Dark Obsession

by Valerie Marsh

  Deliberately she erased the picture from her mind and began to drink her coffee, but an uneasy fear persisted. Inevitably Grant would compare them, and who could live up to Julia? Except perhaps in one area, she thought, with a tiny spurt of hope. No one could really know what anyone else was like behind their public face, but somehow it was impossible to imagine the restrained, impeccably behaved Julia responding equally to the strength of passion Grant displayed. And it was something he openly declared was important to him. If it was her only advantage, there at least, Fran vowed, he should not compare and find her wanting.

  She raised the mug to her lips again, but her movements stilled when he slid his hand under her hair, his fingers slowly caressing her nape. His touch was delicate, lingering, and her whole being quickened. She was suddenly conscious of her heartbeat and breathing and the thudding of her pulse—all things which her body normally performed for her, waking and sleeping, without her ever thinking of them.

  So acute was her awareness that even her scalp tightened, and his fingers checked, picking up the tiny, almost imperceptible movement. He murmured softly, 'Gratifying!' and leaned forward to remove the mug from her grasp and replace it on the table. The action brought the wall of his chest hard against her back, and she felt rather than heard his laughter as he added, 'I'll make you another one later.'

  Turning, she met his eyes, inches from her own. They still gleamed with amusement, but the clear, light colour had darkened, and reading their unmistakable message, she snatched a shallow breath. For a moment he stared at her, his hands tightening on her shoulders, then he slid the wrap away from her, disentangling himself from the sleeves of his own robe as he pulled her down with him on the bed. Head lowered to find her mouth, he whispered, 'And this time, my darling, we're going to take it slowly.'

  But this time she knew just what it was that her inflamed senses craved. The slide of his mouth across hers was a gentle torment, giving more frustration than pleasure because it was not enough. With an inarticulate sound she dug her nails into the flesh over his ribs and heard him laugh before he transferred his lips to her breasts. They seemed to grow heavy, the nipples tumid in the encompassing heat of his mouth, and she felt herself descend again into that mindless abandonment where nothing mattered except that he should free her from the racking need he induced.

  Through the pounding of her blood she heard him whispering, 'Easy… easy, darling…' soothing her, calming with words and gentling touch, but she was beyond the reach of reason, lost to all restraint.

  Hazily, she was aware of him gazing at her, eyes narrowed beneath the black lashes, then he drew a deep breath and brought his mouth down on hers with deliberate, sensual invasion. The hands which before had sought to quieten, now moved on her with calculated arousal, so that she felt the muscles deep within her begin to contract and tighten.

  Twisting, she tried to escape him, but he held her down, one leg clamped across hers, and when she finally wrenched her mouth free to cry out in protest, to beg him to stop before it was too late, he told her urgently, 'Let go, darling!—let it happen!'

  Once more she struggled to break free, but she was helpless in his grip, powerless against his unrelenting expertise, and the inexorable gathering tide she could no longer contain rose up and flooded through her.

  As it receded and finally died away she lay with her eyes tightly closed, feeling raw and exposed because she knew he was watching her—had witnessed her with every civilised veneer stripped away.

  She felt his lips brush hers, then he said, 'Fran?' and unwillingly she raised her lashes to meet his comprehending gaze. 'That's how I wanted to see you,' he told her. 'Don't try to hide it from me.' He watched her for a moment, smiling faintly as her expression relaxed. 'Some people will only make love in the dark because they're too repressed to reveal themselves, but I'm sorry for them. Seeing what I make you feel is part of the pleasure.'

  He smoothed his palm lightly backwards and forwards across her stomach, then lowered himself down beside her again. Sliding his arm under her, he suddenly gave a low laugh, and replying to the question in her eyes, asserted softly, 'And this time, my hot-blooded wife, we are going to take it slowly.'

  He was an expert lover—even in her inexperience she realised that. The blinding urgency banished, she could appreciate the arts he practised, raising her to a level where she could luxuriate in the response he aroused, then checking her, letting desire build up, yet skilfully holding it short of the point where it became all consuming.

