by Brenda Joyce
He wanted privacy. Lots of privacy. Days and days of privacy.
He had the feeling he had just touched the tip of an iceberg.
That he was about to step into a pond, only to drown in an ocean.
No one in Aspen used cars except for the rare times they went out of town to parties like this. The cab came immediately. The tension was so thick in the car he could feel it—and he could smell it. Her smell. The smell of female dampness, of her arousal, of her need for him. It was heavy and heady and delicious.
He put his arm around her, and before he knew it they were making out like kids. With her hand she traced the outline of his cock. “Don’t,” he whispered. “I’ll never make it.”
She smiled.
Jack paid the driver; then he took Belinda’s arm. He was wearing sneakers, and they both skidded across the icy sidewalk until they made the safety of the stairs. He unlocked the door, and Belinda moved ahead of him into the living room, pausing, proud and graceful and sensuous, looking at him with intense promise. She moved into the bedroom. Jack followed.
With one movement she pulled off the gold knit top.
Her nakedness was perfection. Luscious round breasts, hard-tipped. Narrow waist. She bent to remove first one high-heeled boot, then the other. Her breasts swayed. Round and full and white, they brushed her leather-clad thighs.
He watched her hands, unsnapping then unzipping her pants. She paused long enough for him to glimpse the tangled, damp nest of curls he had tasted briefly. And then she skimmed off the pants, stepping out of them proudly.
She’s performing for me, he thought, startled with sudden comprehension. She knows how hot she is. She’s not afraid of me, not awed by me, and she never has been. The thought thrilled him. He felt himself being sucked in deeper and deeper, fascination rivaling his arousal.
Jack undressed quickly, and she watched his every motion. He wished he weren’t so eager, wished he could give her a show, but he couldn’t. He liked the way her gaze roamed over his powerful torso, rippling with every movement. He knew exactly how he looked—he had seen himself on film a million times.
“Jack,” she whispered, coming forward.
He closed his eyes when her hands slid over his hard stomach and up into the furring of brown hair on his chest. She inhaled. Her hand drifted down, moving over the huge bulge in his jeans. Jack was filled with pride. Anticipation.
Fingers found the zipper and slid it down. His cock rocketed out, red, massive, and straight.
She stared.
Jack stumbled out of his pants. As if he had no experience, no control. He was more than proud. All women seemed mesmerized by him, and it was this moment that was perhaps the most exciting of all. He moved toward her.
“You don’t wear underwear,” she said unevenly.
Jack laughed harshly. “Two of a kind,” he said, pushing her back on the bed.
It was an explosion.
One moment they were apart, and the next they were together, straining wildly at each other, entwined, gasping, desperate. He held her face in his hands and kissed her mindlessly, losing all coherence, all detachment, overwhelmed by sensations, by a gaping emptiness he knew only she could fill.
He raised himself up on his forearms and rubbed the head of his prick against her belly, stroking her soft, damp flesh, each stroke taking the straining purplish head lower, until it slid between thick cunt lips, over her clit again and again. The head was huge, growing larger. She made a wild, desperate sound. He couldn’t delay a moment longer. He was mad with his need to ram himself deep inside her—and he no longer had any control. For one brief instant he poised the tip of his prick against her cunt, trying to tease, trying to wait. He plunged into her.
This was what God meant when He promised heaven.
And then the unthinkable happened.
He came. It happened so quickly, and he was helpless to prevent it. It was an incredible orgasm, the like of which he had never experienced before. It seemed to last forever, that hot, hot pumping, that emptying. But it didn’t matter. He knew she had come too. There was no doubt about that. He had felt every single one of her violent contractions. He looked at her.
Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, her hair very damp. He reached up to touch a wisp of hair, move it aside. Her eyes fluttered, opened. He locked onto them, drowned.
She smiled.
He smiled.
He lay his cheek on her shoulder and explored her body with his hands. He was suddenly filled with doubts. He was with one of the most beautiful, confident women he had ever seen, and he had orbited in a couple of minutes. Less. What was she thinking? Was she disappointed? Christ! How in hell had that happened? Talk about a straight fuck. He hadn’t even said any of those words—love words, sex words—that women loved to hear.
She sighed and sat up, shifting away from him. “That was nice,” she said, sliding her strong, shapely legs over the side of the bed.
Stunned, he realized she was about to get up—and leave. “Wait,” he said, gripping her wrist.
She looked at him inquiringly.
He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He was having trouble finding words. What a time for his charm to desert him.
“I should go,” she said carelessly. She gave him an equally careless smile.
He hadn’t let go of her wrist. She was disappointed. All that build-up, all that anticipation, and then a two-minute bang. “Suddenly in a rush?”
“Me?”
He almost blushed. Instead a sound escaped, almost a growl, and he was pulling her back down beneath him. “It was your fault.”
Her gaze was serious. “But you’re the man.”
And he chuckled.
She laughed, looping her hands around his neck. “Do you forgive me—Nick?”
“For what? Being a complete tease or a complete fool?” But he was still smiling.
