Sally Wentworth - A Typical Male

by Sally Wentworth

  The promise excited him fiercely; his imagination ran riot with pictures of her naked in his arms. She would be wild in bed, he was somehow sure of that, like an exotic flower opening for him—and for him alone. He was suddenly glad that she was going to make him wait, that she didn't go in for one-night stands or have casual relationships. And the fact that she wanted him blew his mind. She was so sensational herself and yet she found him special, wanted to know him as a person not just as someone to go to bed with. On a sudden high of emotion he took her in his arms and lifted her off her feet. 'Kiss me,' he commanded.

  Laughingly Tasha did so, saying, 'Tarzan has nothing on you.'

  He set her on her feet and said, 'OK, we'll wait. But just how long do you think it will take you to get to know me?'

  She pretended to consider, head on one side. 'Well, now, you're such a deep character. I should think— at least three months.'

  "Three months! I'll die of frustration before then,' he protested in horror.

  Tasha laughed delightedly, but then grew serious again as she said, 'A relationship needs time to grow. And ours is going to be very wonderful. I really feel that.'

  Her eyes were so earnest, so beautiful, that Brett felt as if he were drowning in their depths. She made him feel so good, so extraordinarily chosen, that he would have done anything for her at that moment. It even felt completely right that she had refused to go to bed with him. And when he eventually left and walked down the street he still felt elated, as if he was on the verge of the most wonderful experience he had ever known. And it was only later, as he lay alone in his bed, that he realised with a rueful chuckle that he had never before been so skilfully put down in all his life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  For Brett the next few weeks became an entirely new experience in his life. He couldn't remember the last time he had had to take real trouble in pursuing a woman. When he'd fancied someone there might have been a couple of weeks of skirmishing for form's sake, but the conquests had never been difficult or prolonged. There was something about him, perhaps his air of experience and knowledge of their sex, that made a woman know instinctively that he would make a great lover. It was an impression he more than lived up to and he tried to make sure that when an affair inevitably ended they parted as friends.

  Not that he'd had a whole string of relationships, as Tasha had suggested; when he'd been younger and fully active as a journalist he had been away a lot, covering the Gulf War, Ireland, wherever there was unrest and the opportunity for a good story. Few chances then to meet the kind of woman he wanted to go to bed with. And with time he'd become even more fastidious, unwilling to have an affair with a woman just because she fancied him; he needed to feel a similar desire. There had been several women he'd been attracted to, of course, and those he'd gone after and—if they were willing—had taken to bed. But no woman had ever fascinated his imagination, had instantly excited his senses, as Tasha had.

  He saw her as often as he could but not as often as he would have liked. Sometimes when they'd arranged a date he would get a call to say that she couldn't make it; she'd been held up at an interview. That, too, was a new experience for him—to be stood up and have to accept it with good grace. But, strangely, that somehow added to the excitement of it. Those highs and lows, expecting to see her and full of anticipation, only to be dashed down and have to spend a lonely evening without her. Often then he wondered who she'd been interviewing and was only saved from intense jealousy by knowing that it had more than likely been a woman.

  But Tasha, of course, had no idea that he knew anything about her project, so he'd allowed himself to show some jealousy. One day, after she'd stood him up the previous evening, he'd said, 'Couldn't you have arranged to see this person you were interviewing again some other time?'

  'But the interview was going really well,' Tasha said enthusiastically. 'It would have been crazy to stop and try to pick it up again.'

  'But we had arranged to go to the theatre,' Brett pointed out, carefully keeping his voice even.

  Tasha was immediately contrite. 'I know.' She reached across to touch his hand, her eyes huge. 'And I did apologise when I rang. Weren't you able to sell the tickets back? Did they cost the earth?'

  He waved that aspect of it away impatiently. 'That doesn't matter. What does matter is that you found your work more interesting than a date with me.'

  A slight frown came between her eyes. 'My work is very important to me, Brett.'

  He knew it was foolish but he couldn't help saying, 'More important than me?'

