Romantic Days, Romantic Nights

by Lynn Jae Marsh

  She slipped from his heavy, sleep-laden arms, tiptoeing to the bathroom. The dawn of a new day would arrive soon-too soon-and her masquerade would end. She would return to her world, he to his. She could see the old loneliness stretching in front of her, before unknown, now unwanted. She gulped hard. Before she returned to her world forever, she would experience all of his.

  In the bathroom, she showered quickly. The water washed away the vestige of make-up, and the steam returned her hair to riotous curls. The end had begun.

  She slipped into the bedroom. Wes had stirred, but had not awakened. His large body was still sprawled across the bed, the sheet barely covering his nakedness.

  She wandered through the darkened rooms of his home, pausing often to inhale the masculine scent of wood and smoke. She lingered in one room, the room that blended Wes and Valkon into one man.

  His gym had every up-to-date piece of equipment that she could imagine. A well-used, well-oiled Bowflex took up one corner and exercise mats were neatly rolled in another. She ran a hand over a leather bench and played with the free-weights until she saw the fencing swords in a glass display case. She was studying the differences between the foil, the épée, and the sabre when Wes entered.

  He had not bothered to put on a robe. Nor should he have. A body like his should never be hidden from his lover's eyes. He strolled towards her in unabashed, unashamed glory. He was such a large man that the old colonial should have shook with each step, but he was remarkably light-except in the aftermath of making love.

  She resisted the urge to look at him, studying the swords instead. She found it difficult not to look, for one thought demanded an answer. Just how big was he? Large? Extra-large? So large that he could...

  "I used this foil when I took the bronze in the '92 Olympics," he said, pointing to a sword decorated with a red, white, and blue ribbon. He pulled her into his arms. "And this one, the sabre, is a keepsake. I used it in my first competition." With one hand, he pointed to a heavier sword, fragile with age. With the other, he swept aside her shirt to cup her breasts. "The dagger-it's not used in fencing-is a gift from an old instructor." He continued to fondle her breasts, preoccupied with his discourse. Yet, he brought her nipples to hardness, to tight little berries for picking. Or sucking.

  He was close. No. It was close. All she had to do was to reach around. She wanted to, needed to, find out. Curiosity had killed the cat, but Isis would certainly smile upon one of her kind-she who had lovingly restored the treasures of Egypt.

  She could not resist any longer. Nor did she want to. She groped. She found it. It was massive. Long and thick. She could barely wrap her hand around it. And warm. Pulsing. She stoked the distended veins with her thumb. She had to see it. She turned in his arms and stared with audacity.

  "Woman," he chucked. "You are a handful."

  He was iron hard and erect, his prick like an extension of the fencing weapons that he loved. He eased her to her knees before him. He raised his eyebrow.

  Anne knew what he wanted. Egyptian hieroglyphs recorded the sexual exploits of its rulers. Cleopatra had once lowered herself on 106 Roman legionnaires in one night. Unlike Cleopatra, she was untutored, unskilled. She let nature take charge, following her instincts. Her technique, such as it was, combined artless and earthy with success. Success measured by his low groans of pleasure.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror. She was resting on her knees, piled high on mats so that she could reach him, willingly subservient. Her hair, falling forward, added a mysterious allure. He was towering over her, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, his legs spread.

  "That feels good," he grunted. "That's right. Take all of me, all of me."

  His climax approached. He shouldered her onto her back and entered her in one fluid motion. Three quick pumps in fast succession and he was done.

  She was stunned by the raw intensity of his lovemaking. Before she could recover, he carried her to the pommel horse. He bent her over the soft leather of the horse, so far over that her ass was high and her back was tilted like a steep hill. He fondled her, making sure that she could take him again. Her wetness soaked his hand. He knew that she was ready. He entered her from behind. She drove back. Both actions happened at the same time. Ecstasy. She wanted to scream from it. Prolong it. Never let it end. She reached around and grabbed his legs. She propelled him closer, faster, setting a brisk pace. She was she-wolf, no longer staid professor. All the education, the degrees, the intellect faded into insignificance as her thoughts cascaded into one aim.

