Rose-Coloured Love

by Amanda Carpenter

  But even as he spoke, Devan’s hands were creeping up jerkily, along the front of his chest. She knew because she saw them, and was as much shocked by that as she was by anything, for she wasn’t in control, she was burning up. She was empty, aching deep, and throbbing with such intensity that she began to tremble.

  Then he, too, was shocked, for he saw and felt her tremble and respond, and he was utterly still for one pounding moment. Then he was over her, pushing her back against the grass-cushioned ground, his mouth raking over her chin, down her throat, across the path his hand was making as he unbuttoned her blouse. She wore no bra, and his mouth was an abrupt jolt to her as he found one slight breast and suckled. She said something, or tried to, but it didn’t sound at all coherent, and then she was ripping his shirt from his waistline and running her hands greedily underneath, and he surged against her.

  From seemingly nowhere they fell into this sudden urgency, which stunned Devan’s mind with incredulity. He was jerking off his shirt, and she was struggling to reach the zipper of his jeans, and then he was pulling her clothes off and coming to lie on top of her. Startling nudity, part of her was registering; startling and so exciting. She heard his voice, sounding low, utterly unlike himself, that measured Ryan she had come to know, “Did he get you this way? Did you tremble for him? Did he—”

  A moment of immobility, and then she thrust her hand into his hair and jerked his mouth roughly down to her. She hissed against his lips, “Shut up.” And then she began to move.

  And of course then it was all lost, for he was out of control and rough, and she was out of control and uncaring. Somehow, there in the cool breezes and on the bumpy ground, they were able to take pleasure from each other, both of them acting as though they were starved, and now drowning in assuagement of their need.

  They lay very still, her head pressed against his shoulder, feeling his bare and silken skin as though for the first time, and his warmth. An eternity of exhausted immobility, his full weight on her, his face buried in her hair. Devan hid her face in Ryan’s shoulder, breathing raggedly, feeling herself close to tears. Then she felt and heard him sigh. It brought her hands to the back of his neck to stroke lightly in the aftermath of her contentment.

  Without moving, Ryan said very softly, “This is damned uncomfortable.” It sent her to laughing into him instead of crying, which she considered was well enough. Then she bit him gently. He turned his head to her, and then caressed the side of her face with one hand. “Are you all right?”

  Devan hesitated, and then didn’t bother to lie. “I don’t know.”

  He pulled away from her slowly, and sat up. Without his body heat, cool air brushed against her overheated, damp skin, and she shivered. She let her eyes run over him, splendidly naked, and then he drew his shirt over her. But at that she sat up also, and looked about her rather tiredly for her scattered clothes. The grass was beginning to itch at her unprotected thighs.

  “I hope you’re not sorry,” he said, quietly, as he watched her.

  She said on a half sob, “I don’t know what, or who I am.” His response was immediate as he came up on his knees and drew her into a tight, breath-crushing hug. Her head went down on his chest, sliding on still damp skin and hair. “I—guess I’d better get dressed.”

  His head bent as he nuzzled his face into her hair and he said gently, “No need. Just draw on my shirt.”

  “But Helen and the kids—”

  “The kids were put to bed ages ago, and before I came out to find you, Helen had come to the kitchen to wish me good night. She’s most likely asleep by now.”

  He helped her draw on his shirt, and then buttoned it for her, with a long pressed kiss to her chest as he drew the material over her breasts. Then she slipped on her underwear, and he pulled on his jeans and shoes. When she had gathered her other things together, they turned in silence to walk back to the house, his arm tight and heavy across her shoulders.

  The downstairs was indeed deserted and dark. Ryan locked the back door behind them and then caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs. Devan’s head was bowed over shoulders which looked slimmer than ever in his too-large shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. When he reached her, he tucked one arm under her knees, the other wrapped around those slim shoulders, and he picked her up. Her free arm crept around his neck while her other held her clothes close to her chest. He started to climb the steps. “I do know how to walk,” she informed his ear, in a whisper. At the edge of her vision, she caught the glimmer of a hard grin.

