by Anne Mather
They stood there, swaying in the doorway, while Ben covered her face with kisses. He kissed the high arch of her cheekbones, and the gentle curve of her chin. He teased her nose, and explored the silky contours of her ear, and closed her eyes with the feather-light brush of his tongue. But Jaime liked it best when his mouth returned to hers. Their lips fused together, and the plunging motion of his tongue aroused a trembling need inside her.
Her limbs were weak, and between her legs she could feel a dampness that was as disturbing as it was unfamiliar. She was filled with an aching longing to be even closer to him, and for the first time she realised the power of her own body.
'God, Jaime…'
Ben's voice was hoarse, and she remembered feeling enchanted that she could do this to him. She had never felt this way before, and when he moved her back against the door, and pressed his body against hers, she had no fear of the heavy thrust of his erection.
Even when he took her hand, and pushed it down between them, she felt no sense of panic. Ben's body didn't frighten her. She wasn't afraid of anything he might do to her. On the contrary, she wanted to please him, and her touch was firm and caressing.
And Ben was not proof against such blatant encouragement. His own hands slid up beneath the hem of her blouse, finding the fullness of her breasts confined by her cotton bra. He took the firm mounds into his hands, bending his head to caress their hard peaks through the layers of clothes that covered them. His tongue wet the material, so that when Jaime looked down she could see her nipple clearly outlined beneath. It caused a queer sensation in the pit of her stomach that was at once a pleasure and a pain. But it wasn't like any pain she had experienced before, and she realised she was shaking.
You're beautiful!' Ben's husky words sounded more erotic than anything she had ever heard before. Holding her eyes with his, his fingers disposed of the buttons of her blouse, and exposed the bra Beneath. 'I want to look at you,' he said. I want to look at all of you.' He released the strap of the bra. 'Will you let me?'
Jaime couldn't have refused, even if she'd wanted to. Her mind had ceased to function, beyond obeying the wild dictates of her body. She felt dazed, light-headed, totally absorbed with what Ben was doing to her. The world, and everything outside this room, had ceased to exist. Time wasn't important. All that she wanted was here, before her. All she needed was within her grasp.
Her blouse fell to the floor, followed swiftly by her bra, but she was hardly aware of it. Ben was touching her breasts, sucking her nipples, grinding his hips against hers. She knew what he wanted, because it was what she wanted, too. The miracle had happened: she was alive, she was responsive, and she was in love.
She hardly remembered how they got to the bed. She did recall the coolness of the coverlet against her back, and the feeling of wantonness she had experienced when Ben peeled the velvet trousers from her legs. She also remembered how he had pressed his face against the damp triangle of curls that protected her womanhood, and how she had opened her legs in shuddering abandon…
Jaime shivered as the memories swept over her. She might hate Ben for leaving her alone when she needed him most, but she couldn't deny that he had made her feel like a woman again. Those months with Philip had taken their toll in more ways than one. Because Philip had shown so little respect for her—and she had let him—she had also lost respect for herself. She had begun to believe his estimate of her, and she had never known what it was like to share the pleasures of making love. Ben had given her that, if nothing else.
Not that such thoughts had occupied her, as Ben tore off his own clothes. His jacket and tie were flung carelessly on to the floor, and several buttons from his shirt went skittering across the room. He undressed quickly, economically, as if he was afraid she might change her mind.
And the thought did occur to her, when he shoved off his trousers, and exposed the aggressive bulge of his arousal beneath the silk boxer shorts he still wore. He looked so big, so powerful, so dominant, as he loomed over her, that Jaime quivered. But then he bent his head to trace the line of her lips with his tongue, and her resistance simply faded away.
'Touch me,' he said, against her mouth, drawing her cold hands to his body. He insinuated her fingers into the waistband of his boxer shorts, and pushed himself against her, and Jaime's anxieties fled in a wave of shocked excitement.