  She was almost there, so close. Wes reached down and gave her ass a sudden, playful slap. Shocking her, it was like a stab to the heart of her femininity. He did it again, flicking, not too hard, just hard enough to make her hips thrush forward against the soft, yielding leather of the horse. The contact made her want more. She humped it, pumped it, shamelessly bringing herself to climax. She heard him chuckle, lowly, at her gyrations, before she shuddered to dissolve into a thousand pieces.

  "Woman, I'm not finished with you," he vowed. "I promised you everything."

  He kneeled down. She whimpered, her cycle of passion renewed.

  "Please, Wes," she said, her speech ragged.

  "Are you begging for it?"

  "Yes!"

  "Let's finish in bed."

  The quintessential Alpha male, he swung her off her feet and into his arms, carrying her to his bedroom.

  While she was gone, he had lit scented candles and had repaired the bed. The silk sheets were turned down and strewn with rose petals. Strains of low, melodic music wafted the air, mingling with rose-hued incense.

  "I'm a romantic at heart," he said, low and sexy.

  Throwing back the sheet, he helped her onto the high bed. She was lost in its vastness until her joined there, until he pulled her to him, his hand sweeping low, exploring the lines of her shoulders, to sweep even lower to her soft, smooth belly. He snuggled her close, intertwining their legs, sinking into her. She welcomed him and held on tight as the mating measure marked by ageless time begun. He was flame. She was ice. Although nature had designed them complete, nevertheless they merged into one, the whole oddly sweeter than the sum. And, at the final moment, when his climax was upon him, he gave her one final stroke as a testament of his resolve to love her forever. He could do no more for the rein on his passion was sliced by an invisible sword. He crushed her beneath him, lying on her, his body moist and flexing and heavy in repose.

  They made love again, the edge to their lust dulled. There were many kisses and the lightest of touches this time as they worshipped each other with their mouths, with their hands, and with their hearts.

  It was much later, after the fires had finally died, that Wes stirred. He sat up, bunching the pillow behind his head. Through half-closed eyes, he studied his woman, curled up at his side. He swept back her damp hair. She opened her eyes.

  "Hmmm, Anne," he said lazily. "Why're you pretending to be Angel?"

  Chapter 11

  Her eyes flew open. She was suddenly wide awake.

  "What?" she faltered, refusing to trust her hearing.

  "You heard me. What are you up to?"

  "How long have you known?"

  "From the moment that you walked through the curtains."

  "From the..." Anne shot up in the bed. "Why didn't you say something?"

  "Because I wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine."

  "You knew ... you knew. You made love to me and you knew!"

  "You can't fool me," Wes said. "You're nothing like your sister."

  "Nothing like... How could you?" she said, wrath darkening her brown eyes to black. "Make love to me ... ohhhh!"

  Whack!

  Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling her O of shock. In the past, she had never lost control; she had never struck anyone, hurt anything, before.

  Wes' head pivoted from the stinging blow. He fingered his face where her hand had left a bright red fingerprint. He watched as she leape
d from the bed.

  "Woman, you wanted a fantasy with Valkon. I gave you one."

  Hunting for her clothes, she overturned sheets and pillows and a jumble of clothing. Spotting the blue of denim jeans, she picked them up only to discover that they were far too large.

  "Yours," she hissed, throwing them in his direction. The jeans hit him squarely in the chest. He flinched and then tossed them aside.

  She continued the search, throwing things everywhere. She finally found her jeans and top. They were wrinkled and she turned up her nose in distaste, but put them on anyway. She would have to go bra-less and panty-less.

  "Anne, let's bring the volume down, okay." How could such a little lady get so angry, so fast? he thought.

  Anne's eyes turned on him, blazing.

  "How dare you make love to me, knowing that I wasn't Angel, that I was Anne, I mean, that I was me!"

  "How dare you make love to me thinking that I thought you were Angel!" he shot back.

