Edge Of Deception

by Daphne Clair

  Her whole body shook, a wave of heat flooding over her. His lips searched and commanded, and she obeyed, yielding to him in passionate surrender, giving whatever response he demanded of her.

  Her breasts tingled, crushed against his chest, and when he moved his pelvis explicitly a dart of fire made her gasp against his mouth, her breath mingling with his.

  His hands swept her even closer to him, and she felt with a sense of triumphant surprise that he, too, was shaking. He lifted her off her feet and turned, then backed, his mouth never leaving hers until they entered the bedroom and stood by the bed, when he at last al­lowed her feet to touch the carpet.

  He hauled the blouse she wore out of the waistband of her skirt, tearing at the buttons. But he’d only undone the lower two before his hands were on her skin, pushing the blouse up as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of her clothes before touching her.

  His fingers encountered her bra, and with an im­patient growl in his throat he roughly unfastened it, slid­ing his hands from her back to her breasts, urgently moving his palms back and forth, creating a delicious friction that she immediately responded to, the tight buds so unbearably stimulated that it almost hurt.

  The backs of her knees were against the edge of the bed. Tearing her mouth free of his, she whispered hoarsely, ‘Wait, Sholto. Let me...’

  His eyes burned into hers, a leaping fire in them, and his forehead shone with a thin film of sweat. The gaunt look had gone from his face—it was flushed and his lips were full and firm. His hands stilled on her breasts, holding them.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ she said, almost sobbing with need. She arched herself forward, feeling the pressure of his palms increase, and hurriedly finished undoing the blouse, tugged it from her shoulders and shucked off her bra, pulling it out from under his palms.

  She heard him say, ‘Thank you!’ and put her own hands over his, hugging him to her as she sank down on the bed, falling back on the cover with him bending over her, his mouth set in a taut smile.

  ‘You like this, don’t you?’ he said, but it wasn’t really a question. He brought one knee up on the bed, his other leg trapped by her thighs. She began undoing his shirt, flipping the buttons from their holes with unsteady fingers while he caressed her.

  He wrenched at the hook of her skirt, then pulled the zip down. She did the same for him, unzipping his trousers, and letting them drop to the floor while he slid his hands under her hips to pull off her skirt and the panties she wore beneath it.

  Tara kicked off her shoes, and he bent to remove his, with his socks, then she grasped the band of his underpants and swept them down his legs in a smooth, fast movement.

  His eyes, fierce and brilliant with desire, were on her face. ‘Spread your hair out for me,’ he said.

  She lifted her hands under her nape and fanned out her hair so that it lay against the coverlet like a halo.

  Sholto stooped and ran his hands up the length of her legs as he kissed her breasts, lifting her feet to the edge of the bed, stroking her thighs and exploring between them. ‘You’re ready for me,’ he said.

  ‘Yes!’ She knew he had been ready ever since he’d first pulled her close to him in the vestibule. She looked into his face, knowing her eyes had the same glazed, glitter­ing look of hunger that she saw in his as he scanned her body, proudly displayed for him.

  ‘Like this?’ he asked her, his hands firm on her thighs.

  ‘I don’t care!’ she said recklessly. ‘Whatever way you want!’

  The huskily spoken words had scarcely left her throat before he entered her in one long, smooth, powerful thrust, and she cried out at the feel of him, hard and hot, filling her so completely, so wonderfully.

  He bent further towards her, a frown on his forehead. ‘It hurts?’

  Frantically she shook her head. ‘No! No, it’s beauti­ful!’ Already she felt the gathering sensations, the tiny thrills running over her body, getting stronger, focused on that special part of her that was made to receive him like this, in loving, passionate union.

  He leaned closer, his forearms resting on the bed, his mouth searching again for hers. ‘That’s good!’ he said, his voice like dark, rich treacle. He moved himself slowly, deeply inside her, and smiled at the sudden tension in her face before he kissed her again, a kiss as intimate as the total intimacy of their bodies.