  She immediately laughed at him. 'What a loaded question! Don't push your luck, mate,' she said, putting on a broad Cockney accent.

  Brett grinned, perhaps relieved that she'd lightened the atmosphere. 'And one I can see that you're not going to answer.'

  They were perched on high stools in the bar of a restaurant, waiting to be seated. In front of everyone there she reached over and put her hand on his upper leg, then leaned forward and kissed him lingeringly on the mouth. It was the first time she'd ever touched him like that of her own volition in public, or in private if it came to that. Brett gasped against her mouth, a great tremor of suddenly awakened sensuality running through him. Tasha drew her head back a little, her blue eyes laughing at him, dancing with mischief. She went to draw her hand away, but to punish her a little—and because he loved it where it was—he put his own hand over hers and wouldn't let her go.

  'Hey!' She raised her eyebrows but was still laughing.

  'Kiss me again,' Brett commanded.

  'Will I get my hand back?'

  'You may never get it back.'

  That made her laugh openly and he was rewarded with another kiss, but lightly this time.

  Letting her go, Brett glanced round; most of the people in the bar were watching them, the men in open envy. That gave him a great lift, made him feel a million dollars, but he knew, ruefully, that Tasha had evaded him yet again.

  He was starting to have difficulty with his own evasions. Tasha didn't pry but she'd shown that she was interested in him, wanted to know him, so how did he account for the years when he'd been a journalist? He wanted to tell her the truth but knew that to do so would be fatal. Not only would she no longer trust him, but she would definitely never tell him about the sexual exploitation theme she was pursuing. So he was trapped and had to come up with a career in an export business that had taken him abroad a lot. Brett didn't like lying, because he could so easily be caught out as much as anything else. They only had to run into someone he knew for the whole thing to blow up in his face. But he felt that he had to take the risk and hope that she would soon care enough about him to confide in him, then he could tell her the truth. Somehow he knew that wouldn't happen until they became lovers, until she gave herself to him.

  So he avoided his usual haunts and let Tasha pick where she wanted to go. With the result that he found himself in some bizarre places.

  'I'm taking you out tomorrow.' Tasha had called him at one in the morning, when he'd been in bed for an hour. 'Be ready at six and wear old clothes.'

  'Do you mean tomorrow as in a few hours, or tomorrow as in after I get another night's sleep?' he asked, looking at his watch.

  Tasha sounded surprised. 'In five hours, of course. I'll pick you up. Night.'

  'Wait!'

  'Yes?'

  'That is no way to say goodnight.'

  She laughed in that rich, husky tone he loved. 'So what would you like me to say?'

  'Can't you think of anything?'

  'You want me to flirt with you, right?'

  'Yeah. Come on, turn me on.'

  'What do you think I am—one of those women you pay to talk sexy over the phone?' She pretended indignation but he could hear amusement in her voice.

  'I bet you could do it if you tried.'

  'Of course I could—but could you afford the fee?'

  'Expensive, huh?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'I could take out a loan,'
he offered.

  Tasha laughed again. 'Go to sleep, Brett. See you in the morning.'

  Slowly Brett put down the phone, and realised that she hadn't had to talk sexy to him at all; he was already turned on.

  She was on his doorstep on the dot of six, pulling up in the yellow sports car, the roof open, and waving to him through it as he looked out of his window. Brett lived in a small house in Docklands. Not one of the new places that had been built in the recent boom years, but a Victorian terraced house in a street that had once housed dockers and their families, people who had been dependent on the work they got from the river but who had been forced to move away in search of other work when the dockyards had folded. He had found the house in a half-derelict condition, the roof leaking and windows smashed by vandals, so had got it cheap and repaired the place himself, building on a new kitchen at the back, with a bathroom above it. The house was as good as finished now, although he still spent time on it when the writing wouldn't flow.

  He ran out to her and got in the car. Tasha looked wide awake and full of life; anyone would think she'd had a dozen hours' sleep last night. Her hair was woven into a thick plait tied with a green ribbon and she was wearing hardly any make-up. He kissed her and she smelt gorgeous, of flowers and scrubbed- clean freshness.

