Prime Time

by Sandra Brown

  His tongue tasted her lips, licking them softly with its tip. He kissed the corners of her mouth until they quivered with the need to open to him. He pressed inside and swept her mouth. Palate, teeth, the inside of her lips knew the marauding of his tongue. It rubbed against hers and coaxed it into his mouth. The pressure found there was so sweet, she clung to him weakly.

  When he took pity and gradually eased away, they both breathed deeply of the essence of the other. He continued his adoration by nibbling her throat, the beginning of a journey the final destination of which was her ear.

  “When did you learn to kiss like that?” she asked on a soft moan as his teeth caught her earlobe.

  “Just now. Kissing hasn’t ever seemed that important until now.”

  “And it’s important now?”

  “Very.”

  “Why?”

  “So you’ll know how much you’re loved.”

  He kissed her again. This time his mouth was still, taking possession of hers, plunging his tongue deeply and holding it there. His arms held her imprisoned against him, and she felt the stirrings in his loins that were answered in her own.

  “Can you forgive me my former selfish insensitivity and come upstairs with me?”

  She nodded and they vacated the sofa. Quietly they gathered up discarded clothing, straightened what they were still wearing, and left the office.

  It was nighttime, the sun having set long ago, for it was dark out. They paused to listen, but could hear no noise coming from the kitchen or Gracie’s room beyond.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked politely, and Andy’s smile was wide.

  “What would you do if I said yes?” she teased.

  “Swallow real hard and try to keep from crying.”

  She took his hand and led him up the stairs. She thought he would take her into his room, but at the door of the bedroom she had occupied he stopped.

  “Let’s go in here.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They went into the moonlit room. Neither saw fit to turn on the lights since the room was bathed with a silver phosphorescence.

  “Don’t move,” he instructed as he began to shed his clothes.

  Obediently she sat on the edge of the bed where he had set her and watched with delight as first his shirt, then pants and underwear came off. He was such a marvelous specimen of the male animal that she was at once proud enough of him to want to show him to the world and at the same time fiercely jealous of every other woman who had ever seen him this way.

  “Come here,” he said, extending his hand.

  She stood up and went to him. He moved behind her and, settling his hands on her waist, maneuvered her toward the cheval glass that stood in the corner near the windows. She had admired the piece of furniture since the first time she entered the room. It stood almost seven feet tall. Made of rosewood, the oval frame was intricately carved. The frame holding the swivel mirror was sturdy, but gave the impression of delicacy. The piece was no doubt over a hundred years old, but the mirror had been resilvered so that their reflection showed up clearly as Lyon stood her directly in front of it.

  Standing behind her, his hands reached over her shoulders to unbutton the dress he had so haphazardly rebuttoned a short time earlier. One by one the buttons fell victim to the dexterity of his fingers. With great care he unbuckled the belt at her waist. Taking a side of the bodice in each of his hands, he slid them upward. The backs of his fingers grazed her breasts and she shivered. Weakening, she leaned against him but didn’t close her eyes.

  Cool evening air settled on her skin as he drew the dress off her shoulders. The cloth whispered down her arms under his guidance. With the merest touch of his hands it slithered over her hips and dropped unceremoniously to the floor. He leaned down to help her step free of it.

  “It couldn’t get any more wrinkled,” he said with a rueful smile as he straightened up. Then she felt him tense, felt his sudden intake of breath as he stared at her reflection in the mirror.

  “I don’t care if it wrinkles,” she sighed, overcome as he was by the moment and the web of sensuality he was slowly spinning around her, making her captive.

  Lovingly his hands wrestled with the pins that held her hair until it tumbled free. He took handfuls of it and carried them to his face. He grew intoxicated with its fragrance and buried his face in the golden strands. He lifted the heavy mane from her neck and kissed her there, using his tongue to caress.

  When he raised his head and let her hair fall naturally onto her shoulders, their eyes met in the mirror, and they smiled at each other.

  His hands glided from her shoulders down to her breasts. Her bra had been hastily refastened when Lyon had fumbled with her clothing, and now her breasts swelled against the gossamer casing. Lightly, so lightly it was almost a suggestion of a caress, his thumbs brushed the crests. If she had not been watching, she might have thought the airy strokes were a product of her imagination or the whimsical notion of a gentle breeze.

  But the tightening response was real. He put his lips to her ear and said with masculine satisfaction, “I told you that day in your motel room that this could be easily dispensed with.” The front snap of the bra was released, and he slipped the garment from her arms. It, too, found its way to the floor.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured.

  In the mirror she saw his hands close over her breasts. Her flesh strained through his fingers as he squeezed her gently, ever mindful of not hurting her. Moonlight highlighted the dark centers that attracted the attention of his loving fingers. He circled them slowly, arousingly, until she ached with need for him to touch her. When he did, when his fingers made contact with the distended buds, she felt the touch deep in her womb and cried out his name with the wonder of it all.

  “I don’t know how long I can do this,” he grated. “It’s a fantasy I wanted to act out. But, God, you’re lovely.”

