Lovers and Liars

by Brenda Joyce

  It had been the best day he’d ever had in his life. Being with Lydia was fun, nonstop fun, and when she wasn’t cracking jokes she was mimicking everyone—including him!—and Rick had never laughed so much in his entire life. He didn’t want the day to end.

  They sat on one of the sofas in the living room and Rick handed her the joint, relaxing against the pillows. They passed it back and forth in a new, very easy silence. Rick had never felt so close to anyone before, and he was struggling to get a grip on his feelings. He kept feeling as if he were about to burst, a delicious sensation.

  “You look so serious,” Lydia said, imitating his expression and jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow.

  He laughed at her face. “I was thinking,” he said.

  “About what?” She stubbed the roach carefully in an ashtray, saving it for later.

  “I was wondering if you’re ticklish,” he yelled, pouncing on her.

  She shrieked, and he attacked her underarms. She was ticklish. She started laughing, and the more he tickled the more she laughed. “No, Rick, stop!” she cried.

  Rick changed his area of attack. She was on her back, and he had her thighs pinned with his. His hands went to her belly, slipping up under her baggy T-shirt. She shrieked and wriggled to get away.

  And suddenly the game became more than a game.

  Rick had his hands on the smooth, firm silky skin of her belly. He was on his knees, suspended over her, no longer laughing but breathing hard, and not from physical exertion. Looking down into her face.

  The moment his hands stopped their torture her own laughter stopped, and she stared up at him, her breath coming in short, fast gasps, her lips parted—and the moment was suspended.

  His hands moved over her belly, slowly, enjoying the feel of her.

  Breathless, her mouth hung open; her eyes searched his, dark, moist, trusting.

  Rick’s arms slid around her, and he lowered himself on top of her. She raised her face eagerly for his kiss, meeting his lips halfway. He tightened his hold, his legs parting hers, not deliberately but instinctively, the hard ache of his cock settling in the soft, warm V between her thighs.

  This time her mouth parted for his tongue, and she welcomed him.

  Kissing her was better than all the hookers and even Patty Epherton put together. It was a dazzling realization, like a bolt of lightning. He loved her.

  He had never loved anyone before.

  Tenderly he cupped her face with both his hands and searched her eyes with his own, looking for a reciprocal feeling. He saw trust, innocence, desire, and something else—something like wonder. He kissed her with all the love he was feeling.

  Lydia kissed him back, her hands beneath his shirt, roaming his back, her hips responding and arching against him.

  And then, just like that, it happened. He clutched her tightly and came in his pants.

  “Rick?” Her tone was soft, confused.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, still on top of her, still holding her, wondering if she could feel his heart pounding like a jackhammer.

  “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “Nothing,” Rick said, kissing her.

  They kissed for a long time. It was growing dark outside. Rick wanted to touch her everywhere but respected her too much to treat her like a tramp. Instead his hands roamed her back, her waist, even curled in her thick, wavy black hair. His desire renewed itself. He wanted her so much.

  Lydia shocked him when she took his hand and guided it to her breast. “Please,” she said. “Don’t you want to touch me?”

  “Yes,” he gasped, sinking his hand into her soft flesh. “I didn’t think,” he said, squeezing her breast and finding an erect nipple, “that you’d let me.”

  She moaned very softly.

  Rick wasn’t sure how far to go. But one look at Lydia’s face told him he shouldn’t stop. Daringly he slid his hand under her shirt, fondling her through her brassiere. Lydia’s moan encouraged him, and he slipped his hand beneath the bra, found the bare, swollen flesh, caressed it and stroked it and wondered if he was going to come in his pants again.

  “Oh, Rick,” Lydia cried. “I’ve dreamed about this, about you and me.”

  “You have?”

  Her eyes opened and she smiled. “Ever since you first came to school.”

  “Lydia? Are you—?”

  “Yes.” She stared at him through long black lashes. “I want you to be the first.”