  'Where are we going?' he demanded, taking in her jeans and pale blue shirt.

  'It's a surprise.'

  'I hate surprises,' he declared untruthfully.

  'You'll love this one.'

  Brett had imagined a host of things but never that she would take him fishing. But not just any common or garden fishing. Not Tasha. She drove him down to the country to a lake where a friend of hers was waiting for them. He was a middle-aged man who, it turned out, had once appeared in one of Tasha's television programmes and had become a friend. He walked to a boathouse with them and pointed. 'There she is.'

  'She' was a canoe, the large version that held two people and which the man told them had been made by Canadian Indians. 'I used it a lot when I was out in Canada for a few years, and brought it back with me,' he explained.

  Brett eyed the frail craft in disbelief. The owner was only about five feet six and skinny, but Tasha obviously expected him, Brett, with his six feet two frame, to get in the thing!

  'You don't really expect me to get in that piece of plywood, do you?'

  'Mounties use them all the time,' she pointed out.

  'That was a hundred years ago—I doubt if they even use horses now; they're probably all trained helicopter pilots.'

  ‘Stop arguing, King; anyone would think you were afraid.'

  'I just don't feel like drowning today, Briant, that's all.'

  Gingerly he lowered himself into the canoe and sat on the stern seat, then hung on as it rocked dangerously when Tasha blithely jumped in to join him. Brett quite expected it to sink and marvelled when the thing floated with them inside it. The owner, grinning hugely, handed down a couple of fishing rods and a picnic hamper. He watched them as Brett paddled out into the centre of the lake and they took out their fishing rods, then walked off and left them alone.

  It was a large lake, the banks mostly overhung by trees, and with a small island in its centre. Brett had done some sailing, which helped, but he found keeping his balance while trying to hook a fish more than a little difficult. When he got a bite he leaned forward eagerly and nearly ended up in the river, just managing to right himself but dropping his rod in the water and getting very wet retrieving it. Tasha, of course, laughed at him, then pretended to ogle him when he took off his shirt to let it dry in the sun, knowing full well she was safe from him.

  'Mmm, dig those pectorals,' she enthused. 'I had no idea you had anything so gorgeous tucked away under that shirt.'

  He made a face and scooping up a handful of water splashed it over her. 'Now you take yours off to dry and let's see what gorgeous things you've got hidden away under your shirt.'

  'Cheat!' She leaned back so that her breasts stretched the wet material, knowing it would tantalise him. 'I think I'll just let the heat of my body dry it.'

  His mouth dry, Brett said, 'Vixen.'

  Brett enjoyed that day enormously: the gentle lapping of the water, the sun and the peaceful countryside; it was a long time since he'd done that kind of thing and it made him feel young and content. Or almost content. Tasha was tormentingly close enough to see but not to touch, so he let his line become entangled with hers so they had to move close together to untangle them.

  'You did that on purpose!'

  'Of course. I want to kiss you.'

  'If you do we'll both end up in the lake.'

  'I'll chance it.' Reaching out, he held her as he kissed her, but when he tried to pull her close the boat rocked alarmingly and he had to hastily let go. 'You are driving me mad with frustration,' he told her. 'Come home with me tonight.'

  'All right'

  He nearly upset the boat in surprise. 'You will?'

  'Yes, I haven't seen your place yet.'

  Brett managed to catch a couple of decent-sized fish, and in the late afternoon they paddled over to the island and built a fire on which they cooked them, eating them between hunks of bread and washed down with beer. Afterwards Brett leaned back against the trunk of a tree and Tasha sat beside him. Her thoughts on Canada, she began to sing 'Rose Marie' in a clear, sweet voice, and made him join in, the sound drifting across the lake. When the last note had died away he pulled her closer to rest against him and nuzzled her neck as they watched the sun set into rich golds and purples, the flaming colours made doubly beautiful by their reflection in the water. Tasha smiled, gave a long sigh, then turned her head and let him kiss her.