  His hands slid down her sides, rippling over her ribs. When they reached the waistband of her half-slip, he leaned forward and nudged her head backward until his mouth met hers. As they kissed she felt his palms smoothing past her waist and knew that the backs of his hands were taking her last garment with them on their gradual descent.

  Without breaking free of his embrace, she stepped out of the half-slip, which formed a milky pool at her feet. His desire was hard and urgent against the small of her back, but he restrained himself long enough to drink in the splendor of her nakedness.

  Together they looked at their images in the mirror. His hand splayed over her abdomen, pulling her against the demanding manhood. His other hand stroked downward to caress her thighs, to feather past the golden triangle, to make promises with his fingertips.

  “You confuse me, Andy Malone. You look like an angel, but you feel like a temptress. The sounds you make deep in your throat when I caress you like this are nothing like a heavenly choir, but the most wanton of songs. Golden and ivory, you appear to be a cold, untouchable idol, yet you melt against my touch. Do I worship you, or love you?”

  “Love me. Now. Please, Lyon, now.” Turning in his arms and greeting the manifestation of his arousal, she left no room for doubt of the response she wanted from him.

  His hands captured her beneath the fullness of her hips and carried her to the bed. He laid her down gently, having promised himself that he would never take her so hurriedly as he had done before. It had cheated them both.

  He lay beside her and when she rolled against him, he stayed her by placing his hand on her breast. “There’s time,” he whispered against her breast before kissing it tightly and then taking the swollen tip into his mouth to be loved. His tongue rolled over her nipple in a massage that made her whimper with longing. He plucked at it with his lips and soothed it again with his tongue.

  “Please, Lyon.”

  “I’ll never be selfish with you again. Let me love you.”

  His hands wandered at will. His mouth kissed randomly. Yet he touched he
r as though each erogenous spot had been mapped out for him. His lips discovered the sensitized skin on the undersides of her upper arms, then traveled down her chest to her breasts, and over her stomach. A nimble tongue ravished her navel and made it his. Then chin, nose, and mouth nuzzled her so intimately that she wept at the sheer pleasure and pain of loving him.

  Time and again he brought her to the brink of insensibility, but always kept her poised over it, never letting her fall without him. Then when they both were quaking with need, he covered her and buried himself in the sweet haven of her body.

  He rocked her gently, lifting her hips with the palms of his hands so she would know all of him. The fit of their bodies was so precise and the rhythm of their movements so synchronized that later they would marvel over it.

  Chanting loving words of praise and adoration, he carried her with him into the sublime.

  “… feels so good when …”

  “… deep inside …”

  “… yes …”

  “… thought you might be lying when you said …”

  “No, there’s been no one since Robert.”

  “Les?”

  “Never, Lyon. I swear it.”

  “Ah, Andy, it is so good.”

  “For me, too. And, Lyon, it’s never been like this before.”

  “You mean . . ?”

  “Yes. Never before.”

  “Kiss me.”

  “Is it too hot?”

  “No.”

  “Too cold?”

  “Just right. Where’s the soap?” she asked.

  “I get to go first,” he said.

  “No, I do.”

  Lathered hands worked over a hairy chest. A dainty tongue dared to be adventurous. Fingers idled at his waist.

  “Andy?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “To touch me? Don’t be. Touch me, Andy.”

  Tentatively she sought him. Bravely she touched him. Innocently she loved him.

  “Oh, God, Andy.” He covered her hand with his own. “Sweet, sweet love, yes. Yes!” He backed her to the wet tile wall.

  “It’s your turn now,” she said breathlessly.

  “I forfeit my turn.”

  Replete, they lay in bed, an interlocking puzzle of arms and legs. He lazily trailed his fingertips up and down her back as she nestled her nose in his chest hair.

  “What did you think of my father, Andy?”

  “Why do you ask that now?”

  She could feel his shrug. “I don’t know. I guess because he was always worried about what people would think of him, how the history books would read.”

  “He was a great man, Lyon. The more I read about him, the more I admire him as a soldier. But I don’t think that’s what I’ll remember about him. I’ll always think of him as kind old gentleman who loved his son, who yearned for the wife long gone, who respected other people, who valued his privacy. Am I right?”

  “More than you know.” He disengaged himself to scoot up until his back was resting against the headboard. Indifferent to his nakedness, he raised one knee as he pulled her up with him and cradled her against his side.

  “Les was right, you know,” he said quietly.

  She lifted her head to look into his solemn face. “About what, Lyon?” She didn’t want to know, but she had to ask because he wanted to tell her.

  “About there being a definite reason why my father went into seclusion, about there being a secret behind General Michael Ratliff’s withdrawal from both the Army and society.”

  She lay still, barely breathing.

  “He came home a hero, you see, but he didn’t feel like one. Have you ever heard of the battle along the banks of the Aisne?”

  “Yes. It was a major Allied victory in your father’s sector. Thousands of the enemy were killed.”

