Saving Nathaniel

by Jillian Brookes-Ward

  At his crotch, she found his cock stiff and hard, inviting her to play. She was happy to oblige. She ran her tongue up and down it, leaving behind a warm trail of saliva that stimulated as it cooled. She teased her lips and tongue around his penis' tip while gently caressing the shaft with her hand, pressing at the base with her thumb. His scrotum contracted when she pressed it lightly.

  'Meg…please…please!' He was breathlessly clutching at the sheet beside him, wringing it in handfuls, his feet fidgeting in agitation. He was ready.

  'Sshh…' she cooed and covered his mouth with her own. She put herself astride him, and with a little guidance from her hand, lowered herself onto him, her wet heat enveloping his length. With a loud whimper, he closed his eyes and grasped tightly at her thighs.

  She adopted a gentle backwards and forwards rocking motion, keeping her movements slow and intense. She rested her hands on his chest, her fingers splayed through the hair. The rhythm was a slow dance. Its deliberate and deliciously moderated tempo heightened both their desires.

  He cupped her neat breasts in his hands and sat up to her, kissing her hard on the mouth. He held her around the waist, feeling her ribs shifting under her skin. Her arms were around his neck, one hand in his hair, letting it run through her fingers. Her legs clamped around him, locking them together. They moved as one; each anticipating the other.

  He could feel a heat, like warm oil, forming deep in his groin and spreading through his balls and into his painfully hard organ. The sensation stirred him to fever pitch.

  'Oh God, Meg,' he breathed fiercely, rocking in unison with her, 'I need you…I need you now!'

  He flipped her over and lay her down on her back, going as deep into her as it was possible for him to go. She clasped at his back. As he moved, she could feel every muscle contracting and relaxing under her hand.

  He began to perspire and his skin slid over her as if oiled. He pushed hard into her over and over, each thrust accompanied by a small grunt of effort.

  She felt the quickening in her groin area and knew she would come soon. He sensed it in her and his rhythm increased. The sensation got stronger until she was unable to contain it. 'Don't stop…please…don't stop,' she urged.

  He continued to push into her until, without any further warning, her muscles clenched onto him and a convulsive wave ripped through her. She arched her back and let out a reflexive cry as all her senses fired at once. Touch, taste and smell…intermingled …inseparable.

  She could taste the salt on his skin. She could smell sex and sweat from his pores. Her skin tingled with his slightest touch and every hair stood upright. Flashes of pure light burst behind her eyes and her ears filled with the sound of the rushing and the pounding of her blood. Everything in that moment came alive for her, sensation and emotion mixed in a single explosion of ecstasy.

  He was pushing into her as far as he could physically go. Her contracting muscles gripped his cock from inside and made her tight. His thigh muscles tightened and strained with the extra effort; waves of thrill coursed through him, through his stomach and up his back. His whole body was perspiring and trembling uncontrollably and he could feel his penis contracting and pulsing from the balls right up to the tip.

  She was clinging onto him, her nails digging into the skin on his back. The pain enhanced his pleasure; it was so frantically primal. There was no holding back; he couldn't if even he'd wanted to. Their synchronised orgasms went on and on, each feeding off the other.

  With a loud, barely restrained groan of rapture, he came hard into her, ejaculating over and over. His neck strained and he gritted his teeth. He kept on pushing, panting heavily, gradually slowing his pace as he tired, and with a final heavy sigh, stopped and collapsed onto her.

  The climax faded, but the after-effects continued for both of them. Her skin was flushed and hot and her groin pulsed with orgasmic after shocks; waves of contraction tracking their way up her insides. She could feel the hot stickiness of semen on the skin of her thighs.

  Spent of his fluids and sapped of his energy, he lay still, his face resting at her breast. He gasped for air, breathing fast and hard like a runner. His stomach muscles ached. His penile sensitivity at its highest and, still inside her, he could feel her wet heat and the rippling pulses of the tiniest muscles.