“For making you come so fast.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Why not?” Her voice grew husky. “The thought excites me.”
He smiled lazily, shifted, and started running his hand down her body. “You like knowing I lost all control around you?”
She arched, eyes closed. “Yes.”
“So that’s why you’re here, to have your ego stroked.”
“Umm.”
“Just your ego, Belinda?”
“No.”
“How about this?”
She arched her breast more fully into his hand. “Yes.”
“And this?”
She spread her legs for him. “Jack …”
“And you were going to leave.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
He laughed, enjoying his power over her. “Come for me, Belinda, again.” His fingers moved slickly against her.
“Jack …”
“I want to watch you while you come.”
She gasped, eyes wide at the surge of pleasure he had induced. This time, he thought, I’ll show her just how good I am—how good it can be for us. He lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck, just barely.
She shuddered.
He started to make love to her slowly, sensually, intending to use every trick he knew to bring her to heights she’d never reached before. But … his mind stopped working. There was only her and him. He became lost in her. His hands and mouth and body moved without instruction, with need, with desperation. Before he knew it, they were joined, moving with a slow, languid rhythm. And this time he brought her there again and again and again.
Afterward he lay stunned. He had the strangest feeling that for the first time in his life he’d made love to a woman. Made love with his heart and soul, not fucked with his body and mind. It was disturbing.
“God!” she said. It had to be hours later.
Jack’s eyes were closed. He smiled with satisfaction. Then he became aware of something else. Her hand had moved to his face, and he became very still, barely breathing as she touched his cheek,
his temple, his ear, tracing the outline of his face. When she had finished, he dared to look at her.
And their gazes met, holding, for an intimate moment.
I might be in deep shit, he thought. He pulled her against his side. “Tell me the truth, Belinda. Why did you stand me up the night we met?”
Oh, God! Belinda did not want to think of her mother—of her mother and Jack—not now. “I can’t remember.”
His jaw tightened, “So now it’s back to games?”
“I really don’t remember.” Her eyes flashed.
“Okay,” he said, releasing her. He stared at the ceiling. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who wasn’t impressed by who I am, do you know that?”
“Do you want me to be another one of your mindless brunette bimbos?”
He raised up on an elbow and grinned. “What?”
She blushed.
“How do you know I like brunette bimbos?” he asked, trying not to laugh. He was delighted. She was jealous. He hoped. Even if it was just a little.
“Your reputation is impossible to miss.”
His grin widened.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she warned.
His eyes brightened. “You go to my head,” he said while Belinda groaned at the bad joke. “How much do you know about me, Belinda?”
She gave him a dirty look. “I read the rags.”
“You really aren’t impressed,” he said, nose-diving.
“I’m impressed. I’m impressed that God gave you a perfect face and a perfect body and that you had the smarts to cash in on it. I mean, that’s impressive.”
Instant deflation. “Thanks.”
“Why do you want me to be impressed with Jack Ford, the star? Your whole world—all those Masciones and Melodys—is impressed with Jack Ford, the star.”
“It would just be nice to know I impressed you a little.”
She softened. “I’m impressed with Jack Ford the actor. He’s good.”
Jack looked at her. “Thanks.”
A mischievous light came into her eyes. “And Jack Ford the lover. He’s pretty impressive too.” She had the audacity to wink at his now flaccid member.
“And Jack Ford the man?”
She looked at him. “I don’t know who he is,” she said quietly.
“I want you to know who he is,” he said.
She regarded him silently.
“Belinda, I want to really get to know you.” He meant it.
Her face went tense. “You have some crappy lines, but the delivery’s great.” She turned, reaching for her leather pants.
He moved then. Before she could even lift them, he had her in his arms. “I’m not letting you leave,” he said huskily. “God, I don’t know why … but I’m not. Not yet. It’s too soon.”
She stood very still, her back against his chest as if she had stopped breathing. “Spend the night with me, Belinda. Come back to bed.”
How could she resist that sexy tone?
“I want to fall asleep with you,” he whispered in her ear. His breath sent hot tingles down her spine. “I want to wake up a few hours from now and fuck you again.”
Hot, wet heat.
Belinda stayed.
He watched her fall asleep in his arms. Fascinated, wondering all kinds of things, who she was really, the woman behind the facade. His last waking thought was that he would find out everything, everything there was to know about her, Belinda … And that he might never let her go.
62
Belinda woke.
She was filled with the man beside her in every way but the physical one.
He had his arm around her, and he was snoring softly. His skin was silken on his shoulder, coarse on his chest. His breath gently fanned the top of her head. Even asleep, his presence was vitally magnetic and commanding.
She couldn’t believe what had happened between them.
He had made incredible love to her.
She wasn’t sure a man had ever made love to her before.
Even now, her heart was doing weird somersaults, and she was starting to tremble and sweat as if she had run a marathon.
Just what she needed right now.
