Love Lies

by MaryJanice Davidson

“You didn’t—ah—frolic with any of the native girls while you were in Greece, did you?”

  Shocked, he said, “No, of course not.”

  “Oh. That’s good. Because…well, I know I haven’t exactly been the ideal bed partner…”

  “That’s not your fault,” he interrupted.

  “I didn’t say it was,” she said tartly. “But while I wouldn’t condone your cheating, I guess…I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to.”

  He felt his mouth drop open. If she truly hated him, she wouldn’t care who he slept with, or how often. Now she was telling him she wouldn’t approve, but she would understand. What did this mean? Could she possibly have feelings for him?

  “But I don’t want to,” he said.

  “Really?” She sounded surprised. He almost laughed. “Why not?”

  “Because I only want you,” he said, and kissed her lips. They were soft with sleep, and her breath was milky, sweet. Her small tongue curled up to meet his, her hands stroked his forearms, while they plundered each other’s mouths and finally separated, she, gasping, he, breathing hard. “I only want you,” he said again, “always.”

  He touched the dark fire of her hair, then breathed in her scent. He kissed the column of her throat, opening the buttons on her gown as he went along, baring her breasts. He kissed a soft nipple, feeling it stiffen beneath his lips, and licked the tender undersides of her breasts, pausing now and again to kiss her mouth, and when she started pulling frantically at her nightgown, he helped her pull it over her head.

  Half of him was still reeling that she was allowing his touch, even welcoming it, and the other half couldn’t get enough of her, wanted to touch and kiss and stroke every inch of her. He did what he had wanted to since coming to bed this night: kissed her stomach, then trailed kisses further down, until he was nuzzling the downy forest between her legs. She made a strangled sound and her knees twitched as she automatically tried to bring her legs together, but then forced herself to welcome him to her.

  Overwhelmed by her gift of trust, he showered kisses on her woman’s flesh, which was as the softest silk, warm and salty-sweet. He sucked on the impudent nub, lapped at her, and used his tongue to delve inside her. He ran his thumbs up and down her swollen nether lips, then spread them wide and blew softly on her soft, slick flesh.

  When she was very close, when she was moaning and her hips were jerking helplessly toward him, he stopped, gently turned her over, and eased her up on her knees. He stroked her back and the sweet flesh of her buttocks, marveling at their silky, firm feel. Then he slowly penetrated her from behind, his eyes closed, his hands cupping her breasts, stroking the nipples, her soft whimpers making him crazy but still wanting to go softly, to be very gentle, to…

  She backed into him, hard, and in a second he was seated to the hilt. It took every shred of his self-control not to climax right there; he crouched behind her, shuddering, teeth clenched. She moaned and wiggled her delectable backside against his groin; he tightened his grip on her and gently, very gently, bit her shoulder just as he pulled out and then thrust back in. She met him willingly, thrust for thrust, writhing under his touch, moaning softly. He stopped caressing her breasts and reached between her legs, finding the sensitive button and teasing it with a fingertip. She cried out sharply and he felt her climax, felt her muscles tightening around him, milking him, and then it was too late, he couldn’t stop his own release, and so he gave in to it and poured his seed into her.

  They collapsed, shuddering.

  “Welcome home,” Ashley murmured, and before he could muster a reply he realized she was snoring softly.

  * * * * *

  She was gone when he woke, and he got up at once to find her. Remembering Jean was living in their home, he stopped long enough to shrug into his robe, and then went looking for his wife. He found her in the kitchen, gobbling down plain toast and a glass of milk. When she saw him she turned bright red.

  “Good mor—what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she muttered, then finished her milk in two gulps. He noticed she was having difficulty looking at him.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Fine, I have to—uh—go to the bathroom.” She darted out of the kitchen before he could say anything; he watched her go, astonished, and then trotted after her.

  He jumped into the bathroom just as she was trying to close the door. “What’s the matter?” he asked again.

  “Nothing!”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  She grinned. “For a change, no.”

