A Different Kind Of Forever

by Dee Ernst

  Diane flicked her tongue, delighted with the smell of him, inhaling deeply as she felt her own desire grow. He filled her mouth, not just the feel of his flesh, but the taste of him, sweet, and he made another sound, a low groan, and his legs moved, his hips rising faster. His hand grabbed her hair.

  “Wait,” he gasped. “Wait.”

  She lifted her head, hitched up her dress, and swung one leg over, straddling him. He sat up and pulled her to him, and his hands came up her legs, under her dress, pulling it over her head. His breath was ragged, and he pulled away her bra as she pressed herself against him, feeling him through the thin fabric of her panties. Her breasts felt tender, and when he put his mouth to her nipple, she whimpered. His hands were on her hips, holding her as she rubbed herself against him, feeling a rise, a swell of pleasure.

  She had wrapped her legs around him and he moved, lifting her, then laid her down beneath him. She was gasping, eyes closed, her arms outstretched, fingers gripping the carpet, and he slid his hands under her panties, pulling them down, kissing hungrily her ankle, then the tender spot inside her knee, and the soft flesh of her thighs. She arched her back as she felt his tongue, and her eyes flew open.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, and she tried to push her hips upward, but he held her down.

  “Patience,” he said softly, and she felt him again, tongue moving slowly, slowly, and each sweet touch brought from her a sound, deep and breathless. The blood pounded in her ears as she strained against him, and she could feel her climax building. She could hear her voice, pleading, please, please, and she came in a violent wave that took her breath as her body heaved away from him.

  Her head was thrown back, and when she opened her eyes, his face was above her, and he kissed her cheeks, and then her mouth, deeply, and she could taste herself on his lips, and the salt of her tears. He was between her legs, and she rubbed his erection, hard against her belly. She reached down and guided him, and he entered her gently, her flesh still throbbing, and she lifted her body to meet his. Her legs curled around him, her hands running down his back, pressing him deeper. He was moving slowly, deliberately, looking into her eyes, and she felt too open, too vulnerable, but she could not look away from him. She felt his body quicken, and at the same time she felt something of the same begin in her again and she wrapped her legs tighter, pushing herself harder into him.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please, don’t stop.” His eyes darkened and his jaw clenched, she could feel all the muscles begin to strain, but he did not stop. He rose

  himself above her, watching her as she arched against him, and she came again, crying out, and as she pulled down his head, searching for his mouth, he came with a shudder, his own cry muffled.

  He lay still against her. He was lightly built, almost delicate, all wiry muscle and lean flesh. When he tried to move, she tightened her arms, her legs, keeping him close.

  “No,” she whispered. “Not yet.” He lifted his head and smiled at her, his body loose now and damp with sweat. The house was quiet, music playing softly from the living room, her breathing finally slowed. He lifted himself off her and rolled on his back, eyes closed, breathing deep.

  Diane felt stunned. Every inch of her skin felt new and exquisitely tender. She stared at the ceiling, wishing she could find words, something to say to him, something clever and smart, so he would not know how shaken she was.

  Michael rolled to his side, facing her, head propped on his hand. With one finger he outlined the line of her lips, swollen and red, and she bit his fingertip very softly, then kissed it. He brushed the damp hair from her face.

  “What is that music?” he asked quietly.

  She listened. “Vaughn Williams. It’s called ‘A Lark Ascending’.”

  “Pretty. Do you like classical music?”

  “Sometimes. I like this. It helps me relax.”

  He was watching her. “You needed to relax tonight?”

  Diane let out a slow breath. “I told you. I haven’t done this in a while.” She turned her head to look at him. “I was afraid I’d do something stupid.”

  “We did just fine.”

  She lay there, wanting to touch him again, just to feel the smoothness of his skin against her. She lifted her hand and he caught it, kissing her palm. She rolled to face him and kissed him again, without passion. He pulled her close, wrapping his leg around her. She lifted the thin silver chain that was around his neck.

