The Older Man

by Laurey Bright

  “So do I.”

  “You shouldn’t have seen it in on your own,” she said. “The children would have been all right.”

  “I know. Mother said she’d leave her door open. But I didn’t want to go back there and watch — “

  He stopped abruptly.

  “And watch what?”

  “Nothing. Just wasn’t in the mood for partying, that’s all.”

  She crossed her arms in front of herself and plucked at the baggy sweatshirt. “Well…” She took a step forward. “See you in the morning.”

  He nodded stiffly, and she obeyed an insane impulse and stopped before him. “Happy New Year,” she said huskily, and put her hands on his shoulders and pressed her mouth briefly to his.

  His lips were cool and unresponsive, but as she stepped away his hands suddenly clamped on her shoulders through the cotton knit. His eyes blazed, and then her head was forced back by his kiss, his fingers biting into her flesh with almost bone-breaking strength. His mouth was ruthless, an invasion and a chastisement, and when he finally released her, she fell back with a hand to her aching lips, her eyes wide with shock.

  “You’re all grown up, now,” he told her harshly. “Old enough to know better than to play with fire. Now go to bed.”

  Rennie swallowed, dropping her hand. “You had no need to do that!”

  “Yes, I did,” he said, his eyes still glittering. “And you asked for it, little girl. So don’t expect me to apologise this time!”

  “That’s your whole trouble,” she flashed. “You know I’m not a little girl! You just won’t accept it!”

  “If I accepted it,” he said between his teeth, “the way I’m feeling at the moment, believe me, you’d wish that I hadn’t!”

  Hurt and disappointed at the way he had broken the mood, she lifted her chin and refused to back down. “Try me!”

  There was a heartbeat’s silence, while she wondered if she was quite, quite mad. Because it didn’t take a genius to work out that Grant was nearing the end of his tether, and if she pushed him she wasn’t sure how far he might go. An echo of her mother’s warning sounded in her mind, and she drew a breath, ready to retract the rash words.

  Too late. She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath, saw the sudden taut decision in his expression. Then he smiled, but it was a smile that brought to mind icy steppes and prowling wolves. And his voice shivered down her spine as he said in a goaded voice, “All right. Yes, if that’s what you want.”

  She closed her teeth as he reached for her, willing away a threatened shiver, telling herself he was right, she’d asked for it, and she wasn’t damned well running away now, begging for mercy like a frightened virgin.

  Which was exactly what she was.

  He lifted her in his arms, and carried her easily the few steps to the door of his room, shouldered it wide and then shoved it closed behind him.

  He dropped her on the bed, and she was shamingly glad that he hadn’t turned on the light. In the distance she could dimly hear the sounds of the party still going on, and moonlight shafted through the window. Grant sat on the bed beside her, pulling off his shoes. Then he leaned across and, with his hands on the borrowed sweatshirt, said, “Let’s have this off, first. Not the sexiest thing I’ve seen you in, darling.”

  The endearment should have reassured her. Instead, she had an immediate, irrational desire to cross her arms, which she conquered with difficulty as he hauled the garment off. It was a moment before she realised that the T-shirt underneath had gone with it, leaving only her bikini top and the skirt that had already ridden up past her knees.

  Making to lower her arms as he tossed the shirts to the floor, she was stopped by his hands on her wrists, holding them on either side of her head as he studied her in the white moonlight.

  Looking back at him, she saw a face that seemed all shadows and angles, the face of a predator. It came towards her, and she closed her eyes, willing herself not to turn her head aside, waiting for his mouth on hers.

  Instead, she felt his lips on her throat, moving over her skin, hot and fierce. She took a harsh, gulping breath, trying to say his name, and he muttered something that sounded angry and let go her wrists to place his hands under her, lifting her a little as his mouth travelled down to the curve of her breasts above the bikini top.

  Rennie stiffened in nervous anticipation, and when she felt the scrape of his teeth on the tender flesh she flinched and gave a startled little sound.

