Gray Wolf's Woman

by Peggy Webb

  “Fourteen hours?” Luke echoed.

  “Jake’s just qualified as a doctor,” Pippa explained. “Which means he lectures the rest of us about healthy eating and stuffs himself with stodge.”

  It was Josie who finished first, devouring Luke’s helping as well as her own, then hopped up and down impatiently until they were ready to go to the hotel for the bags. For the short journey she sat in the back of Luke’s Porsche, eyes popping at everything she saw. Luke and Pippa were together in the front.

  “I still can’t get my head around this,” he said.

  “You mean I shouldn’t have come?” she asked quickly.

  “No, I love surprises. And you were an answer to a prayer.”

  “Yes, I could see. What would you have done without me?”

  “Lord knows,” he said with a shudder. “But I didn’t mean that. I meant you. You always did things without warning, like a firecracker. It’s great to know you haven’t changed.”

  “Well, perhaps I should have changed by now. I’m eleven years older, but I don’t seem to be much wiser. You might have been living with that woman.”

  He gave a reminiscent grin.

  “No way. Know something? The only woman I ever lived with was you.”

  She’d moved into the guest house with Luke. “Ma” Dawson, upon whom his charm had a powerful effect, had found them a room just big enough for two, just down the corridor from the kitchen. She was a kindly soul but a dreadful cook, something that she blamed vaguely on “me rheumatics,” without ever explaining the connection. Pippa took over the cooking for three evenings, in addition to the two Luke had already been doing, and Ma gave them a heavy discount on the rent.

  Pippa loved the happy-go-lucky atmosphere of the house. It stood a couple of blocks away from a big teaching hospital, and most of the residents were medical students. They lived on the edge of poverty, kept incredible hours without collapsing, studied a lot, ate and drank a lot and laughed a lot.

  There were magic nights sitting up until the early hours discussing “Life” with a capital L with Angus and Michael and Liz and Sarah and George and anyone else who dropped in. She added her mite to the talk, snuggled in the curve of Luke’s arm, relishing the warmth of his lean body, half hearing half sensing the beat of his heart.

  He would sit there contentedly with her, but he said little. He was too busy living life to talk about it, and he hated analyzing abstractions. In fact, he hated abstractions.

  Life reached Luke through his senses, through the taste of food, the smell of ingredients, what he felt against his skin and in his loins. To him the world was physical, tangible, and where it wasn’t, he shrugged.

  When he was bored with these talks he would nibble softly on her ear. Then they would slip away together, and the rest of the night would be even more magic.

  She seemed to be floating through life in a blissful haze of newly discovered pleasure, so that everything that happened was sensual and lovely. This was true even of things that weren’t directly connected with Luke, but a hundred times more true about things that were. She couldn’t be in the same room with him without growing excited and impatient. When he was cooking she watched his hands. They were artist’s hands, powerful and muscular, yet sensitive, too, and the mere sight of them could thrill her body, which carried the memories of their intimate touch.

  At work she wore the sedate, respectable uniform of a chambermaid, but it told a lie. Beneath it she wasn’t respectable at all. It made her laugh sometimes to think how shocked people would be if they knew her head was filled with thoughts of Luke, who wanted her as uncontrollably as she wanted him—Luke, in bed with her, naked and aroused. In thought she dwelt on every inch of him: how long and slim his flanks were; how firm his behind; how unexpectedly strong his hands; how big and hard he was inside her; how badly she wanted him there.

  Once, at home, the urgency grew more than she could stand, and as soon as he closed the oven door, she fastened her lips on his in the fiercest kiss she’d ever given him—avid, devouring, voracious, gloriously shameless, both giving and demanding. With one hand she cupped his head, while with the other, began undressing him. After the first shock he’d responded avidly, drawing her swiftly out of the kitchen and along the corridor to their room. They barely had time to shut the door before they were pulling off each other’s clothes, almost competing to see who could strip whom the fastest. She could never remember who’d won, but they were both naked before they hit the bed.