He was hot and velvety to her touch, and he growled low in his throat when the pad of her thumb removed the pearl of moisture that glistened on his skin. His manhood throbbed with the needs she was arousing in him, and when he nudged her legs apart she guided him to her waiting source.
And it was like the first time for her. Philip had never entered her body so smoothly, so gently, pushing into her so fully that she was half afraid she would never be able to accommodate him. But she gave herself to Ben, allowing him to dictate what she could or could not do, and the sensuous thrust of his body became a mindless race for oblivion.
Jaime had never experienced anything like it. When she married Philip, she had been a virgin, and his treatment of her had left her convinced she would never be able to sustain a normal relationship with any man. But it wasn't true. Ben was proving it. As the pace of his movements quickened, and the pulsing strength of his manhood throbbed inside her, feelings that were totally new to her began to spread to every fibre of her being.
And, instead of remaining a passive participant in his lovemaking, she found herself reaching for him, clutching his shoulders, wrapping her legs around him, as if she would never let him go. She couldn't get close enough to him, and her fears now were that Ben would leave her as empty and devastated as Philip had always done.
Her breathing became heavy and laboured, an indication of the effort she was trying so desperately to hide, and, as if sensing this, Ben lifted his head to look down at her.
'Take it easy,' he said, smoothing the damp hair back from her forehead with a slightly unsteady hand. 'You'll make it,' he added. 'I'll see to that.'
'Will I?'
Jaime found her lips were dry, but when she tried to moisten them Ben took her tongue between his teeth. 'Believe it,' he said, sliding his hand down between their bodies to touch the pulsing nub of her femininity. 'Believe it,' he repeated, as she trembled beneath his stroking fingers. 'Oh, God, you're so ready. Don't tell me you don't feel it, too.'
Jaime's breathing felt suspended. Ben's probing fingers had banished her fears and brought her to the very brink of fulfilment. But, when he took his hand away again, she almost cried out with frustration. Dear God, what was he doing? she fretted wildly. Didn't he understand how she was feeling?
And then, she realised that he did. When he moved again, almost withdrawing from her body completely, before burying himself in her again, awareness gripped her. Now, when he moved, she moved with him, arching her back towards each thrust until wave after wave of unadulterated pleasure washed over her. It swept her up, and carried her higher and higher until the delight was so great that she was sure she couldn't bear any more.
Ben would have withdrawn from her then, but she wouldn't let him, she remembered unwillingly. He must have known, better than she did, the risks they were taking. But perhaps he had believed she was still taking some form of contraception, as she had all the time she was living with Philip. Whatever, seconds after she had achieved her climax, Ben had shuddered uncontrollably in her arms. He had spilled his seed inside her, and she could still feel its heat in her loins…
CHAPTER TEN
So, there had been faults on both sides, she conceded now, sliding weary fingers through her hair. Ben had never intended their lovemaking to go as far as it had, and she had believed—foolishly, as it turned out—that he was making some kind of commitment. It hadn't been so.
Oh, he hadn't said as much that night. On the contrary, he had let her phone her parents and make up a story about their having dinner at some remote country hotel, and the car breaking down. And they had spent the rest of the night together.
It was weeks before she saw Ben again, weeks when she went through the whole gamut of emotions from dreamy contentment to disbelieving desperation. At first, she thought something must have happened to him, and she anxiously scanned every newspaper she could lay her hands on, in case she missed some small snippet of information about his whereabouts. But there was nothing to indicate why he hadn't contacted her again, and as the weeks passed, and the signs her body was giving her became unmistakable, disillusion set in.
Yet, even then, she had been prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. When he appeared at the pub one lunchtime in early February, just as he used to do in the past, she had been pathetically eager to see him. But over lunch at the Crown he had dashed any lingering hopes she might have been nurturing. He had apologised—apologised—for what had happened at Christmas. It should never have happened, he said. He was a married man. As if she didn't know that! And he had no intention of leaving his wife.
