The Edge of Forever

by Bretton, Barbara

  As his mouth moved lower, his tongue circled her navel, and she arched closer to him. He could hear the small sounds of pleasure that came from deep in her throat—his name, whispered endearments, moans of pleasure than set him on fire. The silky blond triangle at the apex of her thighs was soft against his cheek as his lips and tongue tantalized the edges of her feminine delta. Her scent—musky sweet, intensely female—filled his head and brought him dangerously close to exploding.

  He moved his head away and instead cupped her with one hand, delighting in the feel of her passion-drenched flesh against his palm. Her heat made him feel invincible, a feeling he’d often imagined but never known.

  He parted her gently with his hand and tore his gaze away from her lush femininity to meet her eyes, to tell her, if only with a look, that what he wanted to give her, what he wanted to be given, went far beyond anything he could imagine.

  She smiled—the little half smile of both the conqueror and the conquered—and he bent down to savor all that was offered him, all that he needed to live.

  #

  His mouth was hot and eager against her. He drew wave after wave of shimmering undulating pleasure from her deepest self until she cried out with pleasure.

  He gently moved her leg from his shoulder, kissing her behind the knee, then slid along the length of her trembling, pulsating body until he lay fully against her. He was still hard, amazingly hard, and she reached down to stroke him, her fingers gliding effortlessly across his own dampness, surrounding him, drawing him closer to her fire.

  “Now, Joe.” Her lips brushed his. “Now.”

  She wanted him inside her, to be a part of her body the way he had become part of her heart, for the physical need was only part of what she felt for him. He parted her thighs with his knee.

  Suddenly he grasped her by the waist, then eased them down onto the floor so her back rested against the soft rug near the fireplace. She started to say something, some silly exclamation of surprise, but he pressed his lips against hers and murmured, “No words, Margarita.”

  The second his hands cupped her breasts, his rough palms making her nipples tighten with pleasure, rational thought left her. She was instantly reduced to pure sensation. She nipped at his lower lip, then slid her tongue along his strong white teeth, gasping when his mouth opened to her and his tongue met hers and drew her into sensuous battle. They were limited only by their imagination.

  Then he raised himself up, the finely sculpted muscles of his arms and chest thrown into relief against the firelight. She met his eyes and watched as, inch by incredible, demanding inch, he began to descent to total possession.

  For Joe, it was as close to heaven as mortal man could know. The sound of her voice as she whispered his name, the way her eyes, so dark, so luminous, never left his face, the softness of her thighs—all these things combined to bring him ecstasy he’d never found with anyone before. Only in his work, where his imagination held the reins and guided his characters toward storybook bliss, had he encountered this kind of lovemaking—for that was what it was—that he was experiencing with Margarita.

  He’d held off for so long, making certain she had scaled the highest peaks of pleasure, before he would let himself think of his own. But now, he was quickly moving past reason, past everything but the primitive desire to plunge himself into her waiting warm.

  And God, she was warm, so warm, as he slowly eased himself into her body, feeling the power and wetness surround him and draw him deeper inside. He was lost in her then suddenly, unexpectedly, he found himself facing a tender, trembling barrier of flesh. He hesitated, his eyes locking with hers, and she nodded. Her hands, which had gently gripped his buttocks, tightened their hold, pulling him past her body’s resistance until they both gasped as he filled her totally.

  She hesitated at first but he was so overwhelmed by his discovery, so excited by the scent and feel of her beneath him, that he found it difficult to slow his rhythm to match hers. But within moments he was sliding in and out of her body in a lazy tempo that she quickly learned, her hips rising to meet his, her body catching his fever and raising the temperature higher.

  Her movements were silky, fluid, as she instinctively cradled him inside with all the female power at her command. He was rising higher and higher, his mind set only on pleasure.

