Beyond Eden

by Catherine Coulter

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  She could only moan again, drawing her knees up.

  When he came back, he gently spread her onto her back again and pressed a warm washcloth against her, wiping away his seed, but not the heat, oh, no, not the heat of her. He pictured making love to her in the summer, when the outward heat would consume them and they would sweat and heave together and meld and become one. He quivered at the thought. He looked down at her sprawled on her back, those long legs of hers, so beautifully formed, and the softness of her, the streaked blond hair that covered her woman’s mound. She was too thin, but he didn’t care. Even her ribs made him want to come inside her again. And her breasts. Fuller than he expected and round, her nipples a light soft pink. He leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth.

  She lurched up, gasping. “Please, Taylor. Oh, God!”

  The responsiveness of her made him want to shout.

  She was tugging at his head, whispering, “ Goodness—why won’t it stop? Why, Taylor? I don’t understand, oh, God, it’s splendid. Don’t let it end.”

  She was babbling with her discovery of it but he knew she was also exhausted. No wonder. He didn’t know what had happened to her in San Francisco. Whatever it was had pushed her to him, completely, openly. “No, love. I’m sorry, forgive me, but you’re so beautiful. Not now, not yet.” He gently pushed her back down, tossed the washcloth onto the floor, and managed to get both of them under the covers. Within minutes they were asleep, wrapped in each other, close and warm and together.

  Taylor fought the urge to come inside her again, but he didn’t want to sleep either. He had to think because he had this stark feeling that when she awoke in the morning she wouldn’t think, she would simply react and that reaction would be one of cold fear, fear shaped from the past. He put himself to imagining what she would think tomorrow. After she’d behaved in the dark of the night like the most impassioned of lovers, like a woman to whom sex was the greatest thing in the world, and she’d just discovered it and couldn’t, quite simply, get enough of him. He smiled, a sated smile, one tinged with a good deal of satisfaction, but it faded as his worry grew. He had to bind her to him. He had to make her trust him. Hell, at least she’d told him her name. But it wasn’t enough. The secrets, the puzzles, had to be solved. He shook his head. His brain felt like mush. She’d behaved completely out of the character she’d created for herself. But created when? Why? Nor did he know what had triggered this change in her. Then, quite suddenly, he didn’t care. None of the other mattered, just having her with him, next to him, wrapped around him, here now, and now, now—

  He felt her breasts against his chest, felt her leg between his. What the hell, he thought, and gave in. Slowly, gently, he came over her, spreading her onto her back, and slipped slowly and deeply inside her. This time he could feel the stretching of her flesh to accommodate him. Sweet Jesus, she was soft, and that incredible heat of hers made him want to pound deep and not stop. He’d been so frantic before, he hadn’t really felt the tight flesh that surrounded him, the slickness of her, he’d been aware of an incredible tightness that had driven him insane, but he was now aware of every bit of her. He closed his eyes against the wonder of her.

  Then she awoke. He felt her muscles clench spasmodically around him. She didn’t, couldn’t, have any idea what that did to him. He rode her gently, not so deep this time, but still he felt his body clenching, tightening, felt his heart pound harder and harder, and knew he would leave her if he didn’t stop, if he didn’t pull out of her now. He quickly eased out of her, came down between her legs to put his mouth on her, knowing she would welcome him. She was sleepy, sated, she wanted him again, and it was dark and hidden, and she was safe with him and she knew it.

  She came in soft shudders. Then, to his surprise, as he prepared to ease his rhythm, to bring her down, to soothe her, she came again, her hips lurching upward, reaching a higher level, and he felt the deep flexing of her legs, the tightening of her muscles, the rippling of her flesh. Her hands fisted his hair and he breathed his hot breath against her and she came again. Arching and jerking, she was caught, by him, within herself, and when she quieted this time, he slid into her again, riding her deeply and silently, and spilling himself with gentle shudders deep inside her.

  He had no more thoughts. She was against him, part of him, her warm breath against his throat, and when he had climaxed, when his own breathing finally slowed, he smiled down at her, for she was asleep. He joined her and they slept deeply.