  When he couldn't feel them any more, he slipped from her, slick with a mixture of their combined juices. The cool air stabbed at his penis and he cupped it with his hand to protect it from the assault, stemming further stimulation. He pulled the duvet up to cover himself and rolled over onto his back, waiting for his erection to fade and give him some relief.

  Side by side on the pillows, they recovered in mutual silence, until she rolled over and put her head on his chest, through which she listened to his heartbeat gradually slowing to a steady, regular rhythm.

  She draped her leg over his and laid her hand on his stomach, her fingertips moving over him in tiny caresses. He wrapped his arms around her, stroking the velvet skin of her arm and shoulder. He kissed the top of her head and felt her warm breath as she sighed her contented satisfaction.

  Entwined and exhausted, they gave in to the embrace of sleep.

  Chapter 22

  Megan woke early next morning to find Nat not in bed. She immediately scrambled out from under the duvet and rummaged in her bag; the key box was still in there. Nat's clothes were still heaped on the bedroom floor where they had fallen.

  Wrapping herself in her robe, she went in search of him.

  He was in neither the bathroom nor his own bedroom. She found him in the study, slumped in his chair. He already had a glass in his hand and she was relieved to see it contained only orange juice.

  Squatting down beside his chair, she placed her hand on his arm, stroking gently through the hair. 'Are you alright, sweetheart?' she asked.

  He put his hand to her cheek and stroked it with his thumb. He studied her silently; her face, her hair, her skin, her mouth and in particular her eyes, taking in every nuance.

  She followed his roving eyes with her own, and put her hand over his, pressing it to her 'What's the matter?' she asked.

  He had woken with a vague sense of disorientation. He was in the wrong room, the wrong bed and he was not alone. He registered the presence of a warm, female form wrapped around him like a duvet, her head heavy on his chest and her arm around his torso. He could feel her breath on his skin and from her, as always, the faintest scent of roses.

  The memory of the previous night flooded into him. As he stroked his hand over her bare back, she stirred and sighed in her sleep.

  The movement of her body against his stimulated a desire to wake her, to touch her and kiss her and make love to her. He wanted to experience the previous night over again, but crushing feelings of uncertainty and anxiety quickly overtook his urge.

  Carefully disentangling himself from her hold, he slipped out of bed. Blood rushed back into the arm on which she had lain and pins and needles stung the numbness back to life. He covered her nakedness with the duvet and padded across the landing to his own bathroom, needing to pee.

  Vigilant of hygiene, he took time to rinse his hands under the warm tap. As he did so, he glanced up at the bathroom mirror and caught sight of a face he did not immediately recognise. Admittedly, the bright fluorescent was unsympathetic at the best of times; it created harsh, unnatural shadows and accentuated each and every line, but a long hard look at the reflection confirmed it was in fact, his own.

  He looked a mess, with his rough, unshaven face and his deeply furrowed brow. His hair, now more grey than brown, stood awry on one side, and there were dark shadows and wrinkles around his bloodshot eyes. What he, in truth, saw staring back at him from the mirror, was the image of his own elderly father. He looked at the reflection with despair, and suddenly felt the weight of years descend on him.

  'What in God's name does she see in you?' he questioned the image. 'Look at you. You look like a fucking tramp.'

  He turned
away from the mirror in disgust, dried his hands and arranged the damp towel neatly on the dryer.

  Megan liked the towels to be tidy, she was fussy that way. It had been a bone of contention between them from almost the very first day she'd arrived. He had developed a bad habit of abandoning damp towels on the bathroom floor and she always admonished him for it. Once, just for spite, he had left one there on purpose, knowing it would annoy her.

  Throwing on his robe, he went downstairs to his bolthole. He needed to think; he wanted a drink, and then remembered there was none to be had.

  Shit! Of all the times to run out.

  He settled himself in the easy chair, glass of orange juice in one hand, aspirins in the other. His hangover was nowhere near as bad as it could have been and he was grateful for small mercies. Swallowing the pills down with a gulp of juice, he rested his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

  Immediately thoughts and images assailed him from all directions. Inside his head, they were jumbled, upside down, inside out, spinning around and jostling for recognition, and nothing made any sense. It was a jigsaw with all the pieces cut the wrong shape and no picture to guide him. The puzzle was Megan and why she was there.