  She blinked. She was getting side-tracked. She focused on the only indisputable fact. He had tricked her in the worst possible way. He had proven that even when she tried to be like Angel, she could not measure up, that she would never equal Angel in looks, in love, in how to please a man.

  Why can't a man like Wes love me? Am I so undesirable, so repulsive?

  For Anne, the inescapable conclusion smacked her in the face. She pulled together the shreds of her dignity. At the least, she would leave with her pride intact.

  "Mr. Myckale," she began formally, "I was happy to be the sports entertainment last night. I bet my antics-in bed and otherwise-were the height of amusement. However, the show is over. You'll have to find another way to get your laughs. Maybe with Angel or one of your groupies." She walked over and ran her fingers across the bedpost. "No notches. It must be new."

  She turned on her heel to leave.

  "Wait, Anne."

  Wes bounded from the bed. What had happened? Events were veering swiftly off-course. Instead of this bitter fight, they should be enjoying breakfast in bed.

  He caught her at the door. She stared straight ahead, her eyes focused on some distance spot.

  "Anne... Annie." He took her hand in his. "I didn't mean to hurt you. What's this about? Talk to me. You pretended to be your sister. I pretended that I didn't know."

  Anne said nothing for she was not listening. She had closed her mind. He could see it in the stubborn line of her body, in the disdainful tilt of her head.

  Her hand grasped the doorknob, viciously turning it. Before the door was open an inch, he reached over and shut it. He slid his big body in the cramped space between the wall and the door.

  "Mr. Myckale, the fun is over."

  She turned to face him, her cold rage fleeing. She dashed a hand across her face.

  "Please, let me go. Haven't you hurt me enough?"

  "You can walk out that door, Anne, or we can talk. Regardless, it isn't over between us. Last night, you gave yourself to me. You're my woman. Whatever else happened, you're my woman."

  Wes wanted to push harder, make her acknowledge his ownership. But she was too brittle, blown too thin, like fragile glass. He bunched his hands into fists, coiled from the effort that it took to let her go. He stepped aside. Within moments, she was down the steps to disappear in the mesh of morning commuters.

  Wes returned to the bedroom. He stood in the middle of the room for a long time, taking in the emptiness. He noticed her bustier, balled and crumbled, in the corner. He picked it up, rubbing the silky fabric between his fingers. A candle burned low. He blew it out.

  He wanted to kick himself at how he had mistreated her. He would not intentionally hurt a hair on her elfish head, but his actions must have seemed the height of insensitivity to her. She had overreacted, though. She had tricked him as well.

  He had been with other women. His celebrity status attracted them like a magnet and they fell easily into his bed. For those who were cool to him, he turned on the Valkon charm. None of them had mattered to him, but he had still managed to sweet-talk them into sex. But, with Anne, he had screwed up. Royally.

  He rubbed his neck. It had been a wicked week. First, Anne's interference with the Joey Flex title match, next dealing with the resulting fan and press fallout, followed by a grueling east coast tour. He jerked a kink out of his shoulder. Then, he fell head over heels in love, capped by a marathon round of robust sex. The thought of the latter brought a brief grin to his face. She was one hot lady. They went together, fit together, like sword and sheath, like tempered steel in lush velvet.

  After the Joey Flex rematch, he had planned to clear his schedule. He had been going nonstop for two years straight as the premiere draw for the IWC. He needed a break from the noise, the round-the-clock touring, the chaotic speed. He knew it before he had met Anne. Meeting her had merely cemented his resolve to take a long vacation, his only work to woo her into his bed.

  What was she doing at the match anyway? Angel was supposed to play the T&A babe. This was the second time that Anne had taken her place. His eyes narrowed with anger. He did not like the idea of exposing his woman to the coarseness of sports entertainment. He loved his running buddies in the biz, but some of them were crude and many of them were weird. She was such a sheltered, little thing. She would not know how to handle the seamier side of his profession.