  “This is very beautiful.”

  “It was my mother’s,” he explained. “She bought it in Rome, along with a crucifix. She had it blessed by the Pope. I have the cross at home.”

  Diane heard a soft thump as Jasper leapt off the bed. He walked over and sat on the floor where their heads lay, almost touching, and began to purr.

  “You have a cat,” Michael said.

  “Yes. This is Jasper.”

  “Was he watching?”

  “Probably. Now he’ll run out and report to all his cat friends.”

  “Tough room.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said lightly. “I bet when you leave, all the cats in the neighborhood will be lined up outside, applauding.”

  He laughed softly and kissed the corner of her mouth.

  “Are you hungry?” Diane asked.

  “Yes. Where would you like to go?”

  “I have food here.” She sat up. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” She walked across the hall and into the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were still flushed and blotchy, eyes faintly red. She sat down and urinated, the flesh between her legs achy and sore. She had the smell of him everywhere. She splashed cold water on her face and smoothed back her hair.

  The bedroom was empty. She picked up her dress and pulled it over her naked body.

  He was in the kitchen. She watched him taking out eggs and cheese from the refrigerator. She crossed her arms over her breasts.

  “If you can cook,” she said seriously, “I may have to propose.”

  He threw her a smile. “I can make a great marinade for cooking anything out on a grill, and I make mashed potatoes that will take a year off your life from too much butter and cream. I also make perfect omelets. Cheese? Or would you prefer mushroom? You have a great kitchen. You must be serious about food.”

  “Yes, we’re pretty serious about food around here. I have some ham. We could run a few slices under the broiler.”

  “Fantastic. Is that sourdough from Jimmy’s up there? Great bread, just great.”

  He was standing in front of her stove, barefoot, jeans riding low, his shirt still open. She came up behind him and put her arms around his waist, looking over his shoulder. His movements were quick and efficient. He was cracking eggs into a large bowl, one-handed. She watched him for a minute, enjoying the feel of her hands on his skin, the play of the muscles in his back against her breasts.

  “I’ll set the table,” she said. He nodded, and gave her a quick kiss before she stepped away from him.

  She carried dishes into the dining room, set out cloth napkins from the sideboard. The table was a long oak farm table, the wood golden and softly gleaming. In the center of the table were a cluster of candles, each on a different candlestick, brass, copper, pewter. Diane collected them, one from each of the dozen countries she had visited. She lit them carefully, and the room bloomed with soft light. She went to change the music, a jazz station, and then closed the drapes of her living room window against the darkness.

  The meal was wonderful. She ate slowly, listening to him as he spoke, laughing with him. After they cleared the table, she brought a bowl of grapes into the living room, and they drank cold white wine and sat on opposite ends of the coach, facing each other, backs propped against the arms of the couch, feet and legs intertwined. She talked about her marriage, the girls. He talked about the movie, about being a celebrity. She refilled the wine glasses and lit more candles. He watched her as she moved about the room, his body relaxed, and his ey
es bright and intense.

  “Would you like to go sailing tomorrow?” he asked her as she settled back into her corner.

  “Sailing? You have a boat?”

  “Yeah, a small one. It’s fantastic - like flying.”

  “I bet. I’d love to go with you. Where?”

  “We’ll go to my place. Mendham.”

  “There’s a lake in Mendham? I never knew that.” She was surprised. She had been there often, antiquing. It was a small, wealthy community surrounded by woods and horse farms.

  “Well, there’s a lake where I live.” He looked sheepish.

  “You own a lake?” She asked carefully.

  “Well, kind of. My neighbors and I do. There are four of us.”

  “Wow. Your own personal lake.” She ate a fistful of grapes slowly.