  “Thousands of American soldiers, too.”

  “Regrettably that’s the price of victory.”

  “In my father’s eyes it was too high a price to pay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lyon sighed and shifted his weight. “He made a costly error in judgment and sent an entire regiment into a virtual slaughterhouse. It happens frequently. Officers risk their troops’ lives for the sake of a promotion. Not my father. He valued the life of every man under his command, from his officers to the humblest fresh recruit. When he realized what had happened, he was devastated. He couldn’t ever forget that his error had cost the lives of so many men, created so many widows and orphans …” his voice trailed off.

  “But, Lyon, measured against his valor, one mistake is forgiveable.”

  “To us, yes. Not to him. He was sickened that the battle was hailed as one of the turning points of the war. He was decorated for it. It was considered a great victory, but it defeated him as a soldier, as a man.

  “When he came home and was hailed a hero, he couldn’t stand the conflict within himself. He didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like a traitor.”

  “That can’t be!”

  “Not a traitor to his country, but to the men who had trusted his judgment and leadership. It was a conflict he never could reconcile, so he retired from the Army and came here and shut out the world and all reminders of the lie he was living.”

  They were quiet for a moment before she said, “No one would have thrown stones at him, Lyon. He was a respected man, a hero, a leader at a time in history when America needed heroes and leaders. It was a battleground that spread out for miles. Amidst all the chaos he may have thought he made a mistake when actually he didn’t”

  “I know that, Andy, and you know that, but since the time I was old enough to understand his reclusiveness, I was never able to convince him of it,” he said sadly. “He died still regretting that one day in his life as though he had lived no other. It didn’t matter what the public would have thought if they had known. He judged himself more severely than anyone else could have.”

  “How tragic for him. He was such a lovely man, Lyon. Such a lovely man.”

  “He thought highly of you, too,” he said on a lighter note and combed through her hair.

  She tilted her head back to look at him. “He did?”

  “Yes, he told me you had a very nice figure.”

  “Like father, like son.”

  “And,” he continued, ignoring her barb, “he told me the day he died that if I was so big a damn fool to let you leave, then I deserved to lose you.”

  “To which you said …?”

  “It doesn’t bear repeating. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t in an amenable mood.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I’m exhausted and want to go to sleep, but can’t bear the thought of wasting time sleeping while you’re naked in my bed.”

  “Would it make you feel any better to know that I’m sleepy, too?”

  He grinned and kissed her. Lying down, he pulled her back against his chest and snuggled close, adjusting her body to the length of his.

  She cleared her throat loudly. “Mr. Ratliff, perhaps you don’t realize where your hand is.”

  “Yes, I do, but I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

  “Are you going to be a gentleman and remove it?”

  “No. I’m already asleep.”

  Sunlight made her squint as she was putting on her earrings in front of the cheval glass the next morning. Her image in the mirror reminded her of the night before, when Lyon had admitted her into his erotic fantasy. Her hand trembled slightly, and she didn’t recognize the rapturous expression on her face. It had never been there before.

  Last night could have been a dream, were it not for the vivid reminders left on her body. Her breasts were lightly chafed by the abrasions of Lyon’s whisker-rough cheeks. The nipples tingled with memory of his lips and tongue. There was a heavy sensation between her thighs each time she recalled the way Lyon’s body had coupled with hers.

  She basked most of all in the luxury of l
oving and knowing that her love was returned. Each time their loving was made complete, it was more than a physiological blending, but a fusing of spirits as well. His sexual prowess had brought her womanhood to life, a life she had never known was there to discover. But that was only one reason why she loved him. She loved the man, his vulnerability when she had seen him grief-stricken, his strength, his humor. She even loved the temper she had seen unleashed on a few occasions.

  Lyon. She loved Lyon.

  Soon after they awakened, he had excused himself so they could both dress. He had brought the suitcase from her car before he went to his own room.

  As she dressed she planned how she would ask him to sign the release form and tell him of the decision she had made just before falling asleep in his arms. She didn’t know what their future held. It hadn’t been discussed. Last night they had lived only for the present. But whatever happened between them—and she couldn’t imagine a future without him now—she knew her life had to change direction. It couldn’t go on as it had. Until she had made that decision, she didn’t know how cramped and confined she’d felt. Now she felt free, unchained.

  She heard his steps on the stairs and attributed his haste to the same impulse that made her heartbeat quicken with the knowledge that he was near. Making one last hasty inspection of herself in the mirror, she whirled around to greet him as he came through the door.

  “At last! My lover returns—” Her words died in her throat as she took in his murderous expression. His eyes fairly sparked with fury. His mouth was thinly twisted into a bitter sneer.

  “You lying, scheming—”

  “Lyon,” she shouted, breaking off the hateful epithet. “What’s happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s happened. A little slut by the name of Andy Malone has duped me again.”

  “Duped—”

  “Spare me the act, okay,” he yelled. “I know now what you’re here for.”

  “Lyon,” she said, collapsing onto the bed and staring up at him with bewilderment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”