  He lifted his head. “Did I hurt you?”

  “N-no,” she admitted, but her heart was beating wildly with fear and excitement.

  He said, “Good.” But his hands on her ribs and back were not gentle. He had found the fastening of her skirt, and impatiently parted it, pushing the folds roughly aside as he muttered, “I want to see you.”

  He had seen her before, on the beach, dressed — or undressed — as she was now. But it had been very different then. She felt his eyes sear her, even in the semi-darkness, and when he reached for the lamp switch above the bed she said sharply, “No!” Then whispered, as he paused, “Please!”

  “Not so bold after all, Rennie?” he taunted quietly, but his hand lowered until it rested on her shoulder, the thumb stroking over the bone.

  She bit her lip, unable to think of an adequate reply, and his hand skimmed over the bikini top, across her midriff, down to her hip, firmly shaping her thigh. He shifted down on the bed, and she felt his open mouth on her navel, the tip of his tongue exploring the little spiralling grooves.

  She felt herself flush all over, her breath quickening. She moved restlessly and he stopped what he was doing and sat up, one hand still caressing her hip. “Don’t you like that?”

  “I — yes, I think so — “

  His quiet laughter had an underlying harshness. He slid a finger inside her top, moving back and forth over softness, the tip meeting the hardness at the centre. “I think you do, too,” he said.

  He slid his hand round to her back, following the line of the fabric, and finding the fastening, tugging at it. He sat up on his elbow and said, “Take this off for me, Rennie?”

  She wished she could discount the implacable note in his voice, forget that so far he had not kissed her since they left the lounge. But after only the briefest hesitation, she reached behind her and unfastened the catch. The top loosened, and she took a quick, calming breath and pulled it off. And closed her eyes.

  She had the impression that for a long moment he was holding his breath. Then he said, “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  She felt his hands cover her, and her lips parted involuntarily on a muffled moan. She whispered, “Please, Grant, kiss me!”

  He did, with his hands still warm on her breasts, and she thought she would die with the sweetness of it. She opened her mouth to him, and felt his tongue thrust demandingly against hers and then his hands moved and slid round behind her and lifted her up to him, her body taut and curved against his.

  Her veins were rivers of fire, her heart a singing bird. He shifted on the bed, taking her with him so that her head was at the edge, her long hair flowing almost to the floor, her neck arched. And then he moved down her body, his mouth leaving a slow trail of heat as it burned down her throat, and then to her breast.

  When it fastened there, warm and moist and urgent, she cried out, she couldn’t help it. Grant lifted his head and said, “Shh. What is it?”

  “It’s all right!” she whispered frantically, but suddenly she was aware of the children sleeping in the next room, of his mother downstairs. Trying to blot them from her mind, she repeated, “It’s all right, I’m — I’m just not used to this — “

  His hand scooped into her hair, lifting her head, and he looked down into her bewildered, passion-darkened and slightly frightened eyes.

  His own eyes glittering with a complex mix of emotions, he said, “No, you’re not, are you?” And eased her head onto the pillow before removing his hand. He looked away from her into the darkness of the room for a mome
nt, then back at her, making a slow, deliberate, regretful inspection of her near-nakedness. And suddenly rolled on his back, his hands leaving her altogether.

  He heaved a long breath into his lungs and said, “I must have been mad. Or drunk more than I realised. I didn’t mean to go so far.”

  She eased herself up on the pillow to look at him, fighting an urge to cover herself, feeling terribly exposed now that he was no longer touching her. “If you’re mad,” she said, “so am I. What did you mean to do?”

  He sighed. “Teach you a lesson,” he said.

  He’d been angry, she knew, perhaps more with himself than her. And he’d meant to frighten her off.

  “I’m a fast learner,” she said huskily. She didn’t scare so easily, and she didn’t believe he’d ever have really hurt her — except emotionally. But she’d been nervous of the edge of anger in his lovemaking.