  Joe didn’t know if it took seconds or hours or several lifetimes to fall back to earth. All he knew was that he was surprised to find himself still in that same study, with the same fire crackling in the hearth, as if he hadn’t been to paradise and back again. But then he became aware that his full weight was resting on Meg’s slender body and he held her close and rolled onto his side, bringing her with him.

  She glanced down and his eyes followed hers, noting the crimson stain that marked his thighs and hers.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked, kissing her neck and chin.

  She cradled his face in her hands. He felt as if he were being devoured by those dark eyes of hers. “For a moment, but it was worth it.”

  “I didn’t know.” He hardly knew how to phrase the statement. “I never guessed.”

  “There’s no reason you should have.” Her breath was soft against his neck. “It’s not what you’d expect from a twenty-six year old woman these days.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he said honestly. “Why?”

  “Why haven’t I been with a man before?”

  He took a deep breath. His question was more complicated and his heart hung on the answer. “Why now? Why me?

  “Because you touched my heart the way no one else ever has.”

  “The words “I love you” rose in his throat, and he pushed them back down. Too fast. Too easy for her to believe it was something said in the aftermath of passion to ease a woman’s fears, something to be forgotten in the light of day. He wanted there to be no doubt in her mind when he told her all he felt, had always felt, for her.

  “Ah, Margarita,” he murmured, bending his head to capture one taut nipple between his teeth. She laughed softly and desire began to build within him again.

  “You’re amazing,” she whispered. “I thought it took men longer to—”

  “It usually does,” he conceded, cupping her breasts in his hands. “You bring out the best in me.” You make me feel that the best part of life is yet to be.

  Her smile could light up the world.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

  She covered his mouth with the palm of her hand and the scent of their lovemaking filled his head.

  “You won’t hurt me,” she said, then rolled him onto his back and straddled him. “You could never hurt me.”

  She bent over him, her long hair trailing across his face and chest. She was every fantasy, every creature of starlight and magic, he’d ever imagined, ever wished existed but didn’t believe he’d find.

  When she lowered herself onto him, and he watched himself slowly disappear into her warm and willing body, he knew that she owned him, body and soul, and always would.

  There was no turning back now.

  #

  How amazing!

  That feeling of security, that wonderful feeling of being cradled in your lover’s arms, didn’t disappear when Meg’s eyes opened the next morning. She’d hovered at the outer edges for hours, unwilling to relinquish the extraordinary delights she and Joe had been exploring in her dream.

  So when she finally opened her eyes and found it wasn’t a dream, that Joe was curled against her back, an arm wrapped around her middle, one of his legs companionably draped over one of hers, Meg was sure it must be Christmas morning.

  They were cuddled in her soft and wide bed, buried beneath a puffy patchwork quilt Meg had found two years ago in West Virginia and instantly known Anna would love. The airin the room was cool, almost cold, as an early November wind—filled with the promise of a harsh New England winter—buffeted the big house. However beneath the covers, Meg was warmed by the feel of Joe’s body snuggled spoon fashio
n behind her.

  Lazily she wondered what the proper etiquette of the situation was. Should she get up and brush her teeth before he woke up? Put on some makeup before he got the surprise of his life? She figured the least she could do was brush her hair.

  But it was so wonderful to lie there in that warm bed with nothing on earth to do but revel in the sight and scent and touch of this man who had taken possession of her body last night long after he’d already taken possession of her heart. All the restless dissatisfactions with her life, all the feelings of insecurity, of never quite measuring up, had vanished.

  He had thrilled her beyond description last night. The doors he had opened for her led into places she hadn’t known existed. And instead of feeling shy and afraid, love had freed her imagination, and she was able to use her body in a way that told him all that was in her heart.

  She thought of Elysse and the funny, tender looks Meg sometimes caught her giving her husband, Jack, looks that up until now Meg had been unable to translate. Now she knew those looks were made up of nights of love and longing, of mornings curled in each other’s arms, of words whispered and secrets shared in the soft darkness.