Jaime told her parents the truth a few days later. She hadn't expected any sympathy, and she got none. She had behaved like a fool, for the second time in her life, and they had little patience with her. At first, her mother was outraged that she wasn't going to tell Ben that she was expecting a baby. He ought to know, she said. It was his child. The Russells could afford an extra mouth to feed. The Fenners couldn't. He should be made to pay for his pleasure.
It wasn't until Jaime explained her fears—that if Philip learned about the pregnancy, he might try to stop the divorce—that both her parents agreed she should go away to have the baby. A fictional lover was invented, someone Jaime had known before her marriage to Philip, and who might reasonably have come back on the scene now that she and her husband were separated. The story was helped along by the fact that Jaime went to stay with her father's sister in Newcastle. The Fenners let it be known that the young man in question came from there, and the gossips soon put it about that that was why Philip Russell was divorcing her. It was assumed that Jaime was the guilty party, and it was easier to allow her own name to be blackened than to defend something that was indefensible.
The only paradox was that Jaime never once thought of getting rid of the baby. However desperately she might deny it, she had wanted her baby, and she had been prepared to do anything to keep it. Even to the extent of keeping his identity a secret from any of the Russells. Tom was hers. He was her child. And when she learned that Ben had gone to live in South Africa, she had been sure she was safe from discovery…
Heaving a sigh, she propped her aching head in her hands. What time was it? she wondered. Heavens, it was late. Tom should be home by now. And she had to pull herself together before he saw her. It wouldn't do for him to get the wrong impression. Like imagining she was distressed because the man who had mercilessly abused her was dead, she acknowledged bitterly. God, leaving Philip was the one sensible thing she had done in her life. No way was she going to let Tom believe otherwise.
But he might not see it that way, she realised uneasily. After the way he had reacted to Ben's appearance, the news that the man he believed was his father was dead was bound to come as something of a shock. It was possible that he had hoped that by associating with Ben he might get to meet him, too. She groaned. Was she never to be free of her youthful mistakes?
She shook her head. Ben should have told her the truth, right from the beginning, she thought, shifting at least part of the blame on to him. He had deliberately kept it from her for his own needs. He had known that without that lever she would never have allowed him to get near Tom.
She was pushing herself up from the table, when she heard the sound of Tom's key in the lock. For the first time since he was born she felt a sense of reluctance to confront him. What was she going to say? she fretted. How was she going to say it?
He came sauntering along the hall, whistling. He had seen the light in the kitchen, and guessed she was waiting for him. And, although she had never done it before, Jaime half wished she had gone to bed before he got home. She might have felt more equipped to deal with this in the morning.
But, as it happened, Tom looked more discomfited to see her than she was to see him. His attempted nonchalance faded at the sight of her taut expression, and she realised, in a flash, that he thought she was annoyed with him for being late.
'I can explain!' he exclaimed, before she could speak, and Jaime was tempted to let him go on thinking he was to blame. 'Angie's Dad asked me in for some supper, and—well, I couldn't say no, could I?'
'Are you sure it wasn't Angie who invited you in?' queried Jaime, and then, when her son began an indignant denial, she held up a calming hand. 'All right. All right. I believe you.' She paused, tried to compose her words, and then added, cowardly, 'So, you don't want a sandwich, or anything?'
'Well—' Tom shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, and hunched his shoulders '—I wouldn't say no.' He grimaced. 'I was offered lasagne, but I said I wasn't hungry.'
Jaime couldn't prevent a smile. 'Cheese all right?' she asked, turning to the fridge, and Tom nodded eagerly before straddling a chair at the table.
He looked so much like Ben, sitting there, watching her, that Jaime wondered anew how she could have fooled herself for so long. Was it simply a case of out of sight, out of mind, or had she actually deliberately blotted Ben's image from her memory?
'Did you have a nice evening?' he asked, gaining confidence from her attitude. 'What did you have to eat? Anything special?'
Jaime kept her eyes riveted on the bread she was buttering. 'Um—salmon mousse, and lamb,' she answered, without looking up at him. 'And—and an orange sorbet. It was delicious.'
