A Lasting Love

by Mary Tate Engels

  "Oh, Loren, I want you so." He buried his face against her neck as his hands searched her back and shoulders, slipping under the tailored jacket.

  Painfully she tore away. "Please, Reid, give me time."

  "Time for what?"

  "I ... I don't know," she gasped. "This has all happened so fast. I just ..."

  Resigned, he dropped his hands to his sides. "All right. Let's give ourselves time. But, Loren, what was once between us, what we once shared is still here. You know it as well as I do. Don't fight it." He ambled into the kitchen and picked up his jacket, hooking it over his shoulder.

  Loren stared, the events of the evening flashing before her like a fast-paced movie, ending with Reid walking out her door. Again.

  Oh, no!

  She was beside him, her fingers digging acutely into his arm. "Don't go, Reid," Loren begged, knowing this was against all she stood for. "Please, don't go."

  Chapter Four

  The piercing, insistent jangling of the phone roused Loren, and she reached for it in a half stupor.

  "Um-hum," she mumbled. The bed was cozy and so very comfortable that she hated to move. But the phone wouldn't hush.

  The voice was clear and strong. "Loren, darling, how are you this morning?"

  "Hum?" With a start Loren recognized Mark's eager voice. She stole a guilty glance at the tousle-haired form of the man in bed beside her. "I—I'm still in bed, Mark." At least it was the truth.

  "Sorry I woke you, darling. But I wanted to see how you're feeling. I'm heading out to the regatta today and wondered if you wanted to go."

  The bronze-toned man beside her began to stir, sliding one wiry-haired masculine leg over hers.

  Loren's mind wandered, then she remembered she was supposed to be sick. Well, she'd better sound like it. Her voice was somewhat shrill at first. "Oh, no. I mean . . . Mark, I couldn't possibly go sailing today. My stomach is still too squeamish."

  A large, firm hand snaked across her stomach, then spread lower on her anatomy, curiously probing her navel. The distracting touch sent shivers down both of her legs.

  Mark's voice came anxiously over the phone. "You're still sick? Loren, darling, do you need to call a doctor?"

  The warm hand cupped her breast, teasing the soft, relaxed tip.

  Breathless, she urged, "No doctor needed. I, uh . . . probably a touch of the flu. I just need some rest."

  "Can I bring you something, darling? Chicken soup? Seven-Up?"

  "Ohhh . . ." That naughty nipple puckered tightly, and Loren found concentration difficult. "Please . . . don't." Marvelous pressure was applied equally to each soft mound, and Loren's voice came out in spurts. "Mark, don't come over here. You . . . might catch it! Whatever I've got . . ."

  A low, masculine voice rumbled in her ear, "He'll catch it, all right. Guaranteed."

  Mark sounded reluctant. "Well, if you're sure . . ."

  Relief—or insane passion—swelled her voice. "Oh, I'm sure, Mark. I just need time to recuperate. All I want to do today is rest." She smothered a giggle as the dark mustache tickled her ear.

  The masculine voice rasped again in her ear and she squirmed. "We’ll rest up for the next round."

  "Well, darling, sorry you're feeling so bad and can't go with me today. I'll call tonight and see you tomorrow for sure," Mark finished confidently.

  The phone clicked before Loren had a chance to say she might be "sick" tomorrow too. Deception was not her style, and she found that she wasn't comfortable with it ... for a moment. She turned, smiling, to the captivating man who lay beside her. Mark was immediately forgotten.

  Reid's features in repose were so familiar, yet strange; so customary, yet rare. The jet-black hair fell casually over his forehead, excessive lashes hid those devilish eyes, the mustache framed his marvelous lips so that only the bottom of his top lip was visible. And where was that elusive dimple? Her finger explored the tanned cheek, then edged his lower lip. White teeth nibbled at the soft pads on the tips of her fingers. Warm lips encased them completely with a sensuous sucking motion. His hand riveted possessively around her bare waist, pulling her half under his aroused, male contour.

  "Was that your lover on the phone?" he growled.

  Instantly Loren stiffened. "He's not my lover. We . . . we're engaged. Mark is—"

  Reid interrupted. "—a fool for believing you. And for leaving you alone with me for even a minute. I should have followed my baser instincts and punched him in the nose last night. How rude of him to disturb us this morning." His ebony eyes opened, and Loren felt herself sinking helplessly into their enchanting depths . . . into Reid's spell.

