Once in a Blue Moon

by Kristin James

  Eleven

  They undressed with frantic haste, making their way blindly through the apartment, unable to cease their kisses long enough to finish taking off a garment or take more than a few steps. Their mouths clung, tongues twining around one another in a dance of passion, and their hands roamed over each other almost desperately. Isabelle backed into a chair, and Michael reached around her to shove it out of the way.

  Then they came up hard against a wall, but they didn’t seem to mind it. Michael pressed his body into Isabelle’s, his forearms braced upon the wall, and he tore his mouth from hers to trail kisses down her neck. His breathing was hard and labored, as if he had been running, and the sound of it sent a tremor of desire streaking down into Isabelle’s abdomen.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night,” Michael murmured huskily. “I kept thinking about today, about this.”

  Isabelle felt as if her bones were melting. She clung to him, digging her fingers into the muscles of his back. “Michael,” she whispered dazedly. “Please...”

  “Oh, I will.” He paused long enough to look into her face, a grin of sexual anticipation curving his mouth. “I guarantee I will please you.”

  “Will you?” She smiled hazily, her mouth soft and faintly swollen from their kisses. “I’d like that.”

  A groan escaped him, and he kissed her again, his hand coming up her front and sliding under the blouse he had already unbuttoned. His hand spread over her breast, caressing it through the delicate satin and lace of her bra. Pushing apart the sides of her shirt, he bent and took her breast in his mouth, suckling it through the flimsy material. When he raised his head, the damp cloth was molded to her nipple; it stood out dark and pointing. Michael gazed at it, desire flushing his face, then bent and brushed his lips across the swollen bud, making it tighten and prickle even more, thrusting eagerly toward his mouth.

  He teased at her nipple until Isabelle was panting, her head twisting restlessly against the wall and her fingers clawing at his shoulders. Michael blew softly upon the damp center, and at Isabelle’s quick, indrawn breath, he smiled. “Does that please you?”

  Isabelle pushed against him with her pelvis in answer, circling her hips slowly, and Michael shuddered violently. There were no questions after that, no words except the brief, incoherent murmurings of passion. He ripped the blouse back and down her arms and fumbled frantically with the clasp of her brassiere. Finally he got it, and her breasts tumbled free. He cupped them in his hands and bent his head to kiss them, gently kneading the soft orbs as his mouth and tongue tasted every inch.

  He pulled back, and they tore at the remaining pieces of their clothing, flinging them to the ground. They came back together, in too great a frenzy to seek the comfort of his bed, and sank down upon the floor, kissing and caressing. Michael traced the line of her body with his lips, moving with velvety kisses down from her shoulder, over her breast and onto the flat plain of her stomach, then to the sensitive soft skin of her abdomen. He skimmed across the point of her hipbone, onto her thigh and downward to her foot. Isabelle twisted and stretched in a pleasure so great, it was almost agony. Everywhere he touched, fever exploded in her; she wanted him to go on forever, yet she wanted him to stop immediately and give her the satisfaction she craved.

  He made his way back up her leg, this time his lips tracking up the inside of her calf and thigh. Isabelle quivered, whispering his name and twining her hands urgently in his hair. As his tongue traced whorls upon her inner thigh, his hand came up and touched the nest of hair between her legs. Gently he separated the folds of flesh, exploring them and finding the little nub that was the center of her pleasure. He moved his thumb over the button softly, delighting in the slick wetness that was proof of her passion for him.

  Isabelle stiffened and groaned as his hand stoked her desire, bringing her nearer and nearer to her peak. Then his hand was gone and his mouth was upon her. She felt herself spinning away into a maelstrom of passion.

  “Please,” she murmured. “I want you inside me.”

