by Penny Jordan
When he actually carried her across to the bed, she could scarcely believe it. It was so opposed to everything she had ever gleaned about modern sexual manners, so unexpected, so...so...so tender and protective, so cherishing and caring.
That one simple gesture, so ridiculed and considered unnecessary in modern-day sexuality, caught her so unawares, made her feel so... so soft... so female...so precious somehow, that she almost choked on the unfamiliar mixture of pain and sweetness that clogged her throat.
Here was a man, a modern man, who knew and accepted a woman's right to define her own life, to be independent, to have a right and a need to succeed and be judged as an equal in the outer male-orientated world of commerce, and yet who at the same time knew instinctively that there was a time when that same woman wanted all the cherishing, all the tenderness, all the caring that highlighted and underlined the superiority of his male strength and the vulnerability of her feminine weakness, without in any way exploiting them, without using them threateningly or punishingly.
And neither had there been anything theatrical about what he had done. Logic and reality told her that in this day and age a woman made her own decision to have sex with a man; that she was perfectly capable of walking to his bed unaided and once there, equally capable of removing her own clothes; and yet as Ben held her close to him, smoothing the hair back off her face, kissing her skin, her closed eyelids, her cheekbone, her mouth, before gently removing her clothes, she admitted that there was a special sweetly erotic seduction in the act, a special feeling of tenderness, of being desired, that made her tremble a little in anticipation of the physical loving they would share, and her fear that because it was 'just sex', merely physical, it would somehow be degrading and leave an ashen, sour taste in her mouth vanished.
If he couldn't, didn't love her, then at least he had respect for her and for himself; at least she knew now that this would be no greedy, empty coming together, that they would share something that would be very special.
'Look at me.'
She opened her eyes in obedience to his command. He had slipped off his robe, and the moonlight showed her the satin width of his shoulders, the breadth and strength of his chest before it tapered to his waist, to the hard flatness of his belly and the thick dark arrowing of hair that marked it. It showed her also the hard muscles of his thighs, the open extent of his arousal.
'It's still not too late,' he told her softly, 'if you want to change your mind ...'
She shook her head quickly, and then shivered as her body reacted compulsively to the sight of his, her muscles tightening, her nipples peaking and hardening at the same time as her breasts seemed to swell and lift, warm and sweetly curved soft-fleshed fruits, designed by nature surely not just for the purpose of motherhood, but also to fit so sweetly into a man's hands, to invite by their very softness, their very round smooth-fleshedness the exploration of his mouth and the sharply passionate bite of his teeth. She shivered again at what she was thinking, leaning yearningly towards him, wanting him now with an intensity, a completeness that made her feel more sure, more strong than she had ever felt in her whole life. When he held her, kissed her, lifted her on to the bed, following her there, to hold her fast against him, she gave a small ecstatic sigh of delight. This was what her body had been made for; this was why she had been given soft flesh and smooth curves, skin so silken that it invited the hungry glide of a man's hands, curves so tender that it made him shake just to know them. She arched herself against him, a soft sound of happiness purring in her throat as she smoothed her hands down his back and licked exploratively at the satin hardness of his shoulder. The way he reacted, the way he tensed and told her roughly what she was doing to him, how she was making him feel, only incited her to go on stroking, kissing, licking, biting, until he groaned out loud and grabbed hold of her, kissing her throat, her shoulder, her arm and then her breast with such intensity that she went boneless and supine, her heart jerking almost painfully hard inside her while her body was filled with so much need, so much pleasure, so much sensation that she cried out to him that it was more than she could bear, that she wanted him, needed him, ached for him in so many ways that she was afraid she might die from the sheer glory of it.
She didn't, though. Instead she discovered that she could make him tremble and cry out; that her touch could make him moan and beg for surcease in a hoarse, strained voice that her nerve-endings quivered to hear. When he entered her, she welcomed the controlled, almost gentle thrust of his body with such wild abandon and eagerness that she overrode his control, destroying it completely, so that when he tensed, hesitated, and told her in a low rough voice that he must withdraw from her, she wound herself even more tightly around him, refusing to let him leave her, seducing him with the soft rhythmic movements of her body until he groaned out loud in haunted anguish, knowing that the compellingly rhythmic movements of her body were defeating his will-power, taking from him almost the satisfaction he had felt it necessary to deny them both.
When he couldn't stand it any longer he moved within her so powerfully, so deeply that she cried out in shock at the intensity of her own pleasure, of her need to open her body so completely to him that he would penetrate its deepest, most sacred mysteries.
The fierce rigours of her climax were so unexpected, so unknown that she was completely unprepared for their almost violently physical effects, and for the draining weakness that engulfed her seconds later when she had felt the hot pulse of Ben's release inside her, her body thrilling in her feminine power to incite it, even if the weakness that followed left her shivering and trembling caught between tears and laughter, experiencing both fulfillment and exhaustion, content to lie breathless and damp in Ben's arms, while he smoothed her as he would have done a cat, his hand smoothing down over her back until the nervous trembling had left her body.