  She struggled for some degree of decorum, wrestling with her own conscience. Mention of Mark reminded her sharply of what she had done. "Oh, Reid. I shouldn't have. I lied to Mark. I told him I was sick."

  His heavy leg hooked over both of hers while his skillful hand traveled impartially to each ivory breast. "And you did that very well, mi amor. I say he deserves it for disturbing us." He nuzzled her ear, his sharp tongue tantalizing the sensitive shell.

  "Reid—"

  "What's wrong, querida? Got the guilts?"

  "Reid, you don't understand . . ." she implored as her arms clasped automatically around his neck. "We can't continue this . . . this way." Her taut breasts arched achingly against his hairy chest, and she moaned slightly as outrageous sensations coursed through her body.

  "Dios mío, you're so right!" he groaned. His enthusiastic smile revealed the roguish dimple somewhere beyond the dark mustache. "And I have the only solution to our particular problem." He caressed her rib cage, slender waist, flat belly, all the way to the soft, downy tuft. His knee insinuated itself between her thighs, and her femininity was unequivocally responding to his mastery once again.

  "Reid ... oh, oh, Reid . . ." Loren buried her face against his corded neck, kissing and nicking at the skin.

  "Ohhh,” he groaned with pleasure in his voice. You're enough to drive a man crazy."

  Her hands dug into his shoulders fiercely. "Look .. . who's talking . .. about crazy . .." she gasped. "Reid, please."

  "Oh, no, you don't. I want to enjoy you to the fullest, my beautiful blue eyes." He flipped the cover off them, and with one hand at her waist and the other snugly driving her crazy, pulled Loren atop his nude length. "I want to see all of you, Loren. To know if my memory serves me right. Damn, I've missed you! Missed this."

  She laughed giddily at his boldness, and her own wild abandon. She had missed him too. Missed his brazen admissions, his ardent lovemaking. Loren wriggled erotically over him, struggling to balance herself aboard his muscular form.

  "Here, let me help you..."

  Before she knew what was happening, she sat astride Reid's well-knit frame, laughing, enjoying, responding to his touch again. He was back. No more dreams.

  "Ah Loren, mi querida, you are perfección."

  He pulled her to him so his fingers could traced her already sensitive breasts. He tantalized her soothed her, and with an exclamation of pure pleasure, he trailed kisses along the valley between her breasts.

  His male admiration of her soft feminine body sent torrents of desire shooting through her, and Loren had difficulty sitting still. She placed her hands on his ribs, bracing herself anxiously. "Reid—"

  "Easy... easy ... not yet," he admonished. His thumbs and forefingers gently twisted the dusky rose tips, and they pouted immediately. His guttural chuckle was full of undisguised masculine satisfaction. "I love to see that. To see you respond to me, and only—" He halted and didn't finish the obvious statement. His dark-fire eyes sought hers, the passion obvious, the unasked question smoldering behind tight lips.

  As if in answer, Loren leaned back against Reid's propped-up legs. Her smile was one of extreme pleasure and untapped desire. Should she tell him that he was the only one who excited her with his touch . . . the only one, not even Mark.

  "Reid, I love you to touch me like that. You make me feel so ... so wante
d."

  "Ah, mi amor, you are wanted. So much, you'll never know . . ."

  His hands traveled down her silken skin, tantalizing and manipulating her soft femininity, exciting and thrilling her. Reid loved her as she had not been loved for six years. Loren closed her eyes in ecstasy, glowing in the shock waves of passion that fired her veins.

  Time became endless as hot currents charged her limbs, engulfing Loren's senses beyond control. Reid commanded and dominated her body, and she followed his authority and mastery eagerly and willingly. It had always been this way. He, and only he, knew how to gauge her responses and charge her to the height of her yearning. Reid's dark image had even invaded her dreams, holding and exciting her, just like this. And she would awake in a heat to find herself alone.

  Maybe this was a dream too. She had to know, to wake up before ... "Reid . . . Reid . . ." She reached for him, scraping her fingernails over his crisp yet velvety chest hairs, grasping the tiny, hard buttons she found there. In her half-drugged state she squeezed sharply. Was he real ... or still a dream?