  She pulled him over her with strong, determined movements. She wasn’t fooling. She wanted Luke on the most basic, primitive level and no nonsense about it. Romance and candlelight were lovely in their place, but right now she would go crazy if she couldn’t feel him inside her, completing her, filling her to satiation point.

  At last she had her way. He was there, thrusting vigorously in the way she loved. She drove back against him, drawing him deep into her, knowing this excited him to madness. She loved his strength, the fierce power in his loins, his tirelessness. To match it she offered her craving for him that could never be satisfied for long, her delight in pleasing him as much as he pleased her.

  Later she tormented herself with questions. Had she spoiled things by being too forward, too eager, too always ready? Should she have held off, teased him, made him wonder about her? That might have been subtle and clever, but it would also have been a kind of deception that her passionately honest nature couldn’t have managed. She was young and bursting with health. To enjoy sex with your lover seemed natural, like discovering the secret of life itself, or being given a Christmas present every day. And each day the present was a little different, a little better. But had her own gifts to him grown better? Or had he gradually become bored with her? She would always wonder. Or perhaps wondering was just a word for knowing the truth but not admitting it.

  But there were other memories to set beside these, glorious nights when she’d lain naked in his arms while he worshipped her body by moonlight. And other nights when he acted like a clown, spicing passion with wit, making her laugh even while her body was in a fever. Once he’d said, “I’m trying to work out which part of you I like best. It’s a tough decision because you have the most perfect breasts of any woman in the world.”

  As he spoke he was tracing a finger over the swell of her right breast, lingering over the nipple, teasing it until the excitement stormed along her nerves and it was all she could do to say, “You’d know, would you? About all the others?”

  “Mmm—” he seemed to consider this “—maybe not all the others.”

  “But a good few?” she asked, torn between joking and jealousy.

  “Enough to know that you’re the best. Now hush, I’m concentrating.”

  She laughed and fell silent, enjoying herself as he treated the other breast to similar caresses until both nipples were proudly peaked. By now they were familiar with each other’s bodies, and knew the touches that best pleased. He knew how she loved to be kissed all over, very, very slowly, deferring the ultimate moment of pleasure so that it would be all the more exquisite. She was excited by the thrill it gave him when she ran her fingers lightly over his chest, and down to where he was leaping up to her.

  Although she enjoyed his admiration it soon brought her to such a pitch of excitement that she grew impatient and tried to incite him with her own caresses. But he suddenly went into clowning mode, and prevented her firmly and with dignity.

  “Madam, please stop that,” he said solemnly. “I’ve been reading a book about foreplay, and I want to practice.”

  “Was it useful—this book?” she asked, falling in with his game.

  “Extremely,” he informed her, poker-faced. “Now observe this next bit carefully, because afterward I’m going to ask you questions. And, hush! How can I create a romantic mood if you’re giggling?”

  He was lazily drifting his fingers along the insides of her thighs, reaching the top, lingering for a shattering moment, before driftin
g away again. She gasped and dug her fingers into his shoulders as her arousal grew more intense.

  “Did the book explain—the significance of that gesture?” she murmured in his ear.

  “It’s supposed to put you in the mood.”

  “But if I told you I was already in the mood?”

  He became prim. “Then I would say you were a very forward young woman, and I’d be shocked. And the book didn’t warn me that you’d do that.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “I forgive you, but I’ve lost the place now. I’ll check the index.”

  “You let go of me and you’re dead.”

  “You’re not being helpful at all,” he complained. “I’m trying to learn the nuances. A man is supposed to be subtle, not just go at it like a bull at a gate. The manual promised that this would make you appreciate me more.”

  “I could hardly appreciate you more than I already do,” she said, fingering the part of him she appreciated most at that moment and trying to guide it toward her. “Luke,” she pleaded, “couldn’t you skip the subtleties and just charge the gate?”

  “Woman, where is your heart of romance?”