  Her mouth closed over his tongue as she felt her body spasm, all the darting runnels of pleasure coalescing into great star bursts of unbelievable sensation, spinning her in a whirlpool of sensual excitement that went on and on and on—she thought she’d die if it didn’t stop, that no one could stand so much delight.

  Until she felt Sholto join her, his mouth leaving hers to give voice to his own pleasure, his arms about her, hold­ing her to him, giving himself utterly into her keeping with thrust after thrust into the warm, slick centre of her until he was spent, lying against her breasts while his breath steadied.

  Minutes later he said, ‘I’m heavy.’ He made to move, but she tightened her hands about his neck, silently asking him not to leave her.

  ‘All right,’ he breathed on a soft laugh. ‘But let me turn us over.’

  He accomplished it deftly, even managing to change their position so that his head was cushioned by a pillow and they lay fully on the bed. ‘How’s that?’ he asked her.

  ‘Mm.’ She lay now between his thighs, held by his hands cupped over the swelling curves of her behind, her head on his chest. She began gently running a finger down the side of his neck, then over his shoulder, her half-closed eyes seeing how his skin seemed to flinch faintly as if sensitised by her touch.

  Intrigued, she put her hand against the flat smooth­ness of his breastbone and stroked slowly over it, then circled a nipple with her finger, gradually spiralling to the tiny nub at the centre.

  Sholto grunted.

  ‘Don’t you like that?’ she asked him, and gently nipped with her thumb and forefinger.

  He groaned. ‘You know I like it. You know just how much I like it, witch!’ His hands began to move over the warm curves where they’d been resting, commencing a series of pleasant forays from her waist to her thighs.

  Tara smiled, and shifted until she could touch the little masculine nipple with the tip of her tongue. Already she could feel him harden again within her.

  She moved provocatively, and his hands closed tightly for a moment on her flesh, making her gasp, her head lifting so that he could see how he had pleasured her.

  His hands slid over her ribs and found her breasts again, his palms warm at the sides, his thumbs bur­rowing across the softness to encircle hardness.

  Tara lifted herself away, allowing him better access, and increasing the pressure between them lower down. For a long time they held each other’s eyes, subtly chal­lenging with small, teasing, erotic movements and changes of position, always building the tension, savouring it, deliberately damping it sometimes, remain­ing still and silent with the only sound in the darkened room their panting, uneven breaths, before cautiously allowing it to build again.

  Until Tara, unable to stand it any longer, felt the con­centric circles merge and peak, and just before they flared outwards again said commandingly, ‘Now! Stay with me, Sholto! Please, now!’

  And the lovely sensations spread and splintered and flowed through her, to the ends of her fingers and toes and back again, while Sholto, his stringent composure completely shattered, shuddered and moaned in the tender, hungry haven of her arms.

  Some time later Sholto pushed back the cover and folded down the sheet so that they could slip into the bed, where they lay holding each other before falling into exhausted sleep.

  When Tara woke at dawn, Sholto was lying on his back and she on her side, snuggled against him, with a hand resting on his chest.

  Carefully she raised her head to look at his sleeping face. The lines of strain were erased and the gauntness had gone. He looked relaxed and content, and younger, the way he’d been when they were first married
. His lips were parted slightly, and his breathing was deep and even.

  She watched him, tempted to kiss him awake, but re­luctant to break in on what she suspected might be the first peaceful sleep he’d had in days. After a while she eased herself out of the bed and made her way across the carpet to the built-in wardrobe.

  She found a dark red kimono hanging from a hook on the door, and put it on. Then she picked up her discarded clothes, holding her breath as her car keys jingled in the pocket of her skirt, and went to find the bath­room.

  She showered, and donned the crumpled clothes, dis­covered a new toothbrush with the rolls of toilet paper and packets of soap in the cupboard under the basin, and a man’s brush that made scant impression on her wildly tossed hair. She had to return to the vestibule to find the ornamental combs lying on the floor where Sholto had dropped them.