  Is there a word for women who have sex with old men, he thought. Is it some kind of -philia, some kind of perversion? Is it even legal? Why is she here? What does she want from me?

  When he had desperately needed her, she had come; when he had been afraid to be alone, she had stayed with him and comforted him; then she had taken him to her bed. She didn't have to do it and he could have stopped her, but he hadn't, because once it had begun, he had wanted it. Feelings of selfishness and guilt stabbed his conscience with a double-edged blade.

  He was certain she had slept with him out of pity; there could be no other explanation for it, but whatever her reasons, he ached to return to her in the warmth of the bed, to make love with her again. He wanted her for himself. But why?

  He felt his heart stop in its beat with a sudden understanding. Oh, yes, he knew why wanted her so much. It was because…because he was in love with her.

  You bloody fool, Mackie…don't go there…don't!

  He didn't know how or when it had happened, he couldn't remember, he only knew that it had, and along with the guilt, he felt something new…fear. Selfish and afraid...what a coward…

  He sipped at the orange juice, really needing something stronger, when a thought struck him.

  'What about Joanna? I love Joanna. She's my wife. I made a vow to love only her. There's no room for anyone else. But…'til death us do part. She's gone and she's never coming back. Meg is here, now. She's here with me, alive and warm and…

  A notion tickled at the back of his mind, then thrust itself forward with remarkable clarity. What if he was using Joanna as an excuse. Was he hiding behind her, using her memory as a shield against having another relationship in case he got hurt? He knew he couldn't bear that kind of pain all over again, it would surely kill him, but in his heart he knew Megan would never hurt him.

  What were her feelings for him? She liked him sure enough, she had said as much, but anything more he didn't know - and didn't care. He loved her and wanted her. Hell no, more than that he needed her.

  'Oh God, what a mess. What a bloody mess.'

  And now she was there, asking him what the matter was, waiting for an answer, and he couldn't say. His thoughts were still spinning. He didn't have a response that made any sense. Whatever he said would come out wrong; it would be inarticulate, clumsy and pathetic, so he opted for the safety of denial. 'Nothing.'

  'Is it about last night?'

  He took his eyes from her and she knew that was it; body language never lies. 'We didn't do anything wrong,' she assured him.

  He sighed and took a sip from the glass, looking deep into its depths to avoid eye contact with her. 'It wasn't supposed to happen like that.'

  'I don't know what you mean.'

  'I took advantage of you.'

  'You did nothing of the sort.'

  'Aye, I did,' he said, nodding. 'You came here to help me and I exploited you.'

  She put her hand on his, stroking his ring with her finger. 'Don't talk nonsense, Nat. You seem to forget, I seduced you. I'm certainly not sorry and you have no reason to be either.'

  He moved his hand out from under hers, sliding the ring away from her touch. 'It shouldn't have happened, it was a mistake.'

  She didn't appear at all fazed by his denial. 'You might think that, but it did happen and it was wonderful, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.'

  She ran her fingers through his hair and the feel of it made him want to take hold of her and pull her into the chair with him and kiss her until she begged for him to release her. He closed his eyes and the moment passed.

  'I have to go home now,' she said. 'Will you be alright on your own?'

  He nodded, rubbing his forehead tensely, inwardly pleading. 'Please, don't go, Meg. I need you. Stay with me!'

  'I'll be fine,' he said.

  She too heard her inner voice. 'Tell me not to go, Nat. Ask me to stay with you and I will.'

  'You know you can call me anytime don't you?' she said.

  He continued staring into the depths of his glass. 'Aye. Thanks.'

  She stood, leaned to him and kissed the top of his head, inhaling the smell of him. 'I'll just be a few minutes to get washed and dressed and then I'll let myself out. Okay?'

  He said nothing.