  His laugh came bitterly. “I noticed. Hoist with my own petard.” He suddenly swung his legs over the other side of the bed, turning his back on her. “Get dressed and go, will you?”

  He was throwing her out. Relief and sharp disappointment mingled. “Class dismissed?” she asked, surprised at the accusation in her own voice. She knelt on the bed to touch his shoulder. “Grant — “

  He shook her hand off and stood up. “For God’s sake, Rennie,” he said savagely, “Can’t you see I’m not in a fit frame of mind right now to initiate a virgin?” He swung about to face her. “Get out of here while you still can!”

  She held his eyes for a second, then scrambled for her clothes, holding them in front of her as she stumbled out of the room and fled to her own. She flung the clothes into a corner, pulled on her nightshirt and huddled herself under the blankets, furiously wiping hot, stinging tears from her eyes.

  In the morning she woke with a thundering headache, and her mirror told her she looked pale and hollow-eyed.

  Grant, when she saw him at breakfast, didn’t look a whole lot better. At least she had concealed some of the ravages with makeup, a remedy not available to him. When she offered to take the children for a swim he didn’t suggest coming with them.

  By lunchtime she was feeling better; her headache was gone, and the sun had warmed her skin. She managed to get through the meal without looking once at Grant.

  Afterwards he said, “This is our last day. I thought I’d go for a drive this afternoon, see some of the other bays, perhaps. Mother doesn’t want to come, but I’ll take the children, Rennie, and you can stay here or come with us as you like.”

  “I’ll stay,” she said hurriedly. “Thank you.” In the car she’d have no chance of avoiding him, even with the children there as a buffer.

  After checking that Mrs Morrison didn’t want anything, she went for a long scramble round the rocks, followed by a swim, and then settled on the beach with a book. It wasn’t until a long shadow fell across the page that she realised Grant was standing by, watching her.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were back!” She looked at her watch and began to scramble to her feet.

  “No hurry,” he said. “The children sent me to fetch you,” he added dryly. “They have a surprise for you.”

  “What kind of surprise?” She pulled a wraparound skirt about her waist over the swimsuit she was wearing, and tied it firmly. “Did you tell them it’s my birthday?” she asked suspiciously.

  He shrugged. “It might have slipped out.”

  “I didn’t mean anyone to know. I told you — “

  “You know how children love birthdays. You wouldn’t deprive them of this small pleasure, would you?”

  She bent to pick up the book from the grass, as he did the same. He relinquished it and they straightened together, standing close. She stared into his eyes. They were concerned, even worried.

  “Rennie,” he said, “I didn’t intend to hurt you.”

  She said, “I thought that was just what you did mean to do.”

  He stepped back, shaking his head. “Momentarily. But I had no right to take out my bad temper on you.”

  Dimly she understood that her presence had been just the catalyst. He’d been drinking, not a lot but enough to skew his judgement and unbalance him from his normal, rational self. And he’d been brooding, over Jean’s death and their failed marriage, over a lot things, perhaps, that Rennie knew nothing about.

  “It’s all right,” she said generously. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

  Any of it, she thought bleakly. Not only the anger, but the passion had been directed less at her than at the demons from the past that were tormenting him.

  Grant nodded. “I hope we can forget last night. It should never have happened.”

  “Sure.” She shrugged to hide her hurt. With only the slightest hint of sarcasm, she added, “It’s forgotten.”

  Fat chance, she thought. Shooting a glance at his face, she deduced with some satisfaction that he wasn’t going to find forgetting so easy, either.

  He soon proved it. As she preceded him across the hot sand, he ran a finger over her shoulders blades. “You’ve burnt a bit,” he said. “Didn’t you use sunscreen?”

  “I couldn’t reach there,” she said.

  “Where’s Larry today?”

  “How should I know? And why should I, anyway?” She quickened her pace but it was difficult in the soft, warm sand.

  “You seemed to be getting on last night,” Grant said.