  “Then what…” He trailed off, puzzled. She was still having trouble looking him in the eye, and was now toying with the belt of her robe, staring at the rug in front of his feet. He thought back to last night, wondering if he had offended her, hurt her, or—then he had it.

  “You’re embarrassed about last night.”

  “Am not,” she said to the rug.

  “Yes, you are,” he teased, stepping forward and pulling her into a hug. She tried to struggle free, but her heart really wasn’t in it. “You’re embarrassed because you’re the most incredible lover I’ve ever had.”

  “That’s not why I’m—I am? The most incredible lover you’ve ever had?”

  “You’re in first, second, and third place,” he promised, giving her a squeeze. He kissed the top of her head and, miraculously, she didn’t pull away or cut him with a sharp word. “So, what’s to be embarrassed about?”

  She was very quiet, and just when he had decided she wasn’t going to answer him, she said softly, “I shouldn’t enjoy what we do. I shouldn’t enjoy you. After what happened…after how I got pregnant. I should hate you, and I did try, Victor, but it’s impossible. I don’t hate you now. I don’t think I ever truly did. But that’s wrong. It's bad, really bad.”

  He thought he was going to have to sit down, her words nearly left him reeling. But the only place to sit was the toilet, and Ashley was standing in front of it, so he had to bear the dizzying sensation. He shook himself and said hoarsely, “Did you just say what I think you said? You don’t hate me? You forgive me?”

  “Yes.” She frowned. “Proof that I need help. I’m clearly a masochist.”

  He understood, then, in part. Her pride was very great, and it was a good thing. Would she have survived a horrific childhood without that fierce pride? But she was its prisoner now, and even if she could love him as he loved her, she would hate herself for it.

  He decided to leave talk of love out of it. “Ashley, you’re a passionate, beautiful, healthy young woman. Why shouldn’t you enjoy lovemaking?”

  She shrugged.

  “Especially,” he said modestly, “with a partner as skilled, as sexy, as incredibly inventive and versatile as mysel—oof!” He rubbed his stomach. “Well, at least you’re looking at me now.”

  “I have no idea why,” she said coolly. “You’re not at all handsome.”

  “I am to you, though,” he teased. “You’re craaaaazy about me!”

  This did not make her smile, or tease back, if anything, it had the opposite effect. She looked even sadder than she had earlier, and asked him to give her some privacy so she could “use the facilities”. Bewildered, wondering just when he’d said the wrong thing, he did so.

  * * * * *

  It was, Ashley realized with surprised pleasure, the nicest Christmas ever. “Not much of a contest,” Jean snorted when Ashley told her this, a comment that made Victor’s eyebrows go up. Mercifully, he asked no questions.

  They had been lazing around the house most of the day, and both fireplaces—the one in the living room, and the one in their bedroom, were kept blazing. Their housekeeper/cook had prepared a mouth-watering meal before departing to have dinner with her own family, staring with stunned pleasure at the size of the Christmas bonus check Victor had written her. “I know you’ve only been with us for a couple weeks,” he explained, handing her six weeks pay, “but my wife and I really appreciate your coming in on Christmas day to cook for
us.”

  “For this,” the cook said, waving the check, “I’ll move in with you. My family can fend for themselves.”

  Later, Ashley realized what was missing from their small circle: her best friend was here, but Victor’s wasn’t.

  “Derik’s in Minnesota until February,” Victor explained when asked. “He goes back home for the holidays and doesn’t come back until after Valentine’s day.” He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “He’s got to be the only person who goes to Minnesota for the winter.”

  “But why?”

  “Family stuff. He’s tremendously hard to reach out there, spends most of his time working outdoors on his father’s farm. I usually have to wait for him to call me. He doesn’t even know we’re married yet.”

  “We should have him over as soon as he gets back,” Ashley said.

  He mock-saluted her, inwardly pleased. He missed Derik sorely every winter, though with luck this winter wouldn’t be as lonely as most of the others had been.

