clock activity.

  Jonathan even appeared to enjoy the disruption in spite of his constant questioning: “Are they going to be done soon?” And “I can’t wait to have everything back in order and quiet again.” At one point, the tables were gone and she and Jonathan wound up eating in the library with trays on the side tables. It was more fun than eating in the stuffy dining room, more comfortable, and Jonathan seemed more at ease, making jokes about the delays and the late furniture deliveries. And he was actually beginning to lighten up.

  Finally! Since she had come into this situation five weeks ago, this Ellen body, he’d been so uptight and gloomy all the time. He wasn’t anything like she remembered. But then, his wife had tried to kill herself and he certainly carried his share of guilt. He hardly laughed, as if one wrong word or glance might send her back into insanity. Not that she helped with her threats about killing herself. Her intent was simply to have him all to herself—she had no real intention of doing anything that stupid.

  But, she could see why Ellen had gone mad. If he was as much of a deadbeat as he had been this past month, it was no wonder. Even after all the surgery, he barely said anything, never complimenting her, never making her feel pretty or young. What he did do, all the time, with his constant looks of shock or dismay, was—he made her feel old!

  Sam wanted to have fun again—was desperate for it. Nothing she did was fun—except shopping and buying tons of expensive things. And decorating. She really enjoyed planning and picking things out with Matt. But wasting time having lunch with Ellen’s friends—oh, my God! Snooze. They were the strangest bunch of old ladies.

  All they talked about was other people and all their pathetic problems, including horrific details of age-related illnesses. And they had something bad to say about everyone. That Mrs. Rosenthal, Greta, was an insecure, greedy wrinkled witch, who cared more about her ugly dog than her husband. And the Lady, Mrs. Sutherland, what an oxygen thief. She was so full of herself, droning on about “helping the helpless,” as if she actually cared about someone unemployed and broke, or with addiction problems—people with real problems. What a fraud. She wouldn’t be seen having a conversation with the undesirable helpless, let alone get dirty and help them. All she really cared about was hearing herself speak and criticizing everyone, especially waiters, who seem to constantly forget to top up her wine. Perhaps done intentionally because they know how nasty she gets when she’s tipsy and want to spare everyone the pain.

  They were all a bunch of snobs. But the worst was Mrs. Z. The stupid old biddy was a real nutcase. Sam tried to talk to her about the committee she was supposed to be in charge of, and it didn’t help that Sam had no idea she was supposed to be doing anything, and that no one told her anything until she had missed three meetings. Mrs. Z was no help; in fact, she appeared appalled that Sam would even ask her about what she was supposed to do. The whole thing turned into a huge mess, with Mrs. Z accusing Sam of incompetence. How am I supposed to know all the rules and stuff? God, these people take their lives way too seriously. It’s only a museum; you’d think they’re curing cancer or something.

  And Sam had thought Ellen was bad! After meeting these society ladies, it’s no wonder Ellen had life so screwed up. Not only were these women determined not to have fun; they made damn sure that no one else in their world ever did as well. All the rules seemed designed to keep everyone in line, acting their age, afraid to take a chance, to be different from the pack—forgetting that life is supposed to be filled with adventure and excitement. For all their crowing, they were just old ladies with money and nothing to do except gossip and shop and complain.

  Thank God for Patty. She was the only sane one. She didn’t seem to give a crap what these ladies thought of her. She didn’t try to lick their old lady bow-tipped shoes, or follow every rule like some brainwashed robot. Patty was fun to be around, for an older woman. She had more style and better taste than Sam realized. When she saw her apartment, Sam was actually shocked. It was full of really cool pieces, vintage moviestar things like Marilyn Monroe’s chair, weird tribal masks and shields from all their travels, interesting sculptures and art, zebra skin rugs. She even used a coffin carrier for a coffee table. Yes, Patty was completely unlike the clones. Sam enjoyed hanging out with her more than anyone else, and it was a shame she traveled so much.

  As Sam looked over the guest list for her party, she wished Patty and her husband would be coming instead, it was all these so-called friends. Friends! But Jonathan insisted, saying it would be good for her to spend more time with society, help her get back to feeling like herself. Even though he sounded like a shrink sometimes, she knew he was just afraid, still on edge about everything, and he really meant well.