  “Very good,” he congratulated, as quietly. “Glad to hear of it.” He went down the hall to her room. “But all the same, I think I’ll make sure you get there.” He plonked her down without ceremony, and then lay down over her, trying to read her expression from the faint light coming from the hall. She let herself look over him in response, those features which were so hard, yet expressive. His face became closed, wary. She lost all consciousness of his naked chest at that look, her eyes sharpening, body tensing. “May I sleep with you?”

  Her mouth and face trembled, and then she raised her arms to wrap them around his neck. “What do you think?” she asked. After a moment, he drew away to shut her bedroom door, and then he stripped and climbed into her bed. After he had pulled the covers over them both, she drew close and fell asleep with his arms wrapped tightly around her.

  The next morning, when Devan awoke, Ryan was gone. She stretched, feeling the soreness in her muscles that she hadn’t felt in a long time. A good feeling, that; an aching, tired, contented feeling. She sprawled from one corner of the bed to the other, lazily thinking about getting up. Vague and dreamlike memories brought a flush to her face and a smile to her lips. They had been so conscious of each other’s presence. Whenever one had rolled over, the other would wake up and roll over too, so that their bodies were always curled close. They’d finally settled with him behind her, curling his longer body to hers, his arm heavy on her waist, his hand cupping her breast.

  As she woke fully, however, the memories became overshadowed with her unresolved problems, and gradually she lost all pleasure in the thought of last night. She rolled over to her stomach and buried her head in one of her pillows, smelling his scent. Without meaning to, she had as much as told him she would be eager for a continuance of their relationship—in everything she’d done, in her urgent hands, in her enthusiastic, responsive lovemaking. He would expect too much from her, like Lee, and would be disappointed. It had been a colossal mistake. They’d gone too fast, too far, without communicating to each other their expectations.

  She tensed. Expectations. He had a life and ties in New York. He had simply taken two weeks off, and she had been worried that he might want a long-term relationship. Of course he didn’t; she was the one who did. Cold sweat broke over Devan’s body. She wanted a relationship with him; she wanted to know and understand him; she wanted it as a continuance in her life; she wanted him. Last night hadn’t been an isolated incident as far as she was concerned. She didn’t have sexual relations with a man in a passing friendship. This was the second man she had gone to bed with, the first being Lee, when she had made commitments and had given faith. Lee had left her cold, had gone just like that, and she had been devastated, for she was a creature of intense emotions, and convictions, and desires. She gave too much of herself.

  Devan whirled round and sat up with a thrust from the pillow, covering her face with her hands. She had been telling herself that she was a failure at her relationship with Lee all this time because she had believed him when he had said she hadn’t tried hard enough. But could that be true, when she had given all her hope and dreams and emotion to it? She’d given so much of herself, she’d been left badly wounded, and barren.

  Why had he left her? Why? Why?

  “It’s about time you woke up,” said Ryan from the open doorway, and her head snapped up to stare at him. “Helen and the kids went grocery shopping.” He was leaning against the doorpost, and his eyes grew hard at what he
saw in her expression. Then the look was gone as if it had never been. “Any regrets?” he asked softly, watching her.

  “Oh, Ryan,” she said on a shaky sigh, closing her eyes. Then she opened them again, with her hand reaching out. She had meant to say something to him about her need for support, encouragement, but when she looked to the doorway, he wasn’t there.

  She tore out of the bed, rushed to the bathroom and quickly showered, then dressed. She skipped down the stairs quickly, and hurried to the kitchen. Ryan was standing at the screen door looking out while sipping from a cup. His face was hard, his mouth a thin line. She slowed down, trying to gauge his mood, and he threw over his shoulder expressionlessly, “Help yourself to the coffee. I think you’re ready for it by now.”