  "Ow!" Reid's very real, loud yelp penetrated Loren's erotic dreams. "Devil-woman! What the hell!"

  Loren jolted awake, shocked at his loud expulsion disturbing her dreamlike mood. Then she was embarrassed by her own roughness. "Oh-oh, sorry. I wanted to see if you were real," she muttered inanely. "I've dreamed about you for so long, Reid. I guess I can't believe you're real."

  "Come here, devil-woman," he chuckled, pulling her to him.

  Eagerly Loren pressed her taut nipples against his hard chest, weaving erotically to enhance the sensations of her smooth skin gliding on his. The aroused pebbly tips grated over his irregular torso, so muscular and hard beneath her silken softness. She relished his touch, and dug her fingers into his shoulders to brace herself.

  His broad hands caressed her back, trailing downward to stroke the curve of her buttocks. A wild hunger, unsatisfied for years, intensified Loren's passion. She bent her head to tease his button-hard nipples with her tongue, then allowed the moist taunting to thread its way over his most sensitive places.

  "Loren—" The sound was rather strident from his throat. He buried his hands in her tawny hair that lay tousled against his tanned skin. "Stay right here—"

  It was exactly what she had been seeking. His response to her was vigorous and impelling. This was no dream. Reid was real. "Touch me, Reid. I want you to . . ." she rasped against his ear.

  His hands obeyed her commands, teasing and stroking until she was fully ready for him. Then, with a low groan, he gathered her in his arms, rolling her under him. His breath was hot and uneven. " Loren, mi amor, see if I'm real now. This is no dream—" He slid between her legs, pausing maddeningly to brace his arms on either side of her.

  In that frenzied moment Loren reached for him, arching impatiently to satiate her burning hunger. "Reid, Reid—" His name sizzled in the morning as his lips covered hers. He filled her with his throbbing passion and they were one again, lost from the real world for timeless, ecstasy filled minutes, longing never to return.

  Their bodies came together with the same furor as their kisses, all-consuming and fierce. His tongue eased past her open, willing lips to plunder her honeyed depths.

  Reid's heated force was met with Loren's eager yearning, the two as one in their blazing frenzy. A volcano of fire spiraled within her as Loren felt his hands dig under her hips, pressing them even closer. The waves of Loren's desire rose higher and higher, mounting with the deep thrusting rhythm that encompassed them both. An eternity of ecstasy . . . never-ending fervor ... the feverish crest of passion ... an explosion of precise timing as they reached a climax together . . . and Loren knew she was Reid's forever. Their love had lasted in spite of separation and time. She would always love him. Always be his to love.

  They returned to the real, sunlit world, drenched in the sweet moisture of love. Reid shifted, brushing her tumbled hair back, lightly kissing her eyelids. Loving words rumbled from deep within his chest.

  "Reid, oh, Reid," Loren moaned when she could finally catch her breath. "It's so good to have you back. So good ..." Once again, sensual pleasure and complete satisfaction were a part of her existence. There was no denying that need, but it was one only Reid could fill.

  When Reid's passion was spent and he slumped against her, Loren collapsed in a tirade of tears. They were silent streams, tears of emotional joy. Of relief. But when they fell damp against Reid's shoulder, he raised his head, alarmed.

  "Loren, preciosa, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?" He kissed her entire face tenderly and placed his forearms on either side of her, bracing himself over her.

  Loren shook her head as Reid's lips continued to kiss, to lick, the tears away. She smiled up at him, the remaining mist glistening in her blue eyes. "No, of course not. I'm just so happy to have you back with me. The only time you hurt me was when you left."

  The grim reminder sent a shudder through him. "Ah, Loren, mi amor, my beautiful blue eyes. Never again will I leave you."

  "Never? Oh, Reid, never?" Her eyes opened wide.

  He kissed her again, lightly caressing her smooth skin. "I would have to be a fool, wouldn't I?"

  She smiled wryly. "It happened before. . . ."

  "Okay, I was a fool once. But not twice. This . . . you are too wonderful. Our love will conquer whatever the future holds." And his lips sealed his promise with tender passion.

  Loren listened and believed him, wanting with all her heart for his words to be true.