  He was totally free from inhibition himself, openly displaying the sensual pleasure he took in exploring and kissing her, and gradually the last of her constraint was eased away. Curbing his own desire he seemed absorbed in the unhurried play, content for the moment to watch the small, receptive movements she made in response to his touch. He made no demands on her, but remembering her vow that he should not find her wanting, she overcame her first hesitancy and returned his caresses, astonishing herself with her temerity.

  For a second his eyes narrowed. He regarded her with a curiously assessing look, then bent over her again, and because she was completely unversed she was startled into betraying shock. He felt her stunned recoil from the contact of his mouth, and raising his head, observed with a kind of savage satisfaction, 'Not quite so experienced after all!'

  His action and the unexpected note in his voice lifted her abruptly out of her state of warm compliance. Briefly she felt a prickle of warning, but then he began to caress her more urgently, and she forgot it in the fierce heat which coursed through her as the weight and power of his body overcame her.

  In the aftermath this time, he brought her all the tenderness she yearned for. Held in his arms, his lips against her hair, she was unutterably happy, totally content as she drifted towards a sleep which carried her into the night.

  It was broken when she stirred in response to a slow, insistent caress in the small of her back. When her movement revealed that she was awake, Grant pulled her towards him to demonstrate his arousal, but she grumbled sleepily and he laughed and slackened his hold.

  'Not interested?'

  She repeated her mumbled demur, burrowing her head under his arm, and he laughed again, softly, and whispered, 'Shall I make you interested?'

  Something stirred faintly in her, but she was too drugged by tiredness, and he ceased his caresses and let his hand rest loosely on her hip. She heaved a sigh and slid a languid arm round him, and amusement mixed with the desire in his voice, he said, 'Go back to sleep then—I'll let you off this time,' then added, his mouth brushing her cheek, 'but only until morning.'

  And in the morning she awoke to the touch of his hands and lips and an instant, fierce desire.

  Afterwards he lay with his head propped on his hand as his eyes moved over her, and rubbing a hand round his darkened chin, commented wryly, 'I don't think either of us could appear with much credit on a beach at the moment.'

  She looked down at herself to where her fine skin was roughened by his blue-black growth of beard, the red weals showing clearly. Accusingly, she said, 'Monster!' and he grinned.

  'I normally shave twice a day, but last night I was distracted. I forgot.'

  'I'll take care to remind you in the future!'

  Still grinning, he retorted, 'And I'll get your teeth blunted.' He glanced at his shoulder and she saw that in one place she had slightly broken the skin. He rubbed it and winced. 'Fortunately I'm covered by anti-tetanus injections for the next two years. The mind retreats from the thought of trying to explain it away to some supercilious nurse.'

  For a moment she thought he was serious, then she saw his mocking expression and smiled back at him. 'You mean modesty forbids the truth?'

  'Oh, yes.' He leaned over her and touched his tongue to one of her nipples, causing her to catch her breath. 'Even at the risk of being suspected of forcing my attentions on some unwilling female, how could I admit that I reduce my wife to such a demented state of passion…' He stopped, his
voice thickening, then suddenly laughed and pushed himself upright again. 'God, I don't think I've got the strength until I've had some food. Do you realise we haven't eaten since lunch time yesterday? I hope you can cook.'

  'As long as you're not too fussy. I eat my own cooking quite happily.'

  He raised his brows. 'Two eggs, lightly fried? Bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes?'

  She swung her feet to the floor with a grimace. 'It's disgusting to even talk about things like that at this hour in the morning. Orange juice and toast.'