  They exchanged presents, and for once Ashley took pleasure in this. She had been able to buy presents, for one thing, and secondly, no one in this room was giving her something because they felt obligated, or needed a tax break. Jean had given her two “baby sacks”, long sleeved gowns with draw-string bottoms, both hand-stitched and exquisitely embroidered. One was blue, and one was pink.

  “Hedging my bets,” Jean explained.

  “When did you have time to work on these?” Ashley exclaimed, examining one gown and passing the other to a pleased Victor. “We only found out I was pregnant a few weeks ago!”

  “I decided to quite doing doll clothes for a while. Besides,” she added shyly, “I wanted to be the first one to give you a present for the baby.”

  “They’re lovely, Jeannie, I don’t know what to say.” She felt her face grow warm and her eyes fill, and blinked hard. If she cried it would only upset her friend. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re incredibly talented,” Victor said seriously, carefully folding the pink gown and handing it back to Ashley. “I’ve never seen such quality.”

  “Oh, go on.” Jean waved a hand modestly.

  “Sorry.”

  “Go on, I said. Talk about the fine stitching, the exquisite detail.”

  They all laughed, but Victor was looking at Jean with a warmth he had never felt before. Whatever she had intended, her gift meant something to him, as well. So he was very pleased at her obvious pleasure in his gift: a two-week retreat at an artist’s colony in New Hampshire, where she would sketch and paint under the supervision of some of the world’s finest modern artists.

  “This is so incredible,” she exclaimed happily, flipping through the brochure, “I don’t even mind that you’ve gotten rid of me for two weeks, and that you’re about as subtle as a brick through a window.”

  “I was just thinking about your needs,” he said innocently. “Let me know if you need a ride to the airport.”

  “Funny, you are not. But thank you…it’s a wonderful gift.” Smiling over the brochures, she then squealed with delight when she unwrapped the small envelope from Ashley: season passes to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.

  “This way you don’t have to stand in line,” Ashley explained, “and you get special privileges…you can bring guests for free, you can get in after hours…it’s really neat!”

  “And expensive,” Jean said. “Special memberships do not come cheap, to say the least. You shouldn’t have. Especially since you’re using your own—” She cut herself off and glanced at Victor, embarrassed.

  “It was fun,” she said simply. She knew Jean liked going to the museum, often for inspiration, sometimes for solace. Her friend was so intensely creative, being around great works of art calmed her as nothing else could. “I’m glad you like it.”

  Victor looked expectantly at Ashley, but she made no move toward the small pile of gifts by the tree. Disappointed, he assumed she hadn’t gotten him a present. Well, what did he expect? Sorry I had to blackmail you into marriage, dear…God bless us, every one! Yeah, right.

  He got to his feet and with forced cheer said, “Your present’s in the nursery, Ash. Come on.” He led them to the room next to the master bedroom and threw open the door with a flourish. Square in the middle of the empty room was a large padded rocking chair on runners, complete with padded footstool.

  Victor dashed into the room and set the rocker in motion with a gentle shove. “See?” he said excitedly. “It rocks and it’ll help soothe the baby. And the footstool is supposed to be really good for nursing mothers.” He faltered. “I mean, if you decide to breastfeed.”

  “It looks very comfortable,” Jean said approvingly, walking over to touch the wood.

  “It’s wonderful!” Ashley exclaimed, practically shoving Jean over so she could sit down in the chair. “And so comfortable! I’ll be dozing off in this before the baby does, I’m sure.”

  “You really like it?”

  “I really love it,” she assured him, looking up at his hopeful face and smiling. “It’s perfect. And so thoughtful, Victor.”

  “What did you expect?” Jean asked her. “An envelope stuffed with cash?”

  “Well…”

  “Yes,” Victor said, laughing. “That was my second choice. But she gets mad at me when I try to give her money.”

  “She also gets mad at you when you talk about her like she’s not in the room,” Ashley said tartly. She rocked blissfully and put her feet up on the footstool. “Ahhhh…I think this will come in very handy, even before the baby’s born. Can we move it into the living room?”

  “Sure, hon. Scoot out, I’ll move it right now.”