  After sharing the shower they dressed quietly, each lost in personal thoughts. Loren ran a quick comb through her hair, and applied a dab of lip gloss. Glowing with love and contentment, she crossed the room as Reid's low voice sang a disjointed medley of tunes they loved. She paused by the door, her hand gripping the wooden facing. Remembrances flooded her. How many times had they lain together, arms and legs entwined, listening to these sweet sounds? Or argued good naturedly about which album was best. They had taken favorites songs along on a picnic to Valley Forge one time. Oh, Reid, that was so long ago. And yet he still sang their love songs. How could he? Unless, in his mind, things were unchanged. Was it possible?

  Loren swallowed the heavy lump rising in her throat and padded down the steep, curved stairs, deep in remembrance of their once wonderful love. Could it be that way again? By the time Reid joined her in the kitchen, coffee was brewed, and she was thawing a frozen coffeecake in the microwave.

  "What a wonderful morning." he crowed. "Wow, you're absolutely beautiful today, Loren. That sweater almost matches your eyes. Course, I like you in nothing!" His hands embraced her from behind, and he planted a succulent kiss on her nape.

  "Morning," she purred. "Coffee?"

  "Sure. I love to follow my morning exercise with hot coffee," he teased, kissing her earlobe from behind.

  "Reid," she protested, turning with the intention of pushing him away. But her arms snaked around his neck, and she found herself resting against him. "Always? Do you always follow your morning workout with coffee?" She grabbed his ears threateningly.

  But he laughed and claimed, "Mi amor, I haven't had a morning workout like that in six years. Not since you, Loren, and you know it." He kissed her sweet, smiling lips securely, convincingly, and she wanted to believe him.

  Abruptly she tore her lips away from his. "Ooow, prickly beast this morning, aren't you?"

  "That's the way it is with us hairy men. Twenty-four hours without shaving and I have the beginnings of a beard. You don't happen to have a razor stashed away, do you?"

  She grinned and scraped the stubble of his dark beard. Funny, she hadn't noticed his prickly chin earlier that morning when they made love. Loren combed her fingers gently over the marvelous sable mustache.

  He kissed her again, and she experienced the soft sensations of his mustache above her lips in contrast with the sharp pricks of his overnight growth of beard. But she didn't mind at all. It just added to the proof that he was not a dream.

>   "Reid," she finally mumbled, pushing gently against his firm chest. "Our coffee's getting cold."

  He shifted obligingly, and Loren turned to retrieve the cup. She dumped the cold liquid into the sink and fixed him another, this time steaming. "Black?"

  He nodded. "You remembered."

  She grinned. "It wasn't very complicated."

  Reid walked around the cozy yellow kitchen with his coffee. "Things are still remarkably the same around here. I believe the microwave's new." He bent to gaze out the window into the precise, symmetrical garden. "New tree. What kind is it?"

  "Cherry. The blossoms were beautiful this spring." Loren relaxed at the small round table, pleasantly content to have him poking around her home again.

  "Who—" He halted, not looking at her, not finishing his partly verbalized thought.

  "Who helped me plant it?" Loren asked with a wry smile. "Mark." It was an impulsive statement. Perhaps that wasn't what he was thinking at all. Maybe he didn't really care who helped her. Why in hell had she even said it? She could have bitten her tongue.

  Reid pressed his lips together and acknowledged the fact, continuing to amble around the sunny room. What did he expect? She was only human . . . and feminine . . . and sexy. He appeared cool, but inside he burned. It wasn't the tree-planting, or engagement rings, or quiet dinners that bothered him. It was the thought of Mark's hands inevitably on her that drove him crazy. Of the shadows of them alone in the dark. Of the image of them entwined in that bed . . . their bed. . . upstairs together. Suddenly his fist crashed onto the counter, scattering the cups they had left the night before.

  Loren jumped.

  Reid appeared as startled over his action as she was. His dark, smoldering eyes caught hers in a fierce gaze. Then, just as quickly, it softened. "Sorry, Loren. I... don't think I broke them. It's just that I was . . . oh, hell . . . it's cracked." He turned back to straighten the cups. One was broken.

  "Reid?"

  "It's broken. This one's cracked." He sounded as sorrowful as if it had been a major catastrophe.

  She jumped up. "Not your mug!" Surely not his tacky mug with the roadrunner. Somehow it was significant.