  His heart careened madly.

  “I am sixteen,” she added, sitting up. “Don’t you want to? Or don’t you like me?”

  “I want to,” Rick said quickly. “I just didn’t think you did.”

  She smiled. “I thought boys didn’t care about what the girl wanted.”

  “They don’t,” Rick said. “But I care about what you want—very much.”

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  Rick was confused. “Why are you upset?”

  “I’m not upset, you fool,” Lydia said. “I’m happy. I didn’t think you’d ever like me.”

  “I like you, all right,” Rick said, standing and pulling her up. He held her hand and led her into his bedroom. Rick locked the door behind them. Who knew when Leah might appear?

  She looked at him shyly, blushing.

  Rick smiled and said, “Don’t worry. I’m pretty experienced.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said, like the old Lydia.

  He stripped off his clothes rapidly, only to find her staring, still fully dressed. He wasn’t embarrassed—he was proud.

  “I’ve never seen it quite like that before,” Lydia said, staring at his erection. “I saw my father once, and when I was younger, my neighbor. It looks awfully big,” she added dubiously.

  “It will fit perfectly,” Rick said, trembling with excitement but wanting to appear nonchalant. “Are you going to undress?”

  She sat down on the bed. “I don’t look like Patty Epherton,” she warned.

  “I don’t care,” Rick said. “I think you’re beautiful.”

  “Maybe we should wait until it’s completely dark out,” she said anxiously.

  Rick sat beside her, took her hand, tried to think of how to reassure her. He had never said the words before, but suddenly he wanted to, desperately. And he wanted to hear her say them back. “Lydia? I love you.”

  She stared. Then her face crumpled. She fell against his chest. “Do you really?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, stroking her back. “How do you feel? About me, I mean?”

  “You fool,” she said, raising a teary face. “I’ve been in love with you since we first met—when you only had eyes for Patty Epherton.”

  “Do you mean it?” He was overwhelmed.

  “Yes.”

  He helped her undress. It was twilight, and the calm grayness filled the room, giving him just enough light to see. He was stunned as her body was revealed—broad shoulders, nice strong arms, big beautiful breasts that put Patty Epherton and all the hookers to shame. A small waist and hips, long, curved legs, muscular from all the sports she was always doing. Her body belonged in a centerfold, and he couldn’t understand why she was always hiding it.

  “I told you,” she said with a nervous laugh.

  “You are so beautiful, Lydia. Patty can’t hold a candle to you!”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, lowering himself down on her. “I mean it.”

  He kissed her mouth, her jaw, her throat. Working his way down to her beautiful breasts. When he tongued a hard nipple she gasped and grasped his head tightly.

  “No one’s ever done that to me before!”

  He suckled her with fervor until she was writhing, until their bodies began to film with sweat. His mouth explored the rest of her—her ribs, her navel, the patch of dark, coarse pubic hair. He slid his hand into the moist V, and she bucked against him, gasping, panting. He wanted so much for her to feel what he felt.

  He had tried it once—it had b
een not particularly pleasant. But now—with his face hovering so close and his fingers spreading apart parts of her that were so different, so new, so exciting and beautiful—the urge to taste her came over him. He lowered hesitant lips and kissed her gently.

  She cried his name.

  He deepened the kiss. And was surprised at the jolt it gave him and the surge of need it produced. It seemed to have the same effect on her, for she was spread and arching for him, and he experimented. Probed with his tongue. It became a whole new world, a delicious, erotic, sublime experience. He became lost in the taste and smell of her.

  Lydia’s hands tightened so hard on his head that it hurt. She emitted a strangled cry, arched up, and shuddered convulsively.

  Beyond reason, unbearably ignited, Rick was on top of her, kissing her, probing. He found her entrance, pressed, couldn’t even get more than the bare tip of himself in. Reflexively he reached down, guided himself into a space that was tight, not accommodating, but wet, hot. He put his arms around her and pushed. And then he was moving surely, steadily, and she was moving too, eager, but awkward, her rhythm missing his, but it didn’t matter—it didn’t matter at all.