  “I didn’t make any money until the second CD,” Michael explained. “My Dad took one look at the check I got when it went platinum and told me it was time to move out of his house. I was twenty-one. A friend of his, a judge, was selling his place. My father and I drove out to Mendham and bought it. The house was a mess, so I knocked it down. Nick found an architect for me. We’d been to Japan on the first tour, and the buildings blew me away. So I had a house built, and a dock, and bought a boat ‘cause I always wanted to sail.”

  “Who takes care of everything while you’re on the road?”

  “I have a guy, named Fred Chu. He was an old client of my father’s. Immigration problems, I think. He looks after the house, feeds Max, and organizes all the other guys.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Other guys?”

  “Well, there’s a guy for the yard, a guy who cleans the house, a guy who looks after the cars, a pool guy, and a boat guy.” She had started to laugh, and he was shaking his head, laughing with her.

  “I know, it sounds ridiculous. I mean, it’s just me and the dog, right?”

  “Man, being a rich celebrity really sucks, Michael.”

  “Oh, you know it.” He put down his wine glass and began to crawl to her side of the couch. She spread her legs and he lay between them and kissed her, hard. She sank deeper into the couch, wrapping her legs around him, her arms creeping around his neck.

  “Would you like to stay here tonight?” She asked.

  “Yes. Absolutely. Although the original plan was to wine you and dine you, then take you to my place.”

  “You had a plan?”

  “Of course. Waiting at home are three bottles of champagne and a closet full of rubbers.”

  “A whole closet full? Your recuperative powers must be impressive.”

  “Very. Someday I’ll write a song about it.”

  “Wow. So, do you mind going to plan B?”

  “Not at all. In fact,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile, “I happen to have a toothbrush in my glove compartment.”

  She kissed his neck. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’m something of an optimist.” His hands were back beneath her dress. He was kissing her as she began to move her hips against him.”

  “It would seem,” he said softly, “that you aren’t wearing anything under your dress.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “I’m something of an optimist too.”

  She began pulling his shirt away, tugging at his jeans, and she stopped and looked at him. “I do have a bed, you know,” she told him.

  “I know,” he replied, kicking his jeans to the floor. “Don’t worry, we’ll get to it.”

  And they began again.

  In the morning, they left the house early. There was a beautifully restored Volkswagen convertible bug sitting in Diane’s driveway. She stared at it, delighted.

  “This is yours?” she asked. “It’s perfect. Can I drive?”

  They put the top down, she slid behind the wheel and Michael found his cell phone in the back seat and began to check messages. They stopped for breakfast at a diner, then went back up Rt. 24, through Morristown, and on to Mendham. Michael talked on his cell phone, and Diane drove happily, the wind whipping her hair. He directed her off the main road, winding through quiet country, until she turned up a narrow drive, gently rising, with a grove of massive pines offering only a glimpse of a house set far back from the road.

  Michael’s house was long and low. She stopped the car before a tall, red, double doors and they got out.

  “Your house is beautiful, Michael.”

  “Thanks. I really love it.”

  They walked into a low-ceilinged foyer that opened to a large, lofty space, glass walls opening to a pool and a stretch of blue water beyond. Diane caught her breath. It was beautiful, the room, with its stark, elegant furnishings, and the view, bright and glittering.

  Max came bounding from somewhere, and Michael yelled loudly, “Fred, it’s me.” He looked at Diane. “Want the tour?” She nodded.

  Beyond the living room was a dining area, equally quiet and gracious. The kitchen was a gleaming space of stainless steel and black, with a small, round gentleman Michael introduced as Fred, who bowed over Diane’s hand and welcomed her. There were guest rooms and a large media room, and on the other side of the house, a small office, a vast studio, and Michael’s bedroom, walled on two sides with glass, looking out over the lake and lush trees.

  Michael led her back to the kitchen. “Fred, can we have lunch? Around one. Out on the dock?” He asked.

  Fred smiled and nodded. “Very good cold crab. Salad. Good bread. White wine.”

  “Fantastic. Thank you.” Michael led Diane out past the pool, down a beautifully manicured lawn to a small dock that stretched out into the water, with two weathered Adirondack chairs facing the water.