  He was hurt. She realised that intuitively, for it certainly didn’t show in his expression or in the nonchalance of his leaning body. He had misunderstood her and was hurt. A flashing, frightening thought. Did he regret last night? But she couldn’t believe that.

  She said quietly, “You left before I could tell you how I missed you when I woke up.” A slow turn had him staring at her, head angled. That cold, repelling look faded, leaving him looking ruefully thoughtful at the vulnerable, tentative look in her eyes. She turned away and made for the coffee maker jerkily, dragging down a cup and pouring herself some. There was too much to understand about this complex man. She sighed, heavily, and whispered, “I’m scared half to death of you.”

  He went to the table to put down his cup. Then he walked behind her and gently tucked the hair away from her cheek so that he could bend his head and press a kiss by her mouth. At the feel of his lips, her own shook. He said, gently, “I rather think I’m a little scared of you, too.”

  “Well,” she said, as she leaned back to him for a brief moment, “that makes me feel a bit better.”

  He went back to his coffee cup. Devan sipped at her drink, the familiar brew tasting good to her, and then she started to wander away aimlessly when he looked at her sternly. “Breakfast,” he ordered, aggressively.

  She looked and felt startled, and then laughed. “All right!” She changed directions, back to the worktop again and the refrigerator, and she said, offhand, “Besides, I’m ravenous.” That surprised him into a laugh of his own.

  She felt too lazy to cook, so she buttered bread and ate three slices, along with one of the last fresh oranges, and a second cup of coffee. Ryan had wandered out of the room, so she lounged by herself, a nice, relaxed feeling, considering how intense the last few days had been. Paris was outside, yowling forlornly, so she let him in and fed him, listening to his contented purring as he ravished the cat food in his dish.

  The day was warm and bright, with fluffy clouds scuttling past the sun and dimming the direct glow from time to time. But there were never enough clouds to make it a truly grey day, instead being intensely yellow, blue and white. Devan rummaged for a book she had been meaning to read for some time now but had never got around to, and then she went out to the picnic table to bask in the shade of the overhanging tree and the warmth of the summer day. She was tired from their lovemaking last night and the series of emotions she’d run through in the last few days, so she soon found herself merely pretending to read. Then she wasn’t even pretending, as she closed the book and lay along the length of the bench, her hair spilling off the seat, her legs hanging off the other end.

  The screen door banged, and she lazily turned to watch under the table as Ryan strolled over. The morning had somehow slipped closer to noon while she’d lain there, and he was carefully carrying paper plates laden with sandwiches. Without a word he set one close to her, and then settled on the other bench to leisurely eat his lunch. She let her eyes roam over what she could see of him; his waist, his faded, casual jeans which hugged tight over hips and thighs, and those bare feet crossed at the sides. A lazy sexual awareness pierced her, and it was a pleasant feeling to give in to.

  She put her hand to the table without sitting up, and groped for her plate, which made him laugh quietly. Then she found the edge, and next sank her forefinger into bread, so she picked up her sandwich to nibble at it half-heartedly. “When did Helen say she’d be back?”

  “She wasn’t sure. They had to buy shoes, so she said it might take some time. You know,” he went on to say, mildly, “when I first got here, I couldn’t believe that you’d willingly bury yourself here. I think I’m beginning to understand, now.”

  Devan yawned, half covering her mouth with the hand that still held her sandwich. “I’ll have to admit that I didn’t come here with a healthy aspect. But, as you’ve found, it does grow on you.” Birds chattered. A light wind rustled at the tree tops. Everything was lazy, on that day.

  She reached out with her right hand and traced a light pattern on his denim-covered knee. His hand came under the table to grasp at her, but she’d seen him coming, and eluded him. “What do you like to do, besides argue and get your own way?” she asked, and yawned again.

  He laughed and retorted, “What else is there?” She grinned, but kept silent, and after a moment he said carelessly, “Oh, I guess I lead a pretty quiet social life. I go to almost all the Broadway plays, and I attend rather a lot of parties, most of which are through contacts I have in the business. But my work really takes up a lot of my time. I don’t indulge in time-consuming hobbies.”