  Taylor awoke with a start, jerking upright, immediately alert. He whipped about, but he knew he was too late. Eden—No, not Eden and not Lynn. She was Lindsay and she wasn’t there. He felt her pillow. It was still warm, the indentation of her head still clear. God, he prayed she hadn’t run out on him. He cursed himself for not waking when she’d left the bed, for not feeling the emptiness when she’d left him. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

  He threw back the covers and ran stark naked out of the bedroom. He ran down the long corridor toward the front door, and right into her, nearly knocking her down. She was ready to walk out the door, dressed, in her winter coat and boots and gloves, her huge bag over her shoulder.

  He grabbed her arm, twisting her around.

  Her face was white. Fear filled her eyes, fear and something else—something wrenching and frightening was there in her eyes. He ignored it.

  He grabbed her other arm. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  She tried to pull away but he didn’t ease his grip. “Don’t you know about lovers’ etiquette? Rule one is you don’t run out. You don’t pull a disappearing act because you can’t face things, can’t face what you—yeah you, Lindsay—wanted to do and did with great enthusiasm and energy and passion. No, dammit, hold still. I’m not letting you go anywhere, so don’t try. Come with me. I’m naked and it’s cold and you belong with me, back in bed. Don’t fight me, damn you.”

  He dragged her back to the bedroom. She dug in her boot heels, but it didn’t help. He was strong and mad and determined. She hadn’t said a word, hadn’t made a single sound. There was just her harsh deep breathing. Once he got her in the bedroom, he slammed the door and locked it. He threw the key under the bed. He pulled her bag off her shoulder, then unleashed the strength he’d always controlled around her. He got her out of her coat and gloves and scarf. She was wearing a bulky wool sweater beneath, and tight blue jeans and boots.

  He shoved her down onto the bed. She leapt up, only to have him shove her down again. She kicked out and got his thigh. He winced and cursed, realizing in that moment she knew karate, yet she wasn’t out to shred him. No, she battered him with her fists, but even then she was careful. A good sign, he supposed as he grabbed her right leg, held it up by shoving her flat on her back, knocking the breath out of her, and pulling off the boot. He got the other one off the same way. “Now,” he said, and grabbed her sweater. “Progress, at last.”

  She began to fight him in earnest now. Still, she said nothing, struggling and twisting and striking out in an eerie silence that he refused to acknowledge. Her blue jeans were tough because they were so bloody tight, but he got them off her despite her fighting him, peeling them down inside out. He’d carry bruises from this, but what the hell. He saw the bruises he’d made on her hips from the previous night. He wondered if she’d noticed, and remembered her frantic movements, riding him, letting him work her up and down on him, his fingers digging into her flesh, all while she’d shouted and moaned and arched wildly.

  He left her knee socks and her panties on. She hadn’t bothered with a bra, just a light wool teddy. He was in no mood for niceties now. He ripped it off.

  “Now,” he said again, and brought her under the covers with him, holding her, stiff and hard and withdrawn, against him. It made him furious and he bellowed, “Feel me, damn you, Lindsay!” He pressed his hand against her hips, pressing her into his belly, against his hard penis. “I’m yours, dammit, and this body of min
e is also yours and I’m not about to let you use me to cure whatever devils were chasing you last night. I’m not about to let you enjoy four damned orgasms that I give to you and then run out on me as if nothing happened. Do you hear me, you damned twit?”

  “You’re yelling, of course I hear you. You needn’t use profanity.”

  “Good, at least now you’re talking. Dammit. No, that isn’t profanity, that’s just appropriate exclamations. No, dammit, don’t struggle because you won’t get away from me. I like your belly against me; just get used to it. You’ve already bruised the hell out of me. You’re a dirty fighter, Lindsay, and those long legs of yours reached every part of me. But I’ve got meaner, nastier experience, so forget trying to get away from me again. Put your head on my shoulder and relax. Do it, damn you! There, that’s better.”