Tom frowned. 'Was it?'
'Yes, of course.' Jaime did cast him a hasty look at that moment. 'Why do you ask? You know Mrs Haines is a good cook.'
Tom shrugged. 'You didn't have a row or anything?'
Jaime swallowed. 'Who?'
'You and Mrs Haines, of course.' Tom made a sound of impatience. 'Who else? There was only the two of you there!'
'No—ouch!' Jaime caught her thumb with the knife she was using to slice the cheese, and winced. 'I mean—there wasn't just the two of us there.' She hesitated. 'Ben Russell was there, too. And—and a doctor friend of Maggie's.'
'Uncle Ben was there?' Tom was staring at her now, and Jaime realised there was no going back. 'Did you know?'
'Did I know what?' Her son's words had diverted her, and Jaime gazed at him, confused. 'I don't understand.'
'Did you know he was going to be there?' exclaimed Tom irritably. 'Was that why you were so sure he wouldn't phone this evening?'
'No.' Jaime was getting impatient herself now. This was hard enough for her to say without Tom balking her at every turn. 'I had no idea he would be joining us until I got there. I wouldn't have gone if—well, I—might not have gone if—if—'
'If you'd known he was going to be there. Yes, I know.' Tom sounded fed up now. 'So, that's why you're looking so depressed.'
'I am not looking depressed!' Tom was getting the very impression she had hoped to avoid. 'Stop second-guessing my words. I've neither had a row—' liar! '—nor am I depressed. All right?'
Tom lifted his shoulders. 'If you say so.'
'I do say so.' Jaime set the cheese sandwich in front of him with scarcely concealed frustration. 'As a matter of fact—Ben—brought me home.'
'He did?' Tom was so surprised, the sandwich he had raised to his lips was forgotten. 'So what did he say? Did he mention my going over there this weekend?'
'No.' Jaime turned back to the breadboard, and brushed the crumbs she had made into the sink. 'He—well, he had some news for me, actually,' she admitted, setting the board in its place. And then, realising she was only making what she had to say that much more significant by prevaricati
ng, she went on, 'He told me—Philip—is dead. Philip Russell, that is. Your—father.'
Tom put down the sandwich, untouched. 'He's dead?' he echoed, and Jaime nodded. 'How? When?'
'I—don't know the details.' Jaime guiltily acknowledged she should have asked. 'But—it was some time ago, I believe. He just didn't get around to telling us.'
Tom frowned. 'Dead,' he said again. And then, looking up, 'Were you upset?'
'No.' Jaime felt a deepening of colour in her cheeks, and wished she were not so susceptible to her emotions. 'No, Tom. I wasn't upset. My—relationship with Philip was not a happy one. I didn't wish him dead, but I can't pretend a sorrow I don't feel.'
Tom absorbed this in silence, and Jaime knew she had to say something more. She owed him that much. After all, Tom still believed that Philip Russell had been his father. How must he be feeling, hearing her condemn the man he believed had given him life?
'There's something else,' she said, coming to the table, and seating herself opposite him. 'Something I should have told you—ages ago. Only, it never seemed the right time.'
Tom looked at her warily, his eyes mirroring the uneasiness he was feeling. He was probably wondering what other awful revelations she was about to make, Jaime thought unhappily. And goodness knew, what she had to say wasn't going to be easy for either of them.
'It's about you,' she said slowly, understanding at last why adoptive parents were always advised to tell their children the truth as soon as they were old enough to understand. It was much harder to tell a boy of Tom's age that his father wasn't who he thought he was. 'Um—about your being born in Newcastle.'
'You mean, that story about you running away with another man is true?' exclaimed Tom gruffly, and Jaime gazed at him in disbelief.
'You know?'
'No.' Tom hunched his shoulders. 'I don't know anything. But I know the story. It's no secret, is it?'
'Isn't it?' Jaime felt as if someone had just delivered her a body blow. 'I—don't know what to say.'