Belinda cautiously slipped out of Jack’s possessive arm and sat, regarding him with sheer open curiosity, her eyes wandering slowly, seeking satiation. He was beautiful, no doubt of that—too handsome for his own good. And he had an animal sex appeal. A deadly combination. But of course. That’s why he was a top sex symbol.
In sleep, the lines of hardship and the crinkles around his eyes had softened, making him seem much younger. And his body was perfect. She had already seen it—or parts of it. It was a major commercial draw to show a gleaming Jackson Ford torso; hard, broad pectorals, rippling biceps. Was he a natural, she wondered, or did he work out?
Why was she so terrified?
She didn’t realize it, but her hand had followed the path of her eyes and was gently caressing his skin, slightly coarsened by a scattered nest of wiry, brownish hair. A nipple hardened under her hand. She didn’t want to wake him up.
A hard-on miraculously appeared before her eyes.
The man was magnificently endowed, to say the least. No wonder he was so horny. She smiled, her hand slipping to his belly, soft in sleep. Not padded, just relaxed. He must diet, she thought—or it wouldn’t be fair.
Even his legs were the way she liked them; strong and muscled, not thin and not squat either. Just very, very powerful.
I am in deep trouble, she thought. If she had been scared of a relationship with Adam, she was terrified now. And then she felt Ford roll over, pressing himself against her leg. It was too hard to resist.
She slid down beside him, and his arms went around her, his eyes still closed, looking relaxed, asleep. Instinctively he moved on top of her, one knee parting her willing legs, his cock moving with unerring homing instinct, sliding deeply into her. Belinda had been smiling, thinking, Oh, no—even in sleep! But the smile disappeared as the feel of him made her lose her breath and think of only one thing.
His eyes flicked open, hazy and unfocused. He moved gently, with growing fervor. His gaze became lucid. A smile. “Belinda.”
She would have died if he’d called her by another name. Belinda closed her eyes, let herself go, let the feelings build. It happened very quickly; the impending rush, the pull, like the tide, tugging her along, sweeping her up, and she whimpered, panted, moaned his name—and then she was gone, hurled away, beyond control, a series of intense contractions racking her body, causing her to lose focus with everything.
When she opened her eyes she met Jack’s grin, sort of like a proud boy who had just proved he could climb the highest tree; and then he slid onto his back, with his arm around her and was starting to snore.
Unbelievable.
She looked at him and wanted to scream with joy—and rage.
Why her?
She didn’t need this, didn’t want it. Why had it been so good? Worse: She was fatally attracted to him. And she knew that was the only way to describe it—fatal. Damn him! To him, she was just another lay, one of hundreds.
She stared at him and tried to see the real man.
He’s nothing but a star with a monstrous ego and an insatiable need for pussy, she thought. And I’ve just become another nameless, faceless fuck.
Maybe I’ll stand out in the crowd because I’m a blonde.
She wanted to laugh, and she wanted to cry.
The timing could never be good and had never been worse.
She knew Ford, all right—she knew him very well.
And the last thing she needed in her life was a superstud actor. A man like that could bring only pain. Lots of pain.
Especially when she had these damn feelings that were trying to pop out of her, incipient and demanding—and very, very threatening.
Oh, she knew him all right!
He was her flip side, her male counterpart.
Her soul mate.
She got
up and very quietly gathered her clothes.
63
Jack was dreaming.
He knew the dream—and hated it.
The goddamn neighborhood. The empty lot full of garbage. The broken chain fence. The slovenly cottages, the filthy streets, the rats. His house.
He didn’t want to be in the dream. He wanted to wake up.
He saw her standing there, on the porch. His mother.
Something was wrong. He knew his mother was dead.
Wake up!
He felt his heart lift in anticipation as he suddenly knew who was standing there, waving, waiting.
It wasn’t his mother.
Belinda.
He started to run. His heart was going crazy now, with a kind of insane happiness, a desperate need, a kind of ecstatic feeling that didn’t belong in the dream. Belinda was so beautiful, and she was there waiting for him.
But it was wrong. She shouldn’t be there, not on his porch. Something was wrong.
He felt afraid.
And then he knew why: Because it was happening, and he had known it was going to happen all along. His house started moving away as he approached.
No!
Belinda!
He screamed, but no words came out. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t move.
The house was disappearing!
Belinda! Belinda! Belinda!
He couldn’t get his voice to work, and his legs were still paralyzed. The house was dropping over the horizon. It was just a speck now, and he started crying.
Jack gasped and sat up, fully awake.
What a dream.
His face was wet. He couldn’t believe it. And then he realized the other side of the bed was empty.
He leaned back against the pillows, his heart pounding, waiting for it to slow down, listening for Belinda in the bathroom. Why would he dream something like that? How insane!
He turned his head toward her side of the bed, touching the spot where she had lain, inhaling the heady smell of sex. The sheets were cool, and he frowned, sitting up. Looking down, surprised. He was growing.
He half smiled. All kinds of memories came spinning back to him. Jesus! Never had it been so good—last night made every sexual encounter he had ever had seem embarrassingly poor! He laughed, a husky, smug sound.