  He could feel her hitching breath, nearly taste the uncertainty, the fear in her. Fear of him? No, more probably it was fear of herself, fear of a past that had colored her every action for years now. Finally her breathing slowed. He kept quiet, content to stroke her until she had eased against him, her muscles loose again.

  “Now that you’re back where you belong, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  He didn’t say a word. Finally she said, “What?”

  He still held silent.

  “What do you have to tell me?”

  He kissed the top of her head and squeezed his arms around her back. “You’re the best lay I’ve ever had in my life.”

  She froze on him, going stiff, and he simply held her. Hell, it was the truth, and some unvarnished truth was good for her. “In addition,” he continued after several moments of her rigid silence, “it’s a relief that you and I are magic in bed, since we’re going to be spending the next fifty years together. Don’t you agree?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. You enjoyed yourself last night. Good God, woman, you had four orgasms!”

  “No, no, please don’t say that, Taylor. I don’t understand any of it, not me, not why or how. Last night—all during the night, I just don’t know. It was five.”

  Good start, he thought, grinning as he kissed her ear and said, “Okay, five orgasms. I would have preferred an even half-dozen. Oh, yeah, I like your real name. When I thought it was Lynn, I was willing to accept it because it was who you were. But I must say that Lindsay suits you much better. Yes, I like you as a Lindsay.” When she remained quiet, he continued easily, in a chatty voice, “When you feel like telling me the rest of it, I’m here with ears on alert. I suppose that’s why you’ve kept your mail from coming here. I suppose that’s why you signed the apartment lease with one eye on me and your hand curved over your signature. No matter, tell me when you want to. I swear I won’t go find out on my own, and you know I could, being an ex-cop and a P.I. and a computer whiz on top of all that. I could find out who you are in about three minutes, probably less. I could have found out two months ago. But I didn’t. It’s been a real test of my beliefs in the right to privacy not to find out before.”

  She stirred against him, not trying to pull away, just her body showing her restless thought, her uncertainty, but she said finally, “I meant to tell you my name. It’s just that it was never the right time and I was afraid that you’d know the moment you heard it, or you’d find out and hate me and—”

  He needed time to sort through what she’d said, but he didn’t have it. “I know, I got you in a weak moment.” What did she mean that he’d hate her if he found out who she was? The Son of Sam’s daughter? Jackie Kennedy Onassis’ illegitimate offspring? Taylor hated unsolved mysteries. They begged to be resolved and there was nothing he liked better than figuring them out to the very last loose end, the very last question. He regretted giving her his word. Damnable trust.

  “I didn’t want you to make love to Eden. She isn’t real, she’s nothing really, just a chimera, a fake, and I couldn’t stand it.”

  He hugged her again. “Well, you told me soon enough. I knew it was you, and you are real, Lindsay, very real and all mine.” He began stroking his hand up and down her back. “I bruised your hips. You can see clearly the outline of my fingers. Did you notice?”

  He felt her nod against his throat.

  “I didn’t use anything, I’m sorry. Seeing you, knowing you wanted me, the urgency of it all—well, I lost it and I didn’t use anything. Depending on the time of the month it is for you, I could have gotten you very pregnant last night.”

  He waited, absorbing her silent shock, and hoping. To his utter delight, she didn’t blow a fit, nor did she withdraw from him. She was silent as a stone but he was used to that. He knew she was thinking. And she was. Lindsay was remembering the nurse in the emergency room and the pill she’d been given to prevent pregnancy. To prevent her bearing the prince’s child. To prevent her having to have an abortion. She closed her eyes, willing the memory away. And now again, only this time she’d been a willing participant. Taylor’s child. Her mind chilled and went blank.

  He waited.

  “I’m hard again, as I’m sure you can feel. Do you want me to come inside you, in the morning light, so I can see you clearly and watch you climax? And you can see me clearly?”

  She trembled at his words and he felt a very clean surge of pure triumph.