  After fixing them into her hair she returned to the bedroom, replaced the kimono and folded Sholto’s clothes. He stirred, turned in his sleep and frowned a little, then slept on.

  Tara went into the living room and picked up the empty glasses they’d left last night, rinsed them in the kitchen and placed the empty whisky bottle in the covered bin sitting by the stove. Then she tiptoed back to the bedroom. It was fully light now, but Sholto’s still form didn’t stir. The bedclothes moved slightly with his breathing, and all she could see was the dark pelt of his hair.

  She glanced at her watch and silently sighed. She needed to go home for a change of clothes before head­ing for the shop. There was no putting off her departure any longer. Quietly she backed away from the room, and let herself out of the apartment.

  Tod found her rather distracted that morning. A couple of times she said vaguely, ‘What?’ when she became aware that he was speaking to her, and he patiently re­peated what he’d said. Just before lunchtime a customer who’d bought a Venetian glass vase pointed out to her that she’d given him a twenty-dollar note in change in­stead of a ten.

  ‘I’m sorry, thank you,’ she said gratefully, correcting the error.

  As he left, Tod gave her a puzzled look and asked, ‘Are you all right, Tara?’

  ‘I’m fine, Tod.’

  There was no one in the shop now but the two of them. He leaned across the counter and asked, his eyes danc­ing with mischief, ‘Heavy night?’

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ she told him repressively, but the flood of colour in her cheeks gave her away.

  Tod straightened, his face reflecting surprise and delight. He said, obviously not believing her, ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Have you brought those brass wall plaques down from upstairs yet?’ she asked him.

  He shook his head.

  ‘While we’re not busy, this might be a good time to do it,’ Tara suggested.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Okay, boss.’ He was grinning as he mounted the narrow stairs. Tara looked after him rue­fully. Had it been a lucky guess, a casual bit of teasing that had unexpectedly hit the mark, or did something show in her face? She crossed the shop to look into an old mirror with a gilded frame depicting beribboned cherubs borne on stubby wings. Occasionally she succumbed to the kinky charm of blatant Victorian sentimentalism, and such pieces usually sold quickly.

  Except for a perhaps unusual lustre in her eyes, and a faint flush lingering on her cheeks, she was sure she looked quite normal. A soft twisted curl lay against her temple, and she pushed it back impatiently, tucking it in with the others confined by several pins augmenting the combs.

  The bells on the door tinkled, and she turned with the welcoming smile she used to greet her customers.

  Sholto stood there, his big frame filling the doorway, both hands in the pockets of a black bomber-style leather jacket worn over a white shirt and black pants. He’d shaved this morning, but his hair looked slightly dishevelled, as though he might have forgotten to comb it.

  ‘Sholto!’ Tara stepped towards him, and then stopped. He hadn’t moved, and his face was immobile, unsmiling.

  ‘I know I drank a lot last night,’ he said without any greeting or preamble, ‘but I didn’t imagine what I think happened, did I?’

  ‘No.’ Tara glanced apprehensively towards the stairs, hoping Tod wasn’t already on his way down. ‘We... we can’t discuss it here,’ she said urgently, her voice low.

  ‘I don’t intend discussing it at all.’ He paused there, and Tara found herself holding her breath, a sick feeling beginning to rise in her stomach. ‘It won’t happen again,’ he said. ‘That’s all I came to say. Except—are you taking precautions?’

  ‘Precautions?’ She definitely felt sick. Swallowing painfully, she fought it down.

  ‘Against pregnancy,’ he said harshly. ‘You needn’t worry about anything else, I promise you. I was about to get married, remember?’

  Tara shook her head. Nothing like that had entered her mind last night—nor his, obviously. ‘I haven’t needed to,’ she said. ‘Not for a long time.’ Not since he’d forced her out of his home and ended their marriage. And before that she’d only been taking the pill because he’d believed she was too young for motherhood.

  He said something under his breath that she was sure would have been bleeped on TV. ‘Let me know if there are consequences,’ he ordered.

  So he didn’t expect to hear from her unless...