  He pulled her back and said coaxingly, 'I'll do without the sausages if the idea really offends you.' He was holding her against his chest so that she could feel the mat of hairs which covered it. They were smooth and very black, almost like fur, and shorter ones darkened his forearms and the backs of his long fingers. She looked down at his hands, loosely clasped round her, comparing the colour with her winter-pale skin. They tightened briefly as he followed her gaze, and he murmured seductively into her ear, 'You cook my breakfast, and while you're doing it, I'll make your coffee and toast. Then I'll get lunch.' He paused for a moment. 'And then I'll make love to you. And tonight I'll take you out to dinner and when we get back I'll make love to you again.'

  She chuckled and turned her head until she could look into his face. Loading her voice with scepticism, she asked, 'Promises or ambition?' and he grinned and bit her ear, then rested his chin on her shoulder.

  'You'll have to wait and see.'

  Taking him by surprise she wriggled free, and from the safety of the bathroom door, scoffed, 'Don't you mean that you will?'

  He was in the kitchen when she came out from her shower, walking round with a piece of toast in his hand as he plugged in the percolator and assembled mugs and glasses on the worktop. He bit into it as she watched, but any hope that he might find it sufficient was dashed when he fetched the bacon and eggs and everything else out of the fridge and arrayed them in a line along the table.

  Feebly, she protested, 'I don't know how anyone can seriously contemplate eating all that at half-past seven in the morning. It's nauseating. You surely don't have it every day?'

  'Ah, but I do,' he affirmed. 'Going off marriage already?'

  Single mindedly, she said, 'Then who normally cooks it?'

  'I do.' She opened her mouth indignantly and he put the last of his toast into her mouth, silencing her, and added, 'But I don't like cooking.'

  Swallowing the toast, she demanded, 'You mean I was lured into marriage for this?'

  'The only alternative was a service flat and I didn't want to move.'

  'Great,' she muttered, sliding a frying pan on to the cooker. 'Now I know my true worth.' She surveyed the row of dials helplessly for a moment. 'All right—how do you switch this thing on? It looks as though you need a driving licence for it.'

  He leaned over and turned a couple of the dials, and with an expression of distaste she broke two eggs into the non-stick pan. 'Wait until I tell everyone how I spent the first morning of my honeymoon!'

  She had her back to him but she heard him laugh before he slid his hands under her sweater and reached round to cradle her breasts. 'Would you really do that? And I thought women were usually more delicate.'

  She had laid herself wide open to that. She grinned, then squirmed away from him, uneasily aware that the effects of his practised touch must soon be apparent to him. Half-serious, she said tartly, 'Stop that unless you want your breakfast burned.'

  For a second his fingers continued to flex pleasurably, then he stepped back. 'And wait until I tell everyone how my advances were spurned by my bride of less than a day.'

  'That's a statement that is open to several different interpretations.' She sent him a sideways glance and tentatively turned the knob for what she hoped was the grill. 'Some of them might reflect unfavourably on your prowess.'

  'What puny little claws,' he jeered. 'And you've just switched the oven on. Were you going to roast the bacon?' He put her to one side and capably assembled everything under the grill, saying, 'Now watch,' as he adjusted the various dials to the required heat.

  She noted the controls carefully, but she wasn't going to let him see, so she asked irrelevantly, 'What time do the papers come?'

  'They should be here now. Earn your keep and go and fetch them.'

  She pulled a face at him and went into the hall, ridiculously pleased at the thought that she would be doing this every day. Her eyes on the headlines, she dawdled back and found he had put the bread in the toaster for her and their orange juice was already poured and on the table.

  His competence made her feel superfluous, and after she had fetched the percolator she sat pretending to read the paper, but in reality watching him over the top. How tall was he? she wondered. Five or six inches over her own five feet nine, the minimum height for a model. His back was broad under the dark grey of his casual shirt, and memory suddenly presented her with a picture of him naked, powerful muscles moving under the supple skin. Abruptly her blood raced, and she lowered her eyes to the paper in earnest until he slid a plate of toast in front of her and said, 'Don't expect this every morning. I'm a dedicated chauvinist at heart.'

  They read the papers while they ate, then did the crosswords together, or at least she watched while he wrote the answers in, proffering solutions which he mostly rejected.