  He turned and looked at her beloved face. No makeup, and she looked beautiful. Her hair was loose and wild and deeply waving, thick around her face and over her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep blue, glistening with what he hoped was burgeoning desire. He would soon see. He kissed her, feeling her draw back for a moment, then lean into him, her breasts heaving a bit as she did so. He deepened the kiss, touching his tongue to her lower lip, urging her to open her mouth. She did, but only for an instant.

  Then, suddenly, she lurched back, rolling off the bed in her haste to get away from him.

  She made a grab for the covers but went to the floor without them. He laughed and rolled over, staring down at her. “You don’t have to leap away from me. All you have to do is tell me what you didn’t like and I’ll fix it. I’m good, Lindsay, and I do want to please you.”

  She was sitting there on the six-by-nine Bokara carpet, in the midst of that deep red, clad only in dark blue knee socks and panties. She was panting and her eyes were dilated. Her hands were fisted on her thighs. And she looked humiliated.

  Not that, no, anything but that. He couldn’t stand that. “Come here, sweetheart. You don’t want sex now? No problem. You did have a good dose last night.” He held out his hand to her. She stared at his hand, as if trying to determine what it was. His hand was square, the back sprinkled with black hair, the fingers long, the nails short and buffed. Beautiful hands, a man’s hands, and a man could hurt her with those hands, hurt her like the prince had hurt her. She sobbed aloud and crawled away from him, then rose and ran for the bathroom.

  “Well, shit,” Taylor said.

  Since he had a clear view of the bathroom door, he wasn’t worried that she could sneak out on him again. Besides, the key to the bedroom door was safely under the bed. He pulled the covers to his chest, fluffed up the pillows behind his head, and lay there watching that damned closed door. He began to speak, of anything that came into his mind. “Lindsay? I guess you can hear me through the door. Did I tell you that my mom was an opera singer? She was really quite good—a soprano, you know. She performed with Beverly Sills, Carlo Panchi, and a bunch of other greats. Her stage name was Isabella Gilliam. Have you ever heard of her? She died in the late eighties, my dad too, in a plane crash in Arizona. Dad was also so proud of her, and you want to know something? He hated opera. But he never let Mom know that. Whenever I remember the two of them now, I wonder if she did know how painful every opera was for him to sit through and I wonder if she simply pretended not to know so he wouldn’t realize that she knew. You know what I mean? Did you want to tell me what you think?”

  Silence. Then he heard the shower go on.

  Well, enough conversation. He�
�d been weaving a hopeful dream of unreal cloth to ever believe she’d answer him. He got up and put on a thick terry-cloth bathrobe and went to the kitchen. He couldn’t very well lock her in, so he left the bedroom door wide open and pocketed the key. He made coffee and took some croissants from the freezer and put them in the oven. He whistled, one eye on the door.

  When she appeared in the kitchen a half-hour later, he was sitting at the butcher-block table drinking his third cup of coffee.

  She’d dried her hair and she was fully and completely and modestly dressed, every inch of her covered from her chin down. In fact, she was so dressed, she looked bulky. Her attempt at armor, he assumed.

  “Coffee?”

  She nodded and slithered into the kitchen and sat down.

  “Croissant with that no-calorie strawberry spread?”

  “No, thank you, Taylor.”

  As he passed by her, he smelled the clean freshness of her and realized that, unlike her, he smelled of sex. Heady and musky and thick in the air.

  He offered his coffee cup up to toast her, but she ignored him. She picked at her croissant, her head down.

  “Would you tell me something, Lindsay?”

  Silence.

  “Would you tell me where you intended to go this morning? You live here, your other apartment is rented out. Where, Lindsay?”

  She looked up then, and he saw immediately that she’d had no idea at all. All she’d thought was to escape from him.

  It was a shitty realization and he hated it.

  “Where, Lindsay?”

  “I was going to go to Gayle’s apartment.”

  “No, you weren’t, at least not then. You would probably have thought of Gayle soon enough, but not then. Don’t lie to me, damn you.”

  She threw her croissant at him. Since she hadn’t buttered it, he was left with only a few flakes on his unshaved chin.

  “Better a croissant than a left hook,” he said, and wiped his chin.

  “I would like to go now, Taylor.”