  Joe sighed against her neck, and a shiver of love and desire rippled through her body. He moved closer until his body pressed against the curve of her torso. She gave up all thoughts of hair and makeup and the mundane details of earthly existence.

  Only a very foolish woman would leave paradise a second before she had to.

  #

  It was Saturday afternoon, one week after they had become lovers. Joe and Meg were working in the study on the final stages of the history of the Kennedy Creative Colony while the housecleaning crew began setting up their equipment in the living room across the hall. Meg was busy indexing all visual artists according to discipline. Her blond head was bent over a long list of names and accomplishments, and he watched, with the fascination of a lovesick kid, as she scribbled notes on a pad of yellow paper.

  For the past two hours she’d been working silently and efficiently, pausing only now and then to refill her coffee mug or flash him one of her incredible smiles. Joe watched the elegant lines of Meg’s body as she leaned forward to retrieve a photo of some minor poet and shook his head.

  She glanced at him, her dark eyes puzzled. “Is something wrong?”

  “I was thinking it’s a testament to Anna that we’ve managed to get anything done this week.” He rose from his seat and crossed behind her, then nuzzled his face beneath her silky mane of pale blond hair. “The fact I can manage to construct a simple declarative sentence while you’re in the room with me is remarkable.”

  “I’m hardly that major a distraction, Alessio,” she said with that slightly sharp, self-mocking wit he enjoyed so much. “I’d think you could manage even an occasional complex sentence—“ She paused, leaning into his embrace. The increased tempo of her heartbeat fluttered beneath his palms.

  “What were you saying, Lindstrom?” His thumbs traced lazy circles on her nipples through the silky fabric of her shirt.

  “When you do that, I can’t remember if A comes before B, much less anything else.”

  “Good.” Her eyebrows darted up in question, and he laughed. “I don’t want to be the only one here at a disadvantage.”

  She glanced down his body. “Hardly a disadvantage, I’d say.” Her night-dark eyes sparkled up at him.

  He pulled her to her feet, pinning her arms to her sides with his embrace. He tilted his head toward the desks, piled high with paperwork. “Why don’t we forget all of this, shut the door, and do wonderful things to each other.”

  The sound of the vacuum cleaner manned by the Fitzpatrick Housekeeping Service grew ominously closer. Meg rested her forehead against his. “It depends how you’d feel when Mrs. Fitzpatrick found you naked on her spotless carpet.”

  He pulled her even closer. “If Mrs. Fitzpatrick wouldn’t mind vacuuming around us, I’m game.”

  The vacuum’s roar was a few feet away from the door to the study. Meg slipped from his embrace and stepped away a second before a young man with the Fitzpatrick trademark red hair smiled at them and began to clean his way into the room.

  Meg and Joe beat a hasty retreat but found there was no place in the house where they could talk, work, or do anything else in privacy. It seemed to Joe that an army of workers were swarming all over the old house, waxing and polishing and buffing anything that didn’t move and even a few that did.

  He grabbed their coats from the hall closet. “Come on, Lindstrom. Let’s get out while we still can.”

  “The callbacks, Joe.”

  He stared at her, his mind blank.

  “We’re supposed to hear from two pianists and one fiber artist this afternoon.”

  A blue-uniformed woman wielding a floor-waxing machine the size of a small jeep hurried by. Joe, whose interest in the mechanics of good housekeeping was minimal, edged closer to the door. “They’ll call back,” he said, reaching for Meg’s hand. He flung open the front door, letting the crisp air and pale sunshine of early November flood the vestibule. “Let’s make a break for it.”

  “I can’t,” she said finally. “Our deadline’s next week, and this might be our only chance to speak with these people.”

  "There's always tomorrow."

  “You go.” She fished her car keys out of her jacket pocket and tossed them to him. “No sense in both of us being prisoners.”

  “You trust me with the limo?”

  “I’ve heard the myth about male drivers is highly exaggerated.