  Her plea was too much for him to resist. Quickly Michael positioned himself between her opened legs and thrust into her, groaning at the exquisite pleasure of being embedded deep within her soft, tight flesh. He began to move with long, slow strokes, but desire lashed him forward, and he thrust more quickly. Isabelle tightened her arms and legs around him, feeling the storm gather within her and then explode. She shuddered, clinging tightly to Michael, and the tiny movements of her body sent him hurtling forward into his own explosion. He groaned, burying himself within her, and bucked wildly. They clung together, lost in the wild, dark world of their united passion, transported for that moment into a place of joy so vibrant, so strong that memories of it were invariably only pale copies.

  At last they relaxed with long sighs of fulfillment, and Michael rolled off her, pulling her into his arms and cradling her. They lay in stunned exhaustion.

  “Well,” Michael said lightly, “if we do this often enough today, perhaps I won’t embarrass myself again tomorrow by turning hard as a rock in front of the camera.”

  Isabelle chuckled. “And maybe we’ll be able to rehearse this afternoon without interruption.”

  But it was some time before they got to their rehearsal, for they arose after long, lazy minutes of idle talking and repleted kisses. Then they went into the bathroom to shower. Since they took the shower together, it was not long before their bodies were tingling with excitement again.

  Michael washed Isabelle carefully, not missing an inch. Isabelle took her time rubbing lather all over his chest and stomach and down his long legs and back up. Then she picked up the soap and worked up the lather again and set to work on his buttocks and then his abdomen. Careful to reach every bit of him, her soapy hand even delved gently between his legs. Michael sucked in a breath and dug his hands into her hair, but Isabelle merely gave him a smile full of sexual teasing and proceeded to rinse off his body with equal thoroughness.

  When his skin was squeaky clean, he turned off the water and started to get out, but Isabelle stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Wait, it’s still my turn. You made love to me last time. Let me make love to you.”

  She began her exploration of his body with her mouth. Taking her time about it, she kissed her way over his chest to the small masculine nipples. Her mouth fastened on each of them in turn, her lips rubbing them into tight, hard buttons until Michael was gasping with delight. Then she circled each one with her tongue, lightly flicking them into even greater tautness, and finally settled her mouth firmly on one and began to suck.

  Michael’s fingers dug into her buttocks, lifting her almost off her feet in his paroxysm of pleasure. Isabelle lifted her face up to him, eyes innocently wide. “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No,” he groaned. “Please, no, don’t stop.”

  She went back to minister to the other tight bud, and her hand slipped down his wet body. She curled her fingers around his engorged manhood, smiling as she felt it surge and pulse against her hand.

  “Mmm, you’re not wasting any time, are you?” she murmured.

  “I can’t do anything else with you,” he replied, reaching out to push open the shower door.

  “No. Not yet,” she admonished. “I’m not finished.”

  He groaned again, but his hand dropped to his side and he waited, his skin taut and trembling with eagerness as she went back to her ministrations. Standing back a little and watching him, Isabelle moved her hands freely over his slick body, sliding down his chest and abdomen and around to his buttocks. She kneaded the muscled flesh and slid her fingers farther down onto his thighs. Her hands came back up and slipped between his legs, lightly cupping him.

  Michael bit his lip with his teeth, letting out a muffled curse. She began to kiss her way down his abdomen, drawing ever closer to the thickened, throbbing seat of his passion.

  He muttered something thickly and reached down, lifting her with his hands beneath her buttocks. He kissed her deeply, his
tongue thrusting into her mouth as he parted her legs and thrust into her. Isabelle wrapped her legs around him and began to circle her hips, as frenzied as he to complete their passion. Pressing her against the tile wall of the shower, he moved inside her, thrusting with hard, desperate strokes, as if he sought to bury himself in the very center of her soul. They moved wildly, gasping and uttering unintelligible sounds, until at last they reached the wild burst of pleasure that they sought.

  Hoarsely, Michael let out a cry, burying it against Isabelle’s mouth as they erupted into a white-hot explosion.

  They drifted down from the peak of pleasure, falling by slow degrees into their separate selves again. They stood, leaning against the shower wall, hazy and numbed.