  “Let’s be romantic another time. Tonight I’m feeling very, very basic.”

  “In that case,” he said, settling swiftly between her thighs, “let’s charge the gate together.”

  And they did, taking it fast and furious, so that they ended up breathless and full of glory.

  “I think,” Pippa said between gasps, “that we demolished the gate that time.”

  Which made them both laugh so hard that they lost their sense of decorum for the second time that night and clasped each other in a state of fierce delight in which subtlety played no part. Even so, there was still tenderness. Luke entered her in the way she loved the most, slowly but strongly, prolonging the moment to the full so that she felt the hardness of him filling her up, completing her. And when she met his eyes she found a smile there. Not the laughter of before, when he’d been clowning, but a glow that told her they were at one. She smiled back, full of a joy that went beyond physical pleasure, and knowing that there was only him in all the world.

  Pippa always remembered that night, because at some point sex became lovemaking. At least, that’s what happened for her. How or when it changed, or why it happened just then, was a mystery. But what had been a joyous game with a prize every time, became deeper, more poignant. The prize was still there, as sweet as ever, but suddenly there was a price to be paid. This wasn’t just the man who brought her sexual delight. He was the man who laid his head against her breast and fell asleep, as though he trusted her totally, so that she melted with tenderness and a mysterious pleasurable ache.

  They had never spoken of love. It was all part of being in a modern relationship, with no strings. You each lived your own life and passed on. But suddenly love was there, awkward, inconvenient, getting in the way of your plans, and unwanted, since he was a man who wouldn’t be tied down, and love equaled strings. Right?

  But he was asleep now, so she could whisper, “Sorry, darling. I went back on the deal. I wish I could tell you, but you’d be scared stiff. Never mind. My problem, not yours. It’s all a laugh, isn’t it? Oh Luke, Luke!”

  Among other things Pippa adored Luke for his sweet temper. The only time she could recall seeing him disgruntled was when she was dressing to go out one Saturday, without inviting him, or even telling him where she was going.

  “The first Saturday we’ve both had off for ages and you vanish,” he grumbled. “And you’re dressing up, as if it’s somewhere special.” He looked suspiciously at the clinging jersey dress in a brilliant cerise, that only she could have carried off. “It’s not like you to keep secrets.”

  “It’s only a little secret.”

  “So what’s the big deal about telling me?” He scowled suddenly. “Who is he?”

  “His name’s Frank, and he’s my uncle, and I’m going to his wedding.”

  “Great!” he sulked. “I’m not good enough to meet your family!”

  “Don’t be silly, darling. I just thought it would bore you. A wedding, solid family gathering, men in formal suits, women in hats. I know that sort of thing gives you nightmares.”

  “I’d rather put up with it than not see you all day.”

  “Luke, are you sure? You know what’ll happen if we go together—”

  “People will simper and ask when you’re going to make an honest man of me. Don’t worry, we’ll tell them you’re keeping me as a pet. Will your father and Clarice be there?”

  “No, they moved away a few months ago.”

  “So, let’s be on our way.” He kissed her. “If you think I’m letting you go anywhere, looking so pretty, without me, you’re crazy.”

  From somewhere he produced a suit, borrowed his friend’s old car and they were soon on their way. Her heart was singing with joy. She hadn’t invited him, determined not to repeat the mistake that had frightened him off other girlfriends. But he was coming, anyway, because he was jealous. He was actually jealous! It was too good to be true.

  They reached Frank’s house just before noon and found him calm and well prepared. He owned a small corner shop that was modestly prosperous. Gravity had settled on him early in life, and he looked ten years older than his actual age, which was thirty.

  Pippa gave him an exuberant hug, and he kissed her with quiet affection. When the introductions were over she demanded, “Why aren’t you pacing the floor with nerves, like a normal bridegroom?”

  “What is there to be nervous about?” he asked, mildly surprised. “Elly’s organized everything down to the last detail. She’s wonderful at that.”