  “You’re very fit,” she commented, and traced his knee again with her fingernail, making his leg flex and his hand reach blindly for her.

  “Cut that out, it tickles,” he said mildly. “I play racquetball in my lunch hour. What about you?”

  “I like to tickle men,” she told him, and sent her hand to the underside of his thigh, scratching maddeningly. This time he caught her hand in a very firm grip, and bent to peer under the table at her laughing eyes. He smiled slowly and then he yanked her right off the bench. She fell to the ground with an audible thud and lost the rest of her sandwich. Then she was giggling hilariously as, still with a tight hold on her wrist, he started to drag her to him, an unspoken, unknown intent in his smiling, light eyes.

  She was tangled between his legs when he finally stopped hauling on her, and she was able to get her knees underneath her. But he hadn’t let go and he wrapped his free arm tightly around her waist. For a moment she thought he meant to kiss her and went breathless, but then his fingers found their way between shirt and jeans and he was suddenly, ruthlessly, inexorably tickling her ribs. She gave a strangled scream and her body convulsed. But his hold was too firm, and finally she was crying from laughing so hard and jerking about in a frantic effort to get loose, trapped between his legs with the picnic table at her back.

  “Stop, please!” she gasped, jerking as far back as she could, and bumping the back of her head on the edge of the table. She saw stars, and he did stop then, immediately, laughing as hard as she, as her hand went to ruefully cup the back of her head.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her, remorsefully chuckling as he, too, felt at the back of her head. Cool, hardy fingers under her hair, and she instantly forgave him. “I thought I had a tight enough grip on you.”

  Devan regained control of herself and looked at him with her eyes still laughing, a little wild. Then she sank her teeth into his upper arm, growling. She was careful not to hurt him and he indulgently looked down as she did it, but then his body was jerking as, with her jaws moving delicately back and forth, she tickled him with her teeth. He sank his hand into her hair and pulled her back. She laughed up to his bent face, loving every minute of it.

  As she watched, the amusement slowly died out of his bright eyes, leaving them smoky, darkening. Then they shuttered, and he pulled her up to take her lips in a long, searching, deep-drinking kiss. She shifted close to him, feeling his thighs tight against her, her breasts pressed against his hard chest as he hunched to reach her mouth.

  He pulled back and, as he stared down at her, he growled, “I’m glad he was a fool. I’m glad he left you.”

  On
ce again, he had brought Lee into the situation when the last thing she wanted was to be reminded of the past. As he came back down, his intention quite clear, she jerked her head away. He held stiff for a moment, and then he relaxed with a sigh, putting his face to the top of her fragrant hair.

  “Mistake?” he asked.

  She put her forehead to his arm as he loosely cradled her. “Big one.” His hand stroked the back of her head, and she rubbed her cheek against the material of his shirt. “We have to talk about last night.”

  “We have to talk about a hell of a lot of other things, too,” he said, rather grimly. Then, more softly, “Look, I’m sorry I keep dragging him up.”

  “Then why do you do it?” she snapped.

  She felt the muscles in his arm bunch spasmodically. He said from the back of his throat, “Because he’s still a part of your life, and I don’t want him to be.” She froze, shocked. Then Ryan was dragging her head back so that he could stare down at her face. The sun had come out from behind a cloud, and she was dazzled by the glare falling through tree branches, lighting the edges of his hair to pale yellow. “Because I’m finding that I resent that he had your body at all.”

  She drew back out of his arms. He let her go and strode several paces away, rubbing at the back of his neck, his back to her. She sank weakly to the bench. “What has got into you?” she demanded, upset. “You sound like you own me or something. For God’s sake, I’m free to sleep with whomever I like, with no judgment from you—”

  “I’m not judging you!” he half shouted, whirling about to stare at her with brilliant eyes. “I am not judging you! If that had been my morality, I never would have made love with you last night.”