  Her emotions in turmoil, she closed the study door behind her as she left him sitting in the chair.

  She loved him, the aching in her heart told her so, but it was obvious he didn't feel the same about her; his behaviour just now made that perfectly clear.

  He couldn't, or rather wouldn't, look at her; he wouldn't talk to her. He thought having sex with her was a mistake. He didn't feel anything for her and she was certain she knew why. No, not why, who. He was irrevocably tied to Joanna and always would be. There was no way she could possibly compete with a passion so strong. She had to accept her feelings would never be reciprocated. The only thing she could do was hold her head up high and walk away.

  She dressed and made her way downstairs, to stand for a moment outside the study with its closed door, a barrier she wasn't willing to cross again. Her bag still contained the box with the keys. She took it out and held it in her hand. If she went in there to return it now, she would have to explain how she came to have it and why. Instead, she dropped the box back into her bag. She would send it back with Rebecca when she was sure he could be trusted with it. He would probably be angry with her for what she had done, but so be it.

  She went through into the kitchen to find both her shoes on the table, and her coat draped neatly over a chair. She slipped the shoes on, folded her coat over her arm and left quietly through the rear door. A new day had dawned and it was time to go home. If Nat wanted her he knew where to find her, but she wouldn't hold her breath.

  Her heart hung like a stone in her chest. More than likely, she wouldn't see him again.

  Chapter 23

  The church clock rang out the last of the eight o'clock chimes as Megan slipped in through the rear door of Rose Cottage and into the kitchen.

  Rebecca hurtled through the door from the sitting room, her dressing gown and long, loose hair billowing behind her.

  'Where the hell have you been? I was worried sick! I came home last night and found the place like the Marie Celeste. You left the lights on…and the door unlocked. I thought you'd been kidnapped.'

  'I'm sorry...'

  'I haven't slept a wink! You could have called.'

  'I tried to, but you were out.' Mug in hand, she pulled out a chair and sat at the table. She lifted the lid of the teapot to see if the contents might be drinkable and poured herself a cupful.

  'So?' chivvied Rebecca. 'Where were you?'

  'I had to go somewhere.'

  'Where?'

  She didn't answer. She didn't have to. Her
silence spoke volumes. There had always had a sisterly telepathy between her and Rebecca; words were not always needed. And this was one of those times. She watched her sister's eyes grow large and bright with realisation as she lowered herself onto a chair.

  'You were at the Lodge weren't you…you were at the Lodge with him, with Mackie?'

  There would be no point in denying it. Rebecca would know instantly if she were lying. 'Yes.'

  'All night?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  'Because he asked me to. He was lonely. He needed some company...he wanted someone to talk to.'

  'And you're telling me that's all you did…talk?'

  'At first.'

  'Did you sleep with him?'

  'Yes.'

  'Oh, Megan, how could you fall for it again?'

  'I didn't fall for anything.'

  'He pitched you a sob story, you fell for it, and then you fell into his bed. Same old Megan. Jeez!'

  'It wasn't like that at all.' She took a sip from her tea. 'You don't talk to him do you, Becks?'

  'Not unless I have to. What's that got to do with it?'

  'So you didn't take any notice of the state he was getting in?'

  'Noticed what? What state?'

  'How depressed he was?'

  'Why should I? It's not my fault if he's in a sulk because you left and he's stuck with me again.'

  'That has nothing to do with it. God, Rebecca, you really don't give a damn about him at all do you?'

  'Why should I? It's just the way he is - moody, sulky and miserable. He's always been like that and always will be.'

  'Did you know it was the anniversary of his wife's death...and his baby son?'

  Rebecca twisted her unruly hair into a single plait. 'I knew it was sometime soon, but not the exact date.'

  'And you didn't think to mention it to me?'

  'As you don't work for him any more, I didn't see the point. It didn't seem that important.'

  'Well it was important, in fact it was probably the most important day of the year for him. It made him deeply depressed and desperately lonely. So now do you begrudge me giving him some company when he asks for it? When he needs it?'