  Unbearably hurt, and incredulous at his cold, uncaring attitude after what they’d shared only a little more than twelve hours ago, she asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘If you’re pregnant it concerns both of us,’ he said. ‘I don’t turn my back on my responsibilities.’

  Suddenly angry, she said clearly, ‘Well, that’s new, then!’

  Sholto stiffened. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You were quick enough to turn your back five years ago. To end our marriage.’

  ‘Not the same thing, Tara,’ he said. ‘You’d already destroyed our marriage by your actions.’

  ‘I had? Do you think you had nothing to do with it?’

  ‘I think—’ He broke off, his eyes lifting to the stair­way. ‘Come on down,’ he said pleasantly. ‘The free show’s over, I’m afraid.’

  Tara turned her head to see Tod moving slowly down the stairs, clutching a large carton. He looked embar­rassed, avoiding her eyes.

  Sholto said, ‘I’m going, anyway. Don’t forget,’ he added, ‘to let me know.’

  She watched him stride away. Tod had reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Anything I can do?’ he enquired.

  ‘Just get those plaques out and hang some of them up,’ Tara said crisply. She didn’t know how much he’d heard, but she wasn’t intending to add to his knowledge.

  She spent the day alternating between black misery and seething rage. Occasionally she found herself staring blankly at a puzzled customer, or through the shop win­dow, and had to mentally shake herself into awareness. Tod moved about her quietly, as though afraid of shat­tering her fragile composure. At three o’clock he disap­peared for a few minutes and came back with a bag of sandwiches and a bun that he sat her down to in the back room, with a cup of coffee. ‘You didn’t have lunch,’ he said accusingly.

  She saw that he was worried, and gave him a wan smile. It was sweet of him to have noticed. ‘Thanks, Tod,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I was a bit sharp, earlier.’

  Tod grinned, and as the bells announced another cus­tomer he turned to the doorway. ‘I’ll go. You enjoy your break.’

  Somehow Tara survived the day. She went home feel­ing washed out, and stumbled into the house, flung her bag and jacket onto a chair, kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed.

  She closed her eyes, hoping sleep would overcome her, at least for a little while. If she had even a short nap per­haps the thoughts and emotions that had been churning in her head and her heart all day would finally begin to make some sense.

  But being on the bed made her remember where she’d woken that morning, and how. With Sholto sleeping be­side her, looking as young and contented as he had been on the
ir honeymoon.

  He had seemed contented then. The rare smile that lit his eyes and softened his mouth had been more frequent in the ten days they’d spent on an island off the coast of Northland. The little house they shared was the only one on the entire island, which belonged to a business ac­quaintance of Sholto’s. They’d been able to swim every day, and lie on the sand in the shade of overhanging trees and shrubs, and fossick in rock pools for anemones and starfish, small red crabs and tiny transparent fish.

  Sholto had even spent some time fishing, sitting on a rock that jutted out into the sea and was almost covered at high tide, and trying inexpertly to cast a line that he’d found in the owner’s boat shed.

  At night, and sometimes during the day, he’d made love to Tara with absorbed attention, devoting himself single-mindedly to discovering what gave her the greatest pleasure. He wanted, he told her one night, to find out all about her, to know every inch of her, so that if he was to see any fragment of a nude photograph of her that had been torn into a hundred pieces, he’d know that it was her body he was looking at.

  Tara, only newly awakened to sex, had still been shy with him, and sometimes she protested his minute in­spections. But he patiently, tenderly and excitingly wafted aside her inhibitions, so that by the end of their time on the island she would lie acquiescent and smiling while he arranged her hair and her limbs into poses that pleased

  him, and then stepped back to admire the effect, before coming to lie beside her, touching and kissing in ways that were fresh and strange to her, until her breath came fast from her throat and she’d touch him in turn, to draw him closer and have him hold her tightly and make love to her fully, wholly at last.

  The first time, before they were married, when she’d reached out to him because she was lonely and sad and scared and he’d been kind, it had hurt.