As she closed her eyes and felt herself drifting, floating on a delicious cloud into sleep, she whispered drowsily, 'It wasn't like my dreams at all. I never--'
'You never what?' Ben interrupted her.
She opened her eyes reluctantly; her head was resting on his shoulder and in the moonlight she could see a bead of sweat on his throat. She moved her head and absorbed it on to her tongue, gently savouring the hot male scent of him, enjoying the heat and taste of him before she closed her eyes again, moving luxuriously against him as she stretched her body next to his.
'You never what?' Ben repeated.
Too relaxed and happy to guard her words, she smiled. 'I never knew it could be like that,' she confessed softly.
Half asleep, later thinking that she must have imagined it, she heard him responding starkly, 'No, neither did I.'
Once more before morning they made love, slowly and sweetly so that Miranda was achingly aware of the gently inexorable tide of her own desire, of her need to savour and cherish each moment of their being together, each touch, each caress, and put a special yearning tenderness into each movement of her hands against his flesh, each drift of her lips welcoming the intimacy her caresses made him cry out for, loving the knowledge that he wanted her, ached for her.
This time her climax was less earth-shattering: rounder, sweeter somehow, leaving her bathed in satisfaction and joy. In the dim light she saw that there were marks on his skin, inflicted by her nails and teeth when she had had to stifle the words of love she ached to give him.
Love-bites. She smiled sadly to herself. These were certainly that, given in place of the words, the vows, the love she knew she could not burden him with.
Whatever else happened she would never regret that she had had this time with him, she vowed as he drew her sleepily towards him, holding her, cradling her, surrounding her still with tenderness and care. Only when she was sure he was properly asleep did she ease herself away from him, padding silently towards the door, clutching her clothes. Downstairs and dressed, she took a small notepad from her bag and penned him a brief note.
It read simply, 'Thank you for last night.
Let's hope that from now on we both have dreamless sleep, but it isn't an experiment I feel it would be wise to repeat.'
As she folded it and left it prominently displayed on the table, she knew he would understand what she was saying. That she had no regrets about what they had done, but that it was something that wasn't going to be repeated, not because she didn't want to. Her mouth twisted wryly.
There were going to be many, many nights, years from now, when she would lie sleepless and aching, reliving this night, and wishing with all her might that he were there beside her; but it wasn't just sex she wanted from him. She wanted it all: commitment, caring... permanence, children ... and most of all she wanted his love.
She respected him for not tainting what they had with false words of love, with meaningless promises. He had praised her body, her responsiveness, her ability to arouse and delight him, lavishing the soft words on her, heaping her with the gift of his pleasure in all that they were sharing, allowing her the freedom, giving her the self-confidence to give her sensuality a free rein without holding anything back from him—anything, that was, other than those betraying words of love.
It was just growing light when she got into her car and drove away. She prayed that when he read her note he would respect her enough not to try to change her mind, not to diminish what they had shared.
It proved even harder than she had envisaged.
When she got home she went upstairs to shower, pausing as she stood there, reluctant to wash the scent of him from her skin, her stomach muscles quivering with remembered pleasure as she saw the small bruise marks forming on her body. Her breasts swelled tormentingly, aching...Angrily she stepped under the shower and turned on the cold water, gasping with shock as she stood beneath the icy spray.
She had been at work for an hour when Liz arrived.
'Good heavens!' she exclaimed as she walked in and saw her. 'You're an early bird.'
'I've got quite a lot of paperwork to catch up on with Dad being away,'
Miranda responded, turning her back on her as she added with studied control, 'Oh, and, by the way, should Ben Frobisher ring and ask for me, would you tell him that I'm either out or engaged?'
There was a small silence and then Liz replied gently, 'If you're sure that's what you want.'
Her gentleness was almost too much for Miranda to bear. She tensed her body against her own vulnerability, and said in a hard voice, 'Yes, that's what I want.'
Liz didn't say anything more, but Miranda could guess what she must be thinking. She too had been a guest at the wedding, and must have seen that Miranda and Ben had been paired off together ... must have drawn her own conclusions from that, just as she was doing now from the instructions Miranda had given her. No doubt she would assume they had had a quarrel..
.a row.. .but she was discreet and kind and she would keep her thoughts to herself, which was just as well. In the run-up to the wedding, Miranda had received more than one sly comment about it being time she herself settled down, accompanied by unsubtle references to Ben. Well, the gossip would soon die down without anything to fuel it.
Halfway through the morning, Liz slipped out to buy some sandwiches. When she came back she was practically running, unable to hide her shock as she burst into the office.
'Miranda, there's been an accident!' she announced breathlessly. 'I heard about it in the sandwich shop. It's Ben Frobisher.'
Ben. Miranda froze, getting out of her chair before saying, 'Ben? What...?'
'I'm not sure. Something about problems with the building contracter. No one seems to know exactly what happened ... only that there was an accident... something about an internal wall collapsing. Miranda... where are you going?' she protested as Miranda raced towards the door. 'It's no use going there,' she called worriedly after her as Miranda flung the door open and ran across the square in the direction of the High Street, ignoring the surprised stares of the people who stopped to watch her.