  She turned to stare at him. “Getting on?”

  “You looked pretty close to me.”

  In the shade of one of the pohutukawas that overhung the beach where it met the grass she stopped short. “I’m not close to every man who casually puts an arm around me!”

  “How many are there?”

  Rennie blinked. He was jealous, she thought blankly, then with a sense of triumph. Jealous! The realisation was so heady that she smiled. “Dog in the manger, Grant?” she challenged him.

  He moved forward so suddenly that she backed into the rough tree trunk behind her, gasping at the impact. Grant stopped abruptly, and she saw a quick flood of colour come into his face. “Don’t push me, Rennie,” he said. “You already know where that can lead.”

  “You started it!” she accused him quickly, breathlessly.

  His lips clamped. She saw him making an effort at control. “You’re right,” he said colourlessly. “I was out of line.” He reached out to take her arm in a hard grip. “Come on. They’re waiting for us.”

  The children were with their grandmother at the table, and the minute she walked in they started singing “Happy Birthday.” They had bought sweets and ice cream and pink wafer biscuits, and a cake with yellow icing on which the children had stuck candles. “I wanted to make you a birthday cake,” Ellen confided, “but Daddy said we didn’t have ‘gredients, and besides it wouldn’t be a surprise, then.”

  “I’m sure you’d have made me a lovely birthday cake,” Rennie said, “but this one looks delicious.”

  She had to blow out the candles, and then Ellen and Toby presented her with a huge box of chocolates. “Daddy said it’s from all of us,” Toby said. “And you don’t have to share.”

  “I couldn’t possibly eat them all myself. I hope you’ll help me.”

  “If you like,” Toby said, trying to sound offhand. “I like the ones with the gold paper on.”

  “You should have told us it was your birthday, dear,” Mrs Morrison admonished. “How do your parents feel about your spending it away from them?”

  “I already told them I don’t want a party,” Rennie said. “And we’ll have a special dinner one night after I get back.”

  “Grant says you’re twenty. You don’t look it. He thought you were a year younger.”

  “A year’s neither here nor there at her age,” Grant commented.

  “It means I’m not a teenager,” Rennie reminded him.

  “That’s just the age when it does seem to make a great difference,” his mother said. “Heavens, I was married at twenty.”
>
  “Were you?” Rennie asked, and shot a glance at Grant.

  “My husband, of course, was much older.”

  “Really?” Rennie felt slightly breathless. “How much?”

  Mrs Morrison gave her a frosty look. “A number of years,” she said. “The children are waiting for you to cut your cake.”

  The next day, Grant dropped off his mother first, then headed for Rennie’s home.

  “I can go home with you, if you like,” she offered without much hope.

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure that the children and I can manage on our own tonight. I have to work tomorrow, though. Can you be there by eight o’clock?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll see you in the morning, then.” She was afraid that he would tell her she needn’t stay at nights any more, but he said nothing about it.

  He began sending her home every weekend, though she stayed during the week. She was sure he was avoiding being alone with her as much as possible, and felt an odd mixture of exasperation at his scruples and a tingling excitement that he evidently found her so hard to resist. Most nights he said he had work to do after the children were settled, and sat at the kitchen table with a pile of papers. Once she went in to make herself a drink, and found him staring into space.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  He looked at her as though he hadn’t heard, and she repeated the question.

  “Yes, I’d like one.” He pushed the papers to one side and sat back, rubbing the nape of his neck with one hand, and watched her absently as she prepared the coffee.

  “Thanks,” he said, as she handed the cup to him.

  She hesitated, and he said, “Sit down.”

  “Do you have a problem?”

  “Problem?”

  She indicated the piles of papers.

  “Oh, that! Nothing I can’t handle there.” He was staring into his cup.

  “Well, then?”

  He looked at her. “I have to get another carer for the children,” he said. “Before you go back to university.”

  Impulsively she said, “Supposing I don’t — “

  Sharply, he said, “What do you mean?”