  To one of her suggestions, he scorned, 'Good God, woman, you're practically illiterate!' and she pointed out huffily that as a writer he could be expected to know more words than she did, afterwards displaying excessive triumph when she answered a clue he hadn't been able to.

  They finished eating and cleared up, then went into the lounge and he put some tapes on and showed an equal contempt for her musical knowledge. His collection was entirely classical, and it was immediately obvious to him that she couldn't tell Mozart from Mendelssohn. In retaliation, she proved to him that he was completely ignorant when it came to the modern music scene and taunted him with being old, so that he pulled her down on to the wide settee, muttering threateningly, 'I'll show you who's old!'

  Between laughter and a wild excitement, she fought him for every item of her clothes and slipped away when he slackened his grip on her, fleeing for the door. He brought her down almost at once so that they ended up together on the rug in front of the fire, breathless from their struggles, hearts thudding with exertion and desire.

  It needed no more than the meeting of their mouths to catapult them both to the edge of control, and she was jubilant when he moved swiftly to take possession of her because she knew that this time he was the one unable to delay, the speed and intensity of their mutual rise of passion catching him unprepared. When he subsided against her, his breath coming rapidly, she smiled with a contentment that was mental as well as physical, and murmured, 'I thought that was scheduled for after lunch.'

  His body shook with laughter. 'Yes—well, this afternoon's item on the agenda may possibly have to be postponed for a little while.' They lay for a moment longer, the firelight playing on them, then he began to draw away. She refused to release her hold on him, and he laughed huskily in his throat and said, 'I know this is going to sound terribly unromantic, but the truth is that I'm burning, so let go!'

  She obeyed and he rolled away from her and sat up, rubbing down his shoulder and arm. 'God, that was getting hot!' He looked down to where she still lay, his eyes narrowing in the brilliant smile that turned her heart over. 'Married under twenty-four hours, and already I'm exhausted, bruised and burnt!'

  'All of life is a risk.'

  He sneered. 'You have the nerve to offer me platitudes for comfort?'

  'All right.' She raised herself up beside him and he curved an arm round her. 'I'll get the lunch instead. How about that?'

  He kissed her, his hand straying reflectively up her thigh. 'That's more like it. I thought for a while you weren't going to offer.'

  She selected a packet of moussaka from the deep freeze, and while she was checking through the drawer
s, discovered the instructions for the cooker so that she was able to heat it without assistance. The deep freeze was well stocked, and at least she didn't have to worry about what sort of food to give him. He wouldn't have bought it for himself if he didn't like it. They had ice-cream with black cherries afterwards, and Grant observed, 'I can see you're a superb cook, providing everything is frozen or tinned.'

  'More or less,' Fran admitted. She was curled up in the corner of the settee, heavy eyed and yawning from the effects of two large glasses of wine. She didn't even realise she had slept until she felt Grant shaking her shoulder and opened her eyes to the mug of coffee he was holding in front of her.

  'Here,' he said. 'I thought I'd better not leave you any longer. You've been asleep for nearly two hours.'

  She yawned again. 'I could sleep for a week. It's the after effects of being disturbed in the night and then woken again at six.'

  He laughed. 'So you do remember.' When she looked down evasively, he added, 'But you shouldn't be tired. You were in bed by half-past four after all.'

  'Yes,' she retorted. 'And not even taken out to dinner. Some honeymoon this is turning out to be.'

  In the end they didn't go out that night either. Grant had checked the answer-phone while she slept and discovered that the studio wanted some re-writing on the script of his play. He didn't intend starting it for several days, but he wanted to watch the video recording of one of his previous television plays to clear up some point in his mind. Fran had only ever seen the theatre production of his first one, and she was fascinated, feeling a glow of pride when his name came up on the screen. Grant watched it with critical coolness, and when the tape ended, he commented, 'Well, at least one can learn from one's mistakes. Not one of my best efforts, though the director was nominated for an award. Let's hope he wins—he deserves it.'