  “Is that the best he can say about the woman he’s marrying?” Luke muttered in her ear.

  “Frank doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve,” she muttered back. But aloud she couldn’t resist saying, “Honestly, Frank, it’s not decent to be so cool and composed. You might at least be gnawing your fingers about whether Elly will show up at the church, or fretting that you aren’t good enough for her.”

  He looked bewildered for a moment, then smiled and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You will have your little joke,” he said tolerantly. “I’m so glad you’re here, my dear.”

  Elly was a plump, comfortable widow, a couple of years his senior. Pippa had met her before and liked her, thinking how perfectly she suited him. They reminded her of a couple of dormice, not exciting, but cosy and content together.

  Near the end of the reception Elly took Pippa aside and said, archly, “Such a very handsome young man! When will we hear wedding bells for you?”

  “You won’t,” Pippa said. To her relief Luke was on the other side of the room swapping funny stories with the best man.

  “But anyone can see you two are crazy about each other,” Elly protested.

  Pippa discovered that she didn’t have her heart under such perfect control as she’d hoped, otherwise the suggestion that Luke was crazy about her wouldn’t have made it leap like that. But she assumed a worldly-wise air.

  “I’m eighteen. I’ve got a lot of road to travel before I’m ready to settle down.”

  “You mean he hasn’t asked you?”

  “I mean that every little fling doesn’t have to end in marriage these days. Neither Luke or I care about doing the conventional thing. Elly, honestly, I’m really happy for you and Frank. I think you’re perfect together. But things are different for my generation.”

  To which Elly simply replied, “Hmm!” with a look of disconcerting shrewdness in her baby-blue eyes.

  Frank and Luke talked for a conscientious ten minutes, but both were relieved when it was over. Frank was kind and well-meaning, but he was also pompous and narrow-minded, and before she left he said firmly to Pippa, “That young man isn’t at all suitable for you, my dear. I’m afraid I’d have to call him rackety.”

  “He’s twenty-three,” Pippa said incensed. “Weren’t you rackety when you were his age?”<
br />
  He was shocked. “Certainly not!”

  “Well, you should have been! Everyone should be rackety at twenty-three. He’s got years and years to be responsible.”

  “You sound as though you’re quoting him,” Frank said, scoring a bull’s-eye and momentarily throwing her off balance. “Don’t give him your heart, Pippa. He’ll only break it.”

  She tried to sound nonchalant. “Maybe I’ll break his.”

  “I hope so. But I’m afraid the world doesn’t work that way.”

  “Oh, Frank, don’t be so stuffy! I’m having a wonderful time with Luke. Who cares about tomorrow?” She flitted away before he could say any more. She couldn’t cope with Frank’s disconcerting insights.

  As they lay in each other’s arms that night, Luke kissed her and said, “I’m afraid Frank and I bring out the worst in each other.”

  “I know. He said you were rackety. I told him he should have been rackety at your age.”

  Luke shouted with laughter. “I wish I could have seen his face. It’s not his way, any more than pipe and slippers are mine.”

  “Who wants pipe and slippers?” she murmured, beginning to nibble him. “There are other things…”

  “Mmm?” He lay back and stretched luxuriously, one arm behind his head, one leg carelessly raised, giving her the slow, significant smile she loved. “Why don’t you tell me about these other things?”

  “Aren’t you going to give me any help?”

  “Nope. I’m just going to lie here and let you have your wicked way with me.” He yawned provocatively. “I may even fall asleep.”

  “Over my dead body! Or yours!”

  He grinned. “Woman, are you going to seduce me, or are you going to sit there and yak all night?”

  “I’m going to seduce you,” she whispered. “But first I’m going to enjoy just looking at you.”

  She drew back and feasted her eyes on him. Luke’s shoulders weren’t broad or heavy with muscles, and his strength was of the whipcord variety, so apart from his height he wasn’t physically splendid: not if you were only looking. But Pippa wasn’t only looking. She was remembering, too, and her memories were delicious.