  'We must do this again,' he said, meaning it.

  She smiled in delight. 'I knew you'd enjoy my surprise.'

  They paddled back to the jetty, leaving the canoe securely tied, and drove unhurriedly back to London, to Brett's house.

  Tasha wanted to see everything, to hear about the restoration work he'd done and see all his before and after photos of the place. Her interest was gratifying but he was on tenterhooks; it was only a month since they'd met and she'd said it had to be at least three months before she'd let him make love to her. But had she changed her mind? Was she sure enough of him, of her own feelings to…?

  Brett found himself clenching his fists in hope and fear of disappointment.

  In the sitting-room he had a huge settee that nearly filled the room, even bigger than the one Tasha had in her flat. He put on a CD and got drinks and she snuggled up to him like a child. They talked about the day for a while but then he kissed her longingly. Tasha put her drink aside, put her arms round his neck and sent his senses reeling as she returned the kiss more ardently than ever before. And this time, when his fingers began to undo the buttons of her shirt, she didn't stop him.

  Her breasts were beautiful; not full enough to fill his unsteady hands but soft and rounded, the pale pink nipples at first unawakened but then hardening delightfully as he gently caressed them with his fingertips. They tilted pertly at him then, and he was unable to resist bending his head to gently take them each in turn into his mouth, to toy with them, kiss them, caress them with his tongue. Satisfied at last, his lips moved on to trail across her shoulders and kiss her neck. Tasha sighed and lifted her head, squirmed deliciously as he bit her earlobe, and whispered his name as he took her mouth at last.

  By now his senses were on fire, but Brett kept them banked; it was early yet and he fully intended to make love to her all night, so there was time to linger, to lengthen each moment, to enjoy each new discovery to the full. Tasha returned his kiss, her hands with a delicate fingertip touch on each side of his face. Her kiss was warm, tender, responsive, but that was all. The passion had died, there was no eager searching, no hunger. At first he thought that she, too, was holding desire in check, but then recognised her kiss for what it was: participation but not encouragement. Raising his head, Brett looked at her questioningly.


  'That was nice.' She smiled at him—and reached for her clothes.

  '"Nice?"' For a moment he was angry and, reaching out, caught her wrist. 'Is that all? Just "nice"?'

  She became still, her eyes fixed on his face. 'You know the terms, Brett.'

  'Damn it, I thought—' He broke off, biting his lip. 'Does there have to be terms? Does there have to be a time limit?'

  Tasha looked away from him for a moment, then lifted her head to look steadily into his eyes. 'Yes, I'm sorry, but there does.' Drawing her wrist from his hold, she reached for her bra and put it on, covering up all the loveliness that he thought had been his.

  Getting to his feet, Brett strode over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink, his hand shaking.

  'Do you make a habit of this?' he demanded, desperately trying to control his disappointment.

  'Of what?'

  'You know damn well what! Of leading a man on and then slapping him down.' He turned and saw that she was completely dressed and standing up, her hands thrust into the pockets of her jeans.

  'You think it unfair, do you?'

  'Yes, of course I do.'

  She grew suddenly angry. 'And do you think it fair to kiss me and caress me and turn me on when you know that I want to wait?'

  He stared at her in surprise. 'But that must mean that…'

  'That I want you? Yes, of course it does. Did it never occur to you that I might want you as much as you want me? I told you that you were special!'

  Putting down his glass, Brett strode over and took hold of her arms, desperate pleading in his face. 'In that case what is there to wait for? I ache for you, Tasha. I long to—'

  'No!' She pushed him angrily away. 'Why won't you listen to me? All you're thinking of is yourself. I have to be sure. I couldn't bear to be hurt again. Now do you understand?'

  'You mean someone in the past…?'

  'Yes.'

  'Who? What happened?'

  'You have no right to ask me that question. You don't know me well enough to ask it. I don't ask you about the women in your past.'