Shaking her head, Liz finished her sentence. 'It's no use going there. They've already taken him to hospital. At least, that's what they said in the sandwich shop.'
There was a small cluster of people outside the house in the High Street, the same cluster that gathered to watch men digging a hole in the road, or the scene of an accident. Impatiently Miranda pushed her way through them, ignoring the protest of a burly man who had been talking to one of the onlookers, darting in through the open door as he called out after her, 'Hey, you can't go in there.'
A shaft of sunlight illuminated the bare interior of the hallway; she noticed absently that it came from an upper storey and recognised that Ben must have gone ahead with the renovators' suggestion for redesigning the stairwell. The sunlight was thick with dust, arid and choking; it clung to her skin, powdering it, the air tasting old and dank when she breathed in. As she looked upwards she could see a pile of rubble—bricks, plaster, pieces of wood—and her heart jerked fearfully inside her chest. She held her breath, trying to stifle her fear, her pain, slowly making her way up the temporary wooden staircase until she was on a level with the collapsed wall. What she had seen from below had simply been a small part of the devastation. Now that she was on a level with it she could see the magnitude of what was happening.
An entire interior wall appeared to have collapsed, spewing bricks and plaster everywhere. She could see through the gap in the wall quite clearly into the room beyond it.
Trembling now, she walked towards it. The house was empty, quiet; there was just her and the dust her coming had disturbed to swirl heavily around her.
As she reached the fallen masonry she saw something lying on the floor. A jacket... Ben's jacket, surely.
Trembling, she bent down and picked it up, pressing the soft fabric to her cheek. Yes, it was his. It smelled of him. Her fingers closed on it compulsively. Where was he? How badly was he hurt? If only she had known ... been here... She felt the pain, the panic, building up inside her, a huge tearing agony she couldn't contain.
Tears pricked her eyes, and as she blinked them away she saw the blood on the jacket.
A long agonised moan of pain ripped her throat, she dropped to her knees, pressing the jacket to her face, protesting on a tortured moan.
'No... please... Ben ... Ben!'
'Miranda.'
The shock of hearing him say her name spun her round, her eyes huge with disbelief as her tears rolled down her dusty face.
'What is it? What are you doing here? This floor isn't safe.'
He was coming towards her, reaching her as she stood up, repeating almost angrily, 'What are you doing here? Why are you here?'
'I heard ... I thought you'd been hurt.'
She saw suddenly that he had been, that his shirt sleeve was rolled back and that there was blood on his arm. She swayed as she saw it, shivering when he reached out to steady her.
'It's only a cut,' he told her roughly, stopping when he saw that she was clutching his jacket. 'So, you thought I'd been hurt. And that's why you came rushing round here. Am I supposed to believe that after the note I found this morning?'He was angry, she recognised, flinching back from him.
'Or were you hoping that I had been injured... that a few tons of falling bricks might have conveniently deprived me of all memory of last night?'
He gave her a savage, wolfish smile. 'Well, let me tell you this: the whole damned building could have fallen on me before that could happen.'
She couldn't bear the pain of what he was saying to her, and reacted to it instinctively, denying his words, crying out to him, 'No, you're wrong! I didn't--'
'You didn't what, Miranda? You didn't walk out on me, leaving me a polite little note saying thanks but no thanks? Well, that wasn't the message I received.'
He was angry, and not just angry, but bitter as well.
'No, please...it wasn't like that. You don't understand.'
'Then explain it to me. Tell me why, after the most perfect loving I can ever remember, I woke up this morning to find you gone
and that chilly polite little note waiting for me.'
She shook her head despairingly. 'I can't... I can't explain.'
'You mean you won't.'
She started to shiver. 'You're angry with me.'
'Angry with you?' He gave her a biting, incredulous look, pushing his fingers through his hair, his body tense and aggressive. 'My God, you're speaking like a child. You must have known.'
A shout from below interrupted them. Miranda watched as Ben went to the head of the stairs and called back, 'Yes, I'm up here. Any news from the hospital?'
'Yes,' the other man called back. 'He's going to be OK. Lucky bastard. After what he tried to do, he doesn't deserve it.'
'And his wife's been informed?' Ben wanted to know.
'Yes, we did as you instructed and made sure someone took her out to the hospital. Oh, and Jack Meade said to tell you he'll have the men in after lunch to make everything safe.'
'Thanks, Rob.'
Miranda watched as Rob, the man who had been guarding the front door, went back to his post, leaving the two of them alone.
Her throat felt stiff and sore, and, now that the initial shock of believing that Ben had been hurt and then discovering that he was safe was over, she felt oddly weak, as fragile as though her body could hardly support the burden of her emotions.
'What happened?'
The words sounded disembodied, vague and uncertain.
She watched as Ben turned round and studied her.
'We're not totally sure as yet, but it seems that Charlesworth decided to have another go at making his dislike of me felt, only this time he misjudged things badly, and the wall he had been tampering with, no doubt hoping to cause a set-back and more expense for me, collapsed on top of him.