  Once they were back in the living room, Victor started cleaning up the discarded wrapping and ribbon.

  “Wait, Victor. You didn’t open my presents.”

  “Presents?” Plural? He could feel a hopeful smile crease his face.

  “Sure. Here.” She casually handed him a small, wrapped box and an envelope. “Open the box first.”

  He did, and saw at once that it was a framed picture of…of…what the hell was it?

  “Oh, Ashley,” Jean breathed, peeking over Victor’s shoulder. “Is that your baby?”

  “It’s an ultrasound photo!” he said, very surprised. He stared at it, then her, dumbfounded.

  “See, Victor? Here’s her feet, and that’s her spine…and these are her legs and arms.”

  “When—how—?”

  “When you were in Greece,” she said gleefully, “I asked Dr. Opitz to give me an ultrasound and make copies of the picture. I had to pay for it, three hundred bucks, because there was no medical need for the test yet. And I got her to print a big picture and two little ones.” She ripped open the envelope and held up a smaller picture. “See? This one’s for your wallet.”

  “What a fabulous gift,” he said sincerely. “The nicest one I’ve ever gotten.”

  She waved that away, blushing. “Oh, you don’t mean—”

  He caught her hand and looked her right in the eye. “Yes, I do mean, Ashley. This is the nicest present, ever. I can’t thank you enough.”

  She looked back at him, smiling a little, and was very conscious of his warm fingers on her hand, of his face, his intent expression and his dark, dark eyes. Suddenly she was in his arms and they were embracing fiercely, and he was kissing the top of her head and squeezing the breath out of her. “I love you, Ashley Lorentz-Lawrence.”

  “Ow, my stomach!” Jean said loudly. “I think that turkey is disagreeing with me. Radically. I must go to the bathroom now. I expect I’ll be in there for at least an hour.” She tiptoed out, making more noise than if she had simply walked.

  Victor was laughing softly against her hair, seeming not to notice, or care, that Ashley had said nothing in response to his declaration of love. When she heard the words, everything in her rose up and screamed, Tell him you love him! Take your chance! Now! Do it! But she couldn’t. Her pride was very great, and she feared she
would never escape its grip. Bad enough she’d given herself to him like some masochistic slut the night before, but then to confess that she loved him, loved the blackmailer…no.

  But she had to say something. So she blinked back tears and whispered, “I know, Victor. I know.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Three months passed. Victor and Ashley got along almost as well as they had before his concussion and the subsequent rape, but she was still troubled by her conflicting emotions. He never gave her any cause to regret marrying him. In fact, marriage to Victor was wonderful. She wanted for nothing and her life was very pleasant…splendid, even. Her days were full, but not exhausting, and when she wasn’t shopping for the nursery, she was working on her book, a non-fiction woman-to-woman book on pregnancy.

  She also saw Dr. Opitz, and kept in touch with her old boss, who gave her the occasional freelance assignment, and when she wasn’t doing any of those things, she lazed around and gained weight. This pleased Dr. Opitz greatly, because she had been concerned at Ashley’s petite size and underweight status in her first trimester. “I guess I was always working so many hours, there wasn’t a lot of time to relax and enjoy a big meal,” she had remarked casually to her doctor, and at that Victor had gone white with anger and made her eat an obscenely large steak dinner that night. She learned not to talk about her past with him, because he got so mad. It was sweet, but kind of silly. Didn’t he know that was all water under the bridge?

  Odd, that she could dismiss a difficult childhood so easily, but held Victor’s few mistakes against him with relentless fury. Perhaps because she had never expected to have a wonderful childhood, and so wasn’t disappointed. Perhaps because she was a vindictive bitch, she thought gloomily. But she had fallen for Victor and expected great and wonderful things from him, only to be cruelly surprised.

  Despite these problems, their sex life was amazing, better than any she had ever known. Better, even, than the night he had returned from Athens. She still could not bring herself to initiate sex, but she never had to—Victor always wanted her, and in fact she had the impression that there were times he wanted her but held back, either because he thought she didn’t want him or was too tired.