  95

  “That’s all right,” Belinda said, her hand reaching for the door handle. “You don’t have to get out.”

  “Don’t you dare open that door!” Jack flashed, his hand already hard on hers.

  “I thought you weren’t a gentleman.”

  “I am when it suits me,” he said, jumping out and striding around the car.

  Belinda stepped out and they walked up to the front door. She unlocked it and turned. “Well, thanks for a nice evening.”

  His expression was incredulous. “A nice evening? Only nice? Lady, you have a tendency toward understatement. You’re not going to invite me in?”

  “It was a very nice evening, Jack—don’t press it. And, no, I’m not inviting you in.”

  “You think you’re so tough,” he murmured, leaning closer.

  “Forget it,” Belinda said, stepping back against the door, pushing it open.

  “Invite me in for decaf,” Jack insisted, flashing her a heart-stopping grin. “Don’t be afraid,” he added in a murmur.

  “Let’s set the record straight. I am not afraid of anything with a prick.”

  His grin widened. “So you’re going to invite me in?”

  “After you,” she said. She marched into the kitchen and put on a kettle of water, letting him wander as he pleased. What would he say if he knew her mother was asleep downstairs in the guest room? When he reappeared she turned to him deliberately. “I only have instant.”

  “Do I care? Are you going to change?”

  “No, Jack, I’m not going to change.”

  “I sort of like that sheer black lace negligee in your bathroom,” he said with a kind of pout that, unfortunately, made him close to irresistible.

  “My mother’s here.”

  She had to hand it to him: He was a pro, cool as a cucumber, unfazed. As if he didn’t know her—intimately. “She asleep?”

  “Probably.” She waited another moment, but of course he wasn’t going to tell her he’d balled her mother seventeen years ago. Why was she disappointed?

  Belinda put on a quiet jazz station and glanced at him cautiously. He had taken off his jacket, which was black silk with a silvery sheen. He looked very relaxed and collected—as if this were his home, not hers. He was removing his red tie, and Belinda watched, mesmerized. He caught her eye and smiled.

  He knows exactly what he’s doing, she thought, but couldn’t move her eyes. He drew the tie off and casually let it slip to the couch. He was staring at her as he unbuttoned one, two, three buttons. And then his hands stopped; he patted the couch and smiled.

  Such a simple act, but he made it into something incredibly sexy and sensual. “I’ll get the coffee,” she said.

  When she came back she approached cautiously, carrying the two cups. As she handed him his she saw, to her dismay, a healthy bulge in his slacks, which she promptly decided to ignore. But he’d caught her attention.

  “Sorry,” he said with a soft laugh. “Some things are impossible to control.”

  She ignored the comment and sat in a chair facing him, crossing her legs. He eyed them—as she’d intended.

  “What, do I have a social disease or something?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. Why don’t you come over here?”

  “I’m quite comfortable right where I am, thank you. Do you think I’m an heiress, Jack?”

  “What?”

  She smiled. It was nice to see him off balance for a change. “I am not an heiress.”

  “All right.”

  “I thought I’d mention it. In case that’s what you’re after.”

  Jack laughed. “Sweetheart, I’ve got enough cash to tide us over for a few years. And I don’t mind your being after me for my money.”

  “You wouldn’t mind, Jack, if I wanted you for your money? Your connections?”

  He grew serious. “I was teasing. Of course I’d mind. That’s one of the things I like about you, Belinda. Even though it’s taken a while to get used to, you really don’t care that I’m a star.”

  “Bravo,” she said quietly. She was impressed. She stood up slowly. “Want to dance?”

