by Diana Castle
“Why?”
“I want to love you, Lydia. I want to give my entire body and soul to you. But I can't. Not yet.”
Her heart stopped. Love her. He wanted to love her? “Why, Tristan? I don’t understand. Why can't you love me?”
“I…I can't tell you. It’s…complicated.” Then he laughed, but his laughter was bitter. “And you wouldn't believe me if I did tell you.”
She squeezed his hand. “I would, Tristan. I would believe anything you told me.”
“Not this.”
“Is it because…I'm too old? Is that why you won’t let yourself love me?”
“What? God, no. That's not it at all.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Oh, sweet, if only you knew...”
“Knew what? Please, tell me.”
He stroked her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, and as he looked over at her, his eyes were so full it hurt her heart.
“Will you trust me, Lydia?” His gaze darted over to the detective’s report. “Can you? Even after that?”
Could she? She’d just admitted she loved him. Loving him meant trusting him. But how could she trust him when faced with the black and white facts in the detective's report. But facts were cold and hard. And Tristan was here and he was warm flesh and blood.
And, God help her, she did love him. She leaned towards him.
He put his arms about her. “Lydia, darling,” he whispered against her hair, his arms around her holding her close. “Please, please. Trust me. Trust me for just a little while longer.”
She tightened her arms about his waist. In spite of the pain of Douglas’s betrayal, her mother's desire to see her alone and unloved, and the detective's honest sincerity in the face of Lydia’s skepticism, she wanted…no…she needed to trust him.
She lifted her face from his chest and looked up into his eyes. “I want to trust you. But what about—?”
He stopped her mouth with the tips of his fingers. “I promise, when it’s time, I’ll answer all your questions.”
She had wanted to ask him about Rosemary Pryor, the elderly woman who had not been included in the detective’s written report. But at the stark entreaty in his eyes she remained silent.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll be patient. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for when you’re ready.”
He smiled. “Thank you. You don't know how much that means to me.” He leaned down and kissed her.
Their kiss deepened until Lydia was breathless, her head spinning. He eased her back against the couch. He pushed the report onto the floor. Moving his hands down her neck, the tips of his fingers trailed over her throat until they reached the front of her blouse. He unbuttoned it and clutched her breasts where they swelled out of her bra. He rasped his thumbs across the fabric until her nipples tightened underneath it
Sliding his lips down her neck, he nipped gently at her skin, his tongue licking her heated flesh. He moved his warm, moist mouth across the top of her breasts, his tongue dipping deep into her cleavage. Wetness from her sex seeped between her legs and dampened her panties as she feverishly pressed her breasts against his mouth.
He crouched over her, his thighs straddling her legs. He pulled her bra down her breasts. She arched her back, pushing her breasts deeper into his hands. He kneaded them, his fingers pinching her nipples into hard, aching nubs.
“Hmmm, I love your tits.” He lowered his head and wrapped his mouth about her nipple, wetly sucking and licking the stiff tip with his tongue.
Lydia tossed her head from side to side, a hot ache growing in her cunt. “Oh, Tristan, please, fuck me. Fuck me.”
He jerked her pants from off her hips, pulled them off her legs and tossed them to the floor. Grabbing her panties with both hands, the tore them apart and threw the torn fabric away. He gripped her thighs and pushed them apart, exposing her sex, which was wet and swollen with need.
He parted the moist, tender folds with his fingers then lowered his head and covered her pussy with his soft, warm mouth. He licked her sex, his long, pointed tongue twisting among the seeping whorls.
She moaned and twisted against the couch as he mercilessly teased her cunt with his lip, tongue, and teeth. She shuddered from her need to come. “Please, Tristan, please, oh, please. I want to come. Make me come.”
He held her shivering hips still and slid his tongue inside her, thrusting it softly, wetly, thickly. Then she felt it flicking across her clitoris.
She climaxed. Hard and deep. She shuddered beneath him, her eyes tightly shut. He quickly moved up her body. She reached up and unzipped his jeans. Moving her hand within, she took hold of his cock and eased it out. He slid it smoothly into the warm succulence of her sex. She moved her hips in tiny circles, the base of his cock rubbing against her clit.
“Yes, sweet. Hmmm, you feel so good.” He lowered his head and sucked her breast and as he did he fucked her. Hard. The way she liked it. The way she needed it.
“Yes, yes, harder, harder,” she gasped.
Tristan hammered his cock within her and with each hard thrust and each heated breath, he whispered her name. Over and over. She climaxed again. Then she felt his body stiffen and heard him groan as he pumped his seed inside her.
Once he was done, he lowered himself on top of her, his face nestled deep in her neck.
“Lydia,” he whispered. “My sweet.”
She put her arms around him and rubbed his back beneath his shirt. His skin was hot and damp with sweat.
“Thank you.” he said, his breath warm against her skin.
“For what? For this?”
He slowly raised his head and looked down into her eyes. “Yes, for this. Always for this.” He traced her lips with his finger. “But also for trusting me.”
Lydia's throat tightened. “I do trust you, Tristan.”
He smiled down at her. “Ready for bed?”