  Since he was going into town, they decided he might as well take the enormous stack of papers they’d accumulated and had the whole mess photocopied at the print shop on Main Street. And since he’d be on Main Street anyway, he could always stop at the market for milk and cheddar cheese, and wouldn’t it be great if they had some wine to go with dinner, and of course a pound of those incredible chocolate-chip cookies with pecans that Gordon’s Bakery made on Saturday mornings would be fantastic . . .

  “I’ll be lucky if I get back before dark,” he said, standing in the doorway, his arms piled high with papers and lists and dry cleaning to be dropped off. “You’re damned good at delegating authority.”

  He knew he must be looking pretty disgruntled, because she laughed at him and ruffled his hair.

  “One of my many talents,” she said, leaning over the parcels in his arms and kissing his mouth. “Now, off with you.”

  He headed down the flagstone path, pausing once to turn around and savor the sight of her standing in the doorway to Lakeland House—their house—her arms wrapped around her slender form against the chill wind. Sunlight seemed to pool at her feet, giving her an almost mystical appearance. Even without his glasses on, he knew that the look in her dark eyes was soft, and a stab of emotion, pure and strong, tore at his heart from the inside out.

  She waved at him, then slipped back inside the warmth of the house, closing the door behind her. A quick intense fantasy of a life where the door never closed on him, a life that he and Meg Lindstrom could share permanently spun past his eyes.

  “I love you,” he said out loud, his words swept away by the stiff breeze that rustled the trees. “I love you, Margarita Lindstrom.”

  Now all he had to do was say those words to her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Joe knew how to cook and clean and shop for himself, so it came as a hell of a shock when he discovered just how much he loved the fact that Meg had prepared a complicated—and surprisingly delicious—Szechuan dinner for him that night.

  Even now, as they lay curled together on the leather sofa in the study, watching the fire dance, a feeling of intense, old-fashioned pleasure made it impossible to wipe the smile off his face.

  “That meal was really fantastic, Margarita,” he said, stroking her silky hair with his free hand, the one that wasn’t securely wrapped around her waist. “You know I would have been happy bringing in pizza again. You didn’t have to do it.
”

  “That’s the third time you’ve said that, Alessio. You can thank Elysse. She talked me through it."

  “Food's not my biggest passion.” He moved his hand up her rib cage until the sweet weight of her breasts rested against his fingers. “I could live on franks and beans.”

  “Wouldn’t a man get bored with the same thing every night?”

  “Never,” he said softly. “I can’t imagine ever being bored with you.”

  He had expected her to come back with a quick remark, some self-deprecating crack about scrambled eggs or burned toast, but instead she fell deeply silent. In the best of situations he found it hard to keep his emotions under control; feelings always translated themselves immediately into words, and those words had the habit of popping out at the wrong time.

  But he meant what he said, and it was only the beginning of all the things he wanted to say to her, all the wonderful things he had left to tell her before this month of magical beginnings was over. And now was as good a time as any to start.

  “I love you, Margarita,” he said clearly, unable and unwilling to shield himself any longer from the truth of it. His chest opened, and his heart lay totally exposed and beating wildly at her feet. “I love you.”

  “You don’t have to say that, Joe.” Her voice was a whisper. “I know things like this don’t mean forever.” She looked away, her gaze straying toward the crackling fire. “I knew the risks going in.”

  Tension knotted the muscles of his shoulders and back. “That wasn’t something said in the heat of passion, Meg.”

  She raised her hand. “You were my first lover but that doesn’t mean I’m naïve. This isn’t one of your family sagas where the worldly young man is forced to declare himself to the wronged virgin.”

  Her words proved she didn’t know him at all. “Sex is everywhere, Margarita.” She was watching him, dark eyes unreadable. “And it comes cheap. Either one of us could walk into any bar in town and score within the first five minutes. Hell, you wouldn’t even have to exchange names, much less have a conversation.” He’d been in too many bars in his day, known the pleasure of too many different bodies beneath his, too many mornings where he wondered about the night before, to underestimate the availability of quick satisfaction.