  Diane had never been in a sailboat before, and he was patient, explaining what everything was and what it was used for. They practiced a few moves with the sail down, the boat simply rocking in the water. When they really got underway, Diane felt confident. They sailed around in small circles within the sight of his house. She was dressed in jeans and sneakers, and had worn a heavy sweatshirt on his advice. The wind was high and cold out on the water, but she found it exhilarating. They brought the boat back in and had lunch, sitting at a small table Fred had set up at the edge of the dock.

  When they went out again, he took her past a curve of land and there was the rest of the lake, huge and glistening. They spent the next few hours racing across the water, Diane sailing the little boat by herself while Michael sat back and watched her. She caught him looking at her intently at one point, but when she questioned him, he just smiled.

  “You look happy,” he yelled as an explanation.

  They returned to the house and went into the village for dinner, to a loud, lively place in the center of town, where their casual clothes and Diane’s tousled hair did not matter. The staff was young and friendly, and they all knew Michael. Their waiter brought him a mug of beer without being asked. A waitress came over to chat, a young girl who Michael knew by name, and cast puzzled looks in Diane’s direction. Afterwards, they drove back to his house, and made love on his huge bed, the windows open to the cool night air, the room flooded with moonlight and the scent of water.

  They had breakfast the next morning outside on his terrace, looking out over the lake. Fred served them Eggs Benedict. Diane stared down at her plate and shook her head.

  “This is incredible. Do you get this kind of thing every morning?”

  “Nope.” Michael poured coffee. “Fred must like you. I usually get half a grapefruit and stale Raisin Bran.”

  “You do not. This coffee is delicious, and fresh squeezed orange juice. God, I could get used to this.” She spoke lightly, just chattering, stirring cream into her coffee cup, and she glanced at him and found him staring at her.

  “What?” She glanced behind her. “What is it?”

  He shook himself and looked down at his plate. “What should we do today?”

  “I need to go home. I have work to do in my yard. I’m putting in a rose garden. Remember that a
zalea you helped me with? Well, that used to be under this huge tree that finally died, and last year I had it taken down and hauled away, so I finally have a sunny spot. I’ve always wanted roses. I’ve been planning and plotting all winter. I need to finish some heavy-duty soil turning today.”

  “Okay. I’ll help you.” He drank orange juice.

  Diane put down her fork and stared at her half-eaten breakfast. “Thank you, but no, really. I want to do this by myself.”

  Michael ate thoughtfully, watching her face. She was still staring at her food.

  “It’s just that my Dad, he had this big self-reliance theory,” she said, looking up at him. “He always said that if you relied too much on others, you would forget your own strength. So I like to do things alone.”

  “That must have been tough on Kevin when it came to raising the girls,” Michael observed dryly.

  “No. I know when to share.” She picked her fork back up. “Kevin always was right in there, pitching in, and I always let him. It was important for them to have two good parents. He’s still a great dad. It made me squirm a few times, but I got over it.”

  “Then why don’t we have dinner tonight?”

  Diane put her fork down and sat back again. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want Emily and Megan to know about this, about us. Not yet, anyway.” She drank the coffee, trying to find words. Michael leaned forward, curious.

  “A couple of years ago, I met someone who could have been, well, special, but he was married, so I backed away and that was that. But the girls had met him, and they loved him. He was just such a gentleman, you know, very old-world. He was from England. When I told the girls he wouldn’t be back around, they were upset. I think Rachel had a little crush on him.” She looked at Michael. He was cradling his steaming coffee, looking at her intently.

  “I already know all three of them have a huge crush on you. Rachel was angry the other night. She’s been madly in love with you since she was fifteen, and she walks in, and there you are with me. Not so good. And the other girls, I don’t know.” She shrugged and smiled ruefully. “You’re not just some dopey guy Mom is going out with, you know? There are certain, well, extra problems here.”