She looked at the clock on the living room wall. “It's only four.” Although, at this time of the year, it was close to dark already.
He kissed the tip of her nose. “I know.” Then he grinned, his eyes glowing with lust. “But I wasn't planning on sleeping. Were you?”
She ran her hands through his hair and smiled. “No, not in the least.”
* * * * *
Lydia nestled her head against Tristan's chest. His heart beat under her ear just as the aftershocks of her last orgasm pulsed within her. Lying there in her bed, with her arms close around him, she felt as if a storm had cast her upon a strange and alien shore. But even as the languor of sleep stole over her, fear lashed her, like storm-tossed waves thrashing against a beach.
The fear that she'd made a terrible mistake trusting him. His breath had evened into deep slumber. And even as she sank into her own sex-exhausted sleep, she continued to cling to him. She clung to him like a buoy tossed about in a typhoon that bore his name.
* * * * *
Lydia suddenly awoke. She looked over at the alarm clock. The digital readout said 4:17.
4:17 in the a.m.
She sighed. Why had she woken up so early? Although it was a Monday, she was not scheduled to work at the store today and, usually, after a night of wild sex with Tristan, she would have slept until noon.
She smiled and looked over to where he lay next to her.
Her smile dimmed.
His side of the bed was empty.
She glanced at the bathroom door. It was open and the light was off. She sat up, the sheets falling from around her naked breasts. Rubbing at her eyes, she yawned. She was tempted to wrap up in the blankets and go back to sleep.
But that feeling that something had woken her persisted.
She got out of bed and, picking up her robe, which was on a nearby chair, she put it on. Her bare feet sank into the carpet as she made her way towards the closed bedroom door.
Hearing someone's voice from behind it she stopped, her hand on the doorknob.
It was Tristan's voice. But who was he talking to?
A trickle of fear slithered d
own her spine as old doubts and suspicions rose within her. She slowly turned the knob and eased the door open. The hallway leading from her bedroom to the living room was dark. Now she could clearly hear Tristan's voice. It came from the living room.
She padded silently down the carpeted hallway and stopped at the entrance to the living room. The lights were off here too. She could just make out Tristan's head and shoulders where he sat on the couch. His back was to her and he held a cell phone to his ear.
She frowned. Who could he be talking to this early in the morning? A part of her wanted to let him know she was there but another part—a part she was very much ashamed of—needed to remain unnoticed and undetected. She kept silent and listened.
“No, my darling, it's all right. I forgive you. Please don't cry.” His voice was so warm, so gentle, so full of love.
Lydia's heart trip hammered in her chest and the blood beat so fiercely in her veins she feared she would faint.
“Yes, darling,” he said softly. “I know, love. I miss you too.”
Tears stung Lydia’s eyes and she wanted to run howling through the streets like a mad dog.
“No. That’s not true. I do love you. I've always loved you.” He paused for a long moment. “Yes, I will love you forever.”
She pressed her fist to her mouth. She stifled back a moan as the bile rose in her throat.
“The Saint Antimo Abbey?” She saw him nod. “Yes. I remember. We had a wonderful time there. Tuscany. The villa in Montaclino. It was all very beautiful. Just as you were.”
The doorjamb was the only thing that was keeping Lydia on her feet. She leaned against it, hoping, praying she was dreaming, that she'd wake up and Tristan would be lying next to her, his arms around her, his lips warm and soft on her neck instead of him sitting on her couch, in her home, whispering endearments over the phone into his lover's ear.
She moaned. She could feel the marks on her body where he had bit her breasts and squeezed her hips as his cock had surged inside her.
She could still smell him on her!
“I'll be there as soon as I can,” he said. “Yes, love, I promise.” He paused but when he spoke again his voice was as heavy with pain as it was soft with love. “Wait for me, love. I'm on my way. Wait for me.”
He thumbed off the cell phone. His silhouette was a darker shadow against the gloom of the living room. He bowed his head, his shoulders slumped. After a long moment, he lifted his head and rose from the couch. As he turned towards the bedroom he saw her.
Lydia couldn't see his face but she sensed his shock.
“Lydia,” he said. “What are you doing there?”
Her throat constricted as she struggled to form the words that rolled about her chest like hot rocks.
“I live here,” she said simply, wearily.
He moved towards her, but she noted that his movements were wary and hesitant as if he was trying not to scare her. He was naked and, despite it all, she could not help but notice how beautiful his tall, muscular body was.
When he drew close enough to touch her, she quickly stepped away from him, her arms shielding her body. She could see his face now. His gorgeous, beloved face. Her hands slowly curled about her arms, her fingers throbbing. She wanted so much to scratch out his beautiful eyes, scrape her nails down his handsome face. Hurt him as much as he had hurt her. Instead, she hugged herself harder, as much to comfort herself as to keep from striking out at him.
“Leave,” she said, her voice low and cold.
He made as if to touch her. “Lydia, what—”
She shook her head and took another step back. “Don’t touch me. Just go. Go and never come back.”
His eyes darkened, but with sorrow not with anger. “You heard.”
Her throat tightened until the pain was unbearable. She willed herself not to cry. She had cried in front of Douglas when he finally confessed to his affair with Tiffany. She would not cry in front of Tristan.