  Finally Michael let out a soft chuckle and rested his forehead against Isabelle’s. “You know, I’m beginning to think that we’re never going to make love in the comfort of a real bed.”

  “I don’t know,” Isabelle replied, sliding down to stand again and smiling impishly up at him. “Somehow I suspect that we’ll get another chance to do that before I leave here today.”

  She was right, for they made love again after they rehearsed, as excited and stirred as if they had not already come together twice in passion that day. They made love in his bed this time, slowly and leisurely stoking the fires of their ardor until they melted into a warm union, as sweet and gentle as their previous ones had been frenzied and explosive.

  Afterward, they lay together on the bed, lazily talking about Jenny, the cast of their show, the costumes, L.A., New York—whatever drifted into their minds. They ate cheese and fruit, sitting cross-legged on his bed, accompanying it with a delicate white wine. Isabelle wished that the afternoon would go on forever, that she did not have to leave. But she had to, she knew; Jenny was waiting for her.

  Isabelle dressed, and Michael pulled on his clothes, too, so that he could walk her out to her car. She got in, and he bent down to kiss her through the open window. Tears caught in her throat. She thought that she would never experience anything again as sweet and wild and utterly wonderful as this afternoon. The words I love you rose unexpectedly to her lips, but she bit them back. It was too soon, far too soon for that, no matter what her impulsive heart told her.

  She said only, “Goodbye,” and drove away.

  * * *

  Isabelle couldn’t remember a time when she had been so happy. She had been wrong to think that that particular afternoon at Michael’s apartment could never be equaled. It was never exactly the same, of course, but there were many more times that were just as full of happiness or pleasure.

  The show was a delight now that she no longer had to dread her scenes with Michael. It was fun to work with him, and the chemistry between them was electrifying. As soon as the jungle scenes began to air, the “Tomorrows” ratings soared. When the big love scene in the cave aired, the show shoved “Eden Crossing” out of the number-one spot in the ratings. Danny and Carol were ecstatic, and they were even more so when “All Our Tomorrows” remained in that position.

  The fan mail poured in. Everyone either loved or hated the pairing of the wicked Jessica and the saintly Curtis. Either way, it meant people were watching devotedly.

  But work was only a small part of Isabelle’s delight that summer. Far more wonderful was the time she and Michael spent together outside the studio. He took her out on romantic evenings, and other times they stayed home, comfortable, lazy and happy just to be with each other. Their lovemaking was passionate, but equally important to Isabelle were their long evenings spent talking and enjoying each other’s company.

  They often took Jenny with them on an afternoon’s ramble through the park or out for a burger and children’s movie or to Disneyland or the beach. Even the silly disguises Michael and Isabelle sometimes had to adopt to keep from being recognized and mobbed were a source of amusement. Michael was wonderful with Jenny, accepting her limitations calmly, but never patronizing her. Jenny, in return, was crazy about him. Whenever he wasn’t around, she asked about him, and when he was there, she was stuck like glue to his side, talking, and holding his hand, showing him what she had made or learned.

  Watching them together, Isabelle’s heart swelled with love and pride. She did not speak of love to Michael; she felt a superstitious fear that she would somehow spoil it all if she told him that she had fallen madly, deeply in love with him again. If the truth were told, she knew, she loved him more now than she had ten years ago, for she loved him, not with the giddy, easy crush of a teenager, but with the heart of a woman, deepened by pain and experience.

  But then one day at the beach, as they sat on the sand watching Jenny build a sand castle, with Isabelle sitting snugly between Michael’s legs, her back against his chest and his arms around her, he bent and kissed her shoulder, murmuring, “I love you.”

  Suddenly it became the easiest thing in the world for her to reply, “I love you, too.”

  Isabelle turned her head to look at him, her eyes sparkling with tears. His eyebrows rose a little. “What? That makes you cry?”

  She swallowed back her tears, smiling, and shook her head. “Just with happiness.”