  Jack was already standing in front of her, pulling her into his arms. And then they were swaying to a soulful love song. His grip tightened. She could feel the whole length of his body. He had one hand on the top of her hip, the other on her bare shoulder, and his fingers caressed and burned into her skin. She had her arms around his neck, not exactly sure how this had happened, but it was the most natural thing in the world to close her eyes and lay her cheek against his chest.

  This one timeless moment was the most exquisite she had ever experienced.

  A kind of smoldering fire leapt and sparked and warmed between them.

  It was so obvious. I love him. Terrifyingly obvious. I would like to stay here, just like this, drifting in his arms forever.

  She felt his breath on her temple; then he dusted her flesh with a kiss. His hands pressed, sliding over the soft leather of her skirt.

  Belinda didn’t open her eyes. Drifting away … so warm … She could barely breathe.

  His lips touched her cheek, another fragile whisper of a kiss. His arms tightened, and she could feel his chin and mouth on the top of her head. He rubbed his face gently into her hair. Inhaling. Another brief kiss.

  The beautiful tragic music, bittersweet and melancholy, ended only to be replaced by something upbeat and incongruous to the mood and the fire between them. Jack had stopped swaying, had his hand on the back of her neck, was saying her name in a husky tone, pulling her head back.

  “Belinda.”

  She opened her eyes. His face was inches from hers, his green eyes heavy-lidded and glazed.

  “I want a kiss,” he murmured before claiming it.

  It would be so easy to surrender.

  Conscious logic interrupted what they were doing, intruding, ruining everything. In one second she thought of all the men in her life. Of Rod and Vince and all the one-nighters and two-nighters and now Jackson Ford. A huge panicky fear engulfed her.

  She pushed herself out of his embrace, wrenching away. “Not tonight.”

  He stared at her.

  “Go away, Jack, you’ve outstayed your welcome, damn you.”

  He became incredulous, angry. A long moment passed before he spoke. “Why are you doing this?”

  She absolutely could not tell him the truth. So she said nothing.

  “We’ve already been together. I don’t understand.”

  “Just leave.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he demanded again. “You want me. And if you think that you don’t, you’re lying to yourself. And God knows, Belinda, I want you.”

  “The only thing I want from you, Jack, is something you’re incapable of g
iving me—or any woman.”

  “And what exactly is that?”

  “A real, honest emotion,” Belinda returned intensely, her gaze clashing with his. “Pricks are a dime a dozen, Jack.”

  Confusion started to fade from his gaze. He smiled slightly, lucidly.

  “Get out,” she snapped. “Just get out, Jack, now.”

  “I think,” Jack said slowly, approaching her, “that you care for me.”

  Belinda stepped backward, furious with herself for revealing too much and furious with him for being so insensitive and egotistical. “The problem is, Jack, that you don’t have a heart—or what heart you have is hanging suspended between your legs.”

  “Low and mean,” Jack said, but he was smiling as he reached for her. She couldn’t evade him. “Give me a chance, Belinda.”

  Eyes locked.

  “If you don’t give me a chance, how will you ever know if I have a heart or not?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s late. Go home. Go back to L.A. Do us both a favor.”

  “Why won’t you listen? I do care about you! I’m falling in love with you, dammit! Isn’t that what you want to hear?”

  “You misunderstood what I meant. Go home.”

  He was no longer smiling. “I could get down on my knees, couldn’t I, and declare myself the way they did a hundred years ago and you’d still think I was full of shit, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “When am I going to see you again?”

  She almost gaped. He really had the tenacity of a pit bull. “I don’t know,” she said cautiously.

  “Tomorrow night.” It wasn’t a question but a statement of intent. He was heading for the door as if nothing had happened.

  She felt disappointment.

  And was angry at herself for feeling it.

  96

  For the occasion she dressed.

  She wore a skintight T-shirt, braless, and a new jeans skirt that was a few inches above the knee. Medium-heeled sandals, silver bangles, and her hair loose. A touch of pale pink lipstick and blush. Mary had to admit she looked great—even if she was a bit plump.