  She sighed and looked over the list again. There were a few decent people. And with this new look of hers and the redone, hip-looking house, perhaps, with a bit of coaxing, she might even loosen some of them up to have a bit of fun—for once in their dreary lives.

  ***

  Sam stood in the hallway, looking into her newly decorated dining room. She could hear the hum of chatter and polite laughter. Blah, blah, blah. The guests were certainly enjoying themselves. This was, after all, her first party. Her brain was feeling fuzzy. Too much wine. This was all much harder than she ever imagined. Everyone was smart, or as they say, intellectual; the conversation was always over her head. She missed their points and they knew it. She missed their jokes so many times, she was now afraid to laugh at anything. And everyone had such high expectations of Ellen.

  How was she supposed to know all the rules? Why would she care about the impact of custom engraved invitations instead of store bought? Or that Ascot is in England and it involves horses, not a fashion show. Or that caviar is actually fish eggs, not a fancy type of fish, as she was certain she had read in a magazine once, and that serving it with a metal spoon is such a mortal sin! These people were nasty.

  Sam wanted to go upstairs and hide, but this was her party. Her party! Her thoughts raced, blurring the evening’s events. Sam wished the food had turned out better. How was she supposed to know that lobster wasn’t good with pork tenderloin or red wine and, that even worse, you never serve pork at a society dinner party. They acted as if she’s served them Spam sandwiches on Wonder Bread. Damn them all, Sam thought as she headed into the dining room. I don’t need to impress them. I have money. They’ll still like me or I’ll find new friends. Rich people have no trouble finding new friends.

  The conversation hushed as she entered the room. No one spoke as Sam slipped into her chair. She smiled as the guests stared at her—waiting. What the hell do I say? She sipped her wine, allowing the silky coolness to smooth her jagged nerves. She motioned for a refill.

  “Anyone want more wine? I’m getting totally drunk tonight.”

  Faces froze as their smiles evaporated, then they quickly turned away. “I’ll have another glass,” a lone voice called out.

  “Cheers!” Sam raised her glass. A low laugh filled the air.

  She pressed her hand to head. “What’s your name again?” she asked the thin man across the table—her savior.

  “Vic. Vic Rosenthal.”

  “Yes … yes, well cheers Vic! Let’s get hammered!” Sam downed the wine, setting her glass down abruptly. She motioned for another, avoiding the hostile glare from Greta Rosenthal.

  Jonathan stood and announced, “Shall we retire to the living room?” He abruptly pulled Sam’s chair out from the table and grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet.

  There was another burst of chatter as the guests filed into the living room. Jonathan pressed against Sam. “Take it easy Ellen, you’re embarrassing yourself. I’ll take it from here.” Sam leaned on the table for support as she tried to free the hem of her dress from the chair leg.

  She went to rest her arm on his shoulder, but he walked away too fast. She st
umbled, recovering with a wobble, but not before spilling a giant lake of wine on her dress.

  “Fuck me! Oh that’s just fucking great!” she yelled, as she staggered into the living room, blotting her dress with her hand. Everyone stared at her.

  One of the ladies came over to help. “Ellen, come, let’s get that wine out before it sets.”

  Sam pulled back and stared at Mrs. Z. “No. I don’t like you … you’re a fake and a snob.”

  Mrs. Z opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. She turned and walked over to her husband, who rose and put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. They turned and walked away, without a word. Jonathan followed them out the door as Sam stood swaying from side to side before leaning against the fireplace.

  “Why the long faces? Doesn’t anyone want to have fun? God, I need to have fun. Let’s party.” Sam held up her empty wine glass. “Music! That’s what we need. I wanna dance.”

  Sam stumbled toward the stereo. She flipped through all the old albums and finally, she found the new ones that she bought. The good ones. She struggled to get the music started when Vic came and took over.

  “Thanks darling!” Sam giggled, swatting his butt. He shook his head and quickly backed away before Sam’s arms could reach him again.

  The music started and Sam felt it move into her body. She waved her arms around and swayed her hips. “Come on, let’s dance,” she called out and was gyrating and pulsating, scanning the long faces for a partner. She grabbed one of the other men by the tie and pulled him to join her in the middle of the room. He stood, as if unsure what to do.

  Jonathan entered and Sam called out to him, “Come on baby, let’s get nasty.” She danced over to him and started to grind up against him. She was using her best dirty dancing moves, the ones Jonathan always loved on their getaway rendezvous.