“I heard.”
“Please, sweet—”
“Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that.”
He stared at her, his throat working. “Lydia, please. If you would just—”
“Just what? Trust you?”
He nodded. “Yes, trust me.”
“Oh, God, you’re unbelievable. I did, Tristan. I trusted you. And this is how you repay my trust.”
“I know what this must look like. And I’m sorry. I would never have done this to you but—” He raked his hands through his hair. “It’s just not the—”
“What? Time?” Lydia laughed but her laughter hinged on panic. “But it’s the perfect time. The perfect time to finally tell me the truth. Don’t I at least deserve that?”
Her voice had risen until it was almost a howl. She quickly took in and released a deep breath. No, she would not make a scene. She would not give him the satisfaction of a scene.
“Yes, Lydia, you do deserve the truth. But there are things I need to explain to you. Want to explain to you. It’s just that right now it’s—”
“Complicated,” she finished for him. “Yes, you told me that last night. No, Tristan, there's nothing to explain.”
“Lydia, please—”
“I don't want to hear it. I don’t want to hear any of it.” She rubbed her forehead. It was pounding. She suddenly felt weak, as if all the life had seeped out of her and she was nothing but an empty shell. “I'm tired. I just want to sleep. Please, just get your clothes and go.”
“I don't want to go, Lydia. I don't want to lose you.”
“But you have to go, Tristan. I heard you. She’s waiting for you. You told her you'd come right away. You asked her to wait. So go. Go to her.”
Tristan reached over and took hold of her arms.
“No, let go of me.” Lydia struggled to get away but he held her tight, his hands hard around her arms.
“Lydia, please, you have to listen.”
“No! I don't have to do anything. I'm not a child. I'm thirty-nine years old.” She looked up at him, her heart bursting. “Is that it? Is that what this is about? You couldn't deal with it any longer? My being older than you? So you found someone else. Someone younger.'
“No, that’s not it at all.”
“Then what is it? Who is she? Can’t you at least tell me that?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “Her name is Rosemary Pryor,” he finally said. “And she is…she was my wife.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “Rosemary Pryor? Oh, God. Mother was right. She was absolutely right about you.”
She started laughing. A wild, out of control laughter that made her chest hurt. But it was the laughter of grief and now her sobs were also fused with that laughter and the sound was unlike anything she had ever made in her life.
She sounded like a mad woman.
“And all this time,” she went on, the weeping and the laughter swelling within her, “I thought Mother was just being cruel. That she didn’t want me to be with you because she wanted me to be alone and unloved. Like she is. But all this time she was right about you. She was right!”
Her tearful laughter was now a scream.
Tristan shook her. “Stop it, Lydia. What are you talking about?”
“Rosemary Pryor, of course. Who else?”
He frowned. “What do you know about her?”
“That she’s ninety-four years old, lives in a nursing home and suffers from dementia. But the part about her being your wife? That I didn’t know.”
“How do you know about her?”
“The detective. It wasn’t in his written report. But he told us. Me and Mother. He told us about her. About you. How you visit her every Sunday. And that you bring her calla lilies. “
Lydia shook her head, the tears dashing from her eyes. “Your wife. No, I’m sorry, your ex-wife. But of course. What else could she be? You’re twenty-five. She’s ninety-four. It makes perfect sense.” She laughed again but her laughter was hinging on hysteria.
“I kn
ow how it must sound. Yes, Rosemary was my wife. But it’s not what you think. She’s—”
Lydia pushed herself away from him. “No! I don’t want to hear any more of your damned lies. I just want you to go. I want you to go and never come back. Leave. Now. Or, I swear, I’ll call the police.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned and went into the bedroom.
She stumbled into the kitchen and flicked on the lights. She went over to the cabinet and took out a tin of coffee. She made a pot, her movements slow, mechanical, automatic. She didn’t even know why she was making coffee. Then she realized it was something she always did after Tristan had spent the night. He had told her once he liked waking up to the smell of coffee. She heard him walking down the hall. He stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. She kept her back to him as she stared at the coffee streaming into the glass carafe.
She waited for him to say something.
He didn’t.
She listened as he walked away, the front door opening then closing, the purring of his car’s engine, the sound of it moving away from her house and down the street.
When she could no longer hear his car, when she could no longer hear anything but the ticking of the kitchen clock, she finally collapsed in a sobbing heap onto the cold kitchen floor.
Chapter Twelve
Saffron bit into her croissant. “So. How long has it been?”
“Three weeks and two days,” Lydia answered dully.
Saffron raised an eyebrow as she brushed the crumbs from around her mouth. “Not counting, are we?”
Lydia sipped her coffee. She looked over at her kitchen window. It was a bleak, gray Sunday morning in December. She and Saffron were having brunch. Lydia had not wanted to have brunch. Not because she didn’t want to see her best friend. She just hadn’t felt like doing much of anything lately.
“And you haven’t heard from him?”
Lydia shrugged. “I told him I didn’t want to see him again. I guess he took me at my word. He’s good at that.”
Saffron frowned. “Good at what?”