  “Surely you must have guessed.”

  “I hoped. I knew I loved you, but I was afraid to say it. Like it would break the spell.”

  He grinned. “Nothing’s going to break it. Don’t worry.” He kissed the tip of her nose playfully and squeezed her to him.

  But Isabelle, turning back to gaze out at Jenny and the ocean beyond her, could not be as sure as he was. There was a dark worm of doubt that nibbled away at her happiness, for she had not told him that Jenny was his daughter.

  She should have revealed it long ago, she knew. Nancy had told her so in no uncertain terms a couple of weeks earlier when Isabelle had confided her problem to her. But Isabelle had not been able to bring herself to do it. Though her fears that Michael would reject Jenny or not be a good father for her were obviously unfounded, she had been unable to shake the fear that he would eventually leave them. His departure would be even more crushing to Jenny, she thought, if she knew that Michael was her father.

  She had struggled over her duty to protect Jenny and her duty to tell Michael that Jenny was his child for so long that finally she realized that even if she told him now, Michael was bound to be angry with her for not telling him sooner. What if he stormed out of her life because he was furious over her deception? Every day that she waited made it harder and harder to reveal the truth. Several times she worked up her courage to tell him, but then something would happen that would distract her, or the words would stick in her throat.

  So she let the days slide by without telling Michael about Jenny, hoping that somehow she would find a safe way to do it. But that way never seemed to come.

  Two weeks after that day at the beach, Isabelle was surprised when she heard her doorbell ring and looked out to find Michael on the doorstep. They had not planned to see each other tonight, one of the rare evenings when they didn’t. Michael was leaving the following morning on a four-day tour of the Northwest, arranged by the studio’s publicity department, and Isabelle had a heavy shooting schedule tomorrow.

  “Michael!” She swung the door open, smiling, all thought of memorizing her lines tonight receding in the joy she always felt at seeing him. “What are you doing here?”

  He grabbed her and swung her around, then pulled her close for an enthusiastic kiss. When he released her, Isabelle was breathless.

  “What in the world—” she gasped. “What’s going on?”

  “Going on?” he asked with an air of mock innocence. “What makes you think anything is going on?”

  Isabelle grimaced. “Come on, don’t make me drag it out of you.”

  “You see before you,” he said gravely, stepping back and assuming the stance of an old-fashioned orator, his hand hooked in a nonexistent coat lapel, “a man who is going to read for the lead role in a prime-time series.”

  Isabelle’s jaw drop
ped. “Michael! Oh, Michael, that’s wonderful!” She threw herself back into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing hard.

  Finally she released him and stepped back. “So tell me. Give me all the details.”

  “It looks good. Amon Hatcher Productions is producing it, so you know it’s got a good chance of being bought.”

  “Michael! That’s great! When do you read for it? Aren’t you excited?”

  “Walking on air would be more like it,” he grinned. “The audition is next Tuesday, right after I get back. By that time, of course, I’ll be sick with terror, but right now I’m having a hard time staying off the ceiling. My agent just called me. I’ve got to run over to his house and pick up the script, but first I had to come by and tell you.”

  “I’m glad.” Isabelle beamed at him. “You’ll get it—I know you will. You’re too good an actor not to.”

  “An unbiased opinion.” He laughed, his eyes dancing.

  “Just because I happen to love you doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s good,” she retorted.

  “Michael!” Jenny came into the room, and her eyes lit up at seeing him.

  “Jenny! How’s my girl? Come give me a hug.”

  Jenny was more than happy to comply, running over and throwing her arms around his waist. “Mama said you weren’t coming tonight.”

  “I hadn’t planned to.”

  “But he had great news, so he came to tell us,” Isabelle explained.

  “Really?” Jenny’s eyes grew huge and round. “What?”

  “I have an audition for a role. A nighttime series.”

  “Oh.” Jenny was clearly less impressed by the news than they were. “Is that good?”