  You could have knocked him over with a feather when she had entered the ring, all dolled up in that revealing top and those ass-gripping jeans. Like the other males in the arena, his blood pressure had shot up as well as other parts of his anatomy. He had wanted to hide her away from the leers, to lock her up from other eyes. He had known what every man wanted from the T&A babe, and the primitive urge had risen in him to kill every man because of it. Somehow, he had managed to hold on to his temper and to proceed with the script. For he had wanted to proclaim to the entire arena that she was his and his alone, to publicly stamp his dominance upon her as his woman. He had also wanted to punish her, a little, for showing other men that side of her which was his hidden treasure.

  He reviewed his schedule. He had the mid-west tour and a couple of promos to do, too. Damn! He had forgotten. He had agreed to a charity event on Friday. It would be Saturday, at the earliest, before he could begin the serious campaign of courting her.

  Soon, but not soon enough, she would be squirming beneath him. She may have pulled away, but her withdrawal was only temporary. No way in hell would he let Anne Seymour, the sexy professor of Egyptology, slip from his life.

  Chapter 12

  The delivery girl's chiming of the ancient bell to Anne's attic retreat and the rectangle-shaped box tucked under the girl's arm had sent Mrs. Z stomping up the stairs. The combination of the girl's persistent ringing and Mrs. Z's puff-huffing had awakened Anne from a restless sleep, a sleep that she had achieved only after a long crying jag. Bone-tired and miserable, she had finally closed her eyes and nodded off.

  Peaceful sleep had been denied her. Tears slipped from her eyes at flashing, disturbing dreams. Even though she could not hide her puffy face from Mrs. Z's inspection, she still forced a smile and mumbled about having work to do.

  She did try to work, going through the unnecessary formalities of sharpening pencils, stacking books, straightening photos. Her eyes kept straying, though, to the white carnations. Their pleasant scent teased her, destroying her concentration. Maybe if she moved them away from her desk. Maybe she could then forget that Wes had been the first man, the only man, to send her flowers.

  For the next twenty minutes, she was absorbed in the task of moving them from one location to another. She placed them finally on her favorite cedar chest. The sunlight from the large window caught the crystal of the vase, making it sparkle. She stroked the creamy-white petals and then plucked the card from their fragrant midst. Her pulse quickened when she read the handwritten message.

  Anne, receive these flowers as pure and ardent symbols of my love, of my heart, of my intentions. Forget me
not. Forgive me always.-Weston

  Gosh-darn-it! The man really was a romantic!

  In the quiet of the room, the click of the answering machine made her jump. She turned to glower at the machine. She knew it was him.

  Since she had walked out of his home and into the brightness of the morning light, her phones had rung off the hook. He stated that it was not over between them, and he meant it. He telephoned her at the university and left messages at her lab. He bombarded her with calls at her home until she firmly shut off the phone. Just as firmly, Mrs. Z punched the button to the answering machine, saying that there was no reason why she could not at least listen to his explanation.

  "Anne, are you there?" The dark timbre of his voice floated through the speaker. "I want to see you again. No, I need to see you again. I can't tell you how sorry I am. Did you get the flowers? I hope you like carnations. Damn! I wish that I could see you. I need to be with you, to hear your voice. Pick up and talk to me."

  "If it weren't for my contract commitments, I'd be there with you, and we'd be in bed making love. Trust me, baby, I'd make all your hurts go away."

  The line went quiet. She thought that he had hung up until his voice-silky, sensual, and persuasive-came through the speaker anew.

  "I shouldn't have tricked you. I was an insensitive jerk. I'm sorry. You can slap my face again, if that will make you feel any better... You should see the mark you left on my jaw. I wouldn't let the make-up people cover it. It reminds me of your passion."

  She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears like a bratty five-year-old. Her walls, so carefully constructed around her, began to crumble. She tried to whip up the hurt, but he was speaking. Against her will, she listened.

  "They're signaling for me. I have to go. I'll get to Blue Bell as soon as I can. We'll get this all sorted out. Don't hide from me. If you put me to the trouble of tracking you down, you'll be sorry."

  The answering machine beeped, then blinked. She did not move, paralyzed by that blinking light and by what he had said-like a veiled threat.