Chapter 8

Stop that darned jazz, Kent, my ears are bursting." Gail seized Kent's right wrist and yanked the hand off the key board.

Kent Miles rotated on the piano stool, facing her. "Oh, you just wanted a chance to hold my wrist." His left hand stroked the strawy mat of his beard as he leered into her eyes.

"If that isn't a stupid remark...." But in a way it's true she acknowledged to herself. She had been fascinated watching his strong fingers pounding the keyboard-wishing her body was the keyboard. "Now, how about teaching me?" she asked, frowning at the beard she had never touched.

"You are too eager, you're used to leading the chase. It ruins things-for me, at least. You just wait till I'm good and ready to tumble you."

She felt the flush rise to her cheeks. "This must be your day to act abominable. Do you realize that in the two weeks this piano stands here you've hogged it, using it for your own practicing?"

"Well, isn't that what it was intended for? That-and to keep me at hand." His eyes were shrewd; her anger told him he was right.

"All you taught me is two idiotic pieces, and I still play Rustle of Spring badly."

"You always will," he stated, getting up. "And you know you don't really give a hang-about playing well."

"You seem to know more about myself than I do." She walked to the low table and poured herself a stiff drink from the decanter. Straight, as she had been doing of late.

Kent walked up and took the glass from her hand. "You drink too much, Gail. It won't calm your nerves. I know a better way." He stood quite close and she had to inhale the sweetish scent of his hair pomade.

"Yes, what?"

"This." He took her in his arms and held her close, hypnotizing her with those mocking eyes that never revealed his thoughts. His open mouth came down on hers, making a tent, and he exhaled his hot breath. Her own lips opened and she stuck her tongue into his mouth, shivering with sudden excitement. His hands ran up and down her back as if testing her spine. She felt paralyzed, like a plant clinging to the bark of a tree needing its life-giving sap.

As he rubbed one leg against her thigh she felt his tautness. Her hands came up and she pulled at the beard, finding the wiry hair unbearably exciting.

Now she closed her eyes as his big wet tongue laved over her face. She thought of a Saint Bernard once owned by a neighbor in Plymouth Falls who had been devoted to her; its tongue had caused the same melting feeling in her. As he let go of her abruptly she tumbled against a chair. A sardonic glint crept into his eyes.

"As I see, you're ready. So, take off that dress. Or, is that dress shielding your skinniness?"

She was outraged. "I'm not skinny, just slender," she said', unzipping the skirt. Under his stare she took off the dress, laid it over the back of a chair, and now faced him in lilac-colored, spidery panties through which the brown skin showed. She had been dispensing with wearing a bra for his sake-wanting him to know her breasts were firm and needed no support.

"So they're really as I thought diem to be," he commented and came close, rubbing the dark red nipples against the back of his palms. As he bent low, lips replacing hands, she trembled, feeling his long tongue working them over. His hands yanked at the elastic of her panties and they slithered down her hips, landing at her feet. "Step out of them," he ordered, and as she obeyed he picked them up and held them to his cheek. "Panties are so exciting, the whole woman is hidden there. They carry your effluvia."

He dropped them on top of her dress and now, took her trembling slimness into his arms kissing her long and hard, tenderly and brutally, finally leading her to the wide couch. She lay back watching him undress. No wonder he was proud-he had something to be proud about. Everything about him was big. His skin was of a pale olive, his legs were muscular. There was no hair on his chest.

He came over to the couch and stood there, grinning down at her. "I need a little coaxing-to get in the mood," he said.

But you are in the mood she felt like saying looking at his tenseness. She sat up, her hands tracing the outline of his lean flanks, now becoming more aggressive.

"I once had a French girl-she knew how. I doubt you're as good as her," he taunted.

She knew she was better ... His hands dug into her shoulders, now moving over her breasts, clutching resilient flesh. He panted and his movements became convulsive.

"Stop."

She closed her eyes, feeling faint. At a fevor pitch of excitement. Exasperated with wanting him for all this time. Wondering, uncertain whether he would finally perform. Every nerve in her body tingled attuned to every fiber of his.

His crazy laughter made her open her eyes.

"You should see your face, lust, greed personified. You-you're a hot bitch and you're going to get it."

He threw himself down over her, crushing her fine bones, flattening swell of breasts, making her cry out in ecstatic pain and lust. She felt like a thing, a toy broken in two. He breathed hard, moved, making her gasp in sudden fright. She trembled, knowing he could break her in two, ruin her forever. She had no feel of her body, knew only that she was throbbingly alive.

His passion didn't allow for speech. In silent deadly concentration he started. Then accelerating the rhythm, moving evenly as if he were playing an etude, strictly observing and executing the tempo.

"Now," he said, and she shivered as he outdistanced himself, tearing down all barriers, relenting the delayed torture and letting go, giving her his all, emptying his strength into her waiting weakness.

Later, when they both were decent again, he allowed her to fix him a drink. "Now, don't think of me as your Hercules, your pleasure boy, Gail. I hope you liked it, and I know you needed it. But don't expect a performance every day. Remember, I do the chasing."

She felt like slapping him down, telling him to keep away. But she kept silent. It had been too wonderful and she didn't want him away. She needed him as she never had thought she'd need a man before.

That evening when Jack came home she was surprisingly amiable. Supper was ready and she fixed his drink before they Sat down to eat.

He was startled at the change, glad about it.

"Why Gail, how nice. Dinner at home with my wife." He kissed her cheek, seeking her mouth.

She drew away. "You just sit here and I'll bring in the food; it will get spoiled."

As he ate the chicken she watched this husband of hers as if he were a complete stranger. Why did I ever bother taking him away from Myra? The thought surprised her. There's nothing extra about him. He's a nice, middle-aged man, efficient in his work, one who delights in his comfort.

"How would you like to go to Los Angeles with me? I have an important case there. And you'll be part of my expense account. One whole week, the best places ... Hollywood...."

"When do you have to be there?" she asked, knowing that if things remained as they were now with Kent he'd go alone.

"Oh, in a matter of two weeks," he scanned her face. "I thought you'd like a change, Gail. You don't seem enthusiastic."

"But I am, darling. It sounds wonderful. Only, let me know a little ahead so I can get my wardrobe in shape."

"Just remember, a new wardrobe is not on the expense account." But he said it amiably as if expecting her to splurge.

Gail's compliance extended even to the boudoir. Jack felt animated, the nice dinner and his wife's pleasantness, rather a novelty, made him full of desire.

"Darling, it's been a long time, too long." He helped himself to her breasts, fondling them.

Why am I doing this? she wondered, permitting his hand to stray. And then she knew. It was a diabolical urge to compare notes, and also, most important, not to allow that unpredictable youth Kent to get too much of a hold over her. Thus, when she came to him, appeased by her husband's lovemaking, or rather she admitted to herself, less hungry for her lover, she could keep him under control. Thus she would be the one to dictate. Yes, that seemed the right way. Now that Kent thought he could have her as and when it suited him, she would surprise him. Show him she could do without his services....

Jack tried hard to please her but his fumbling caresses hardly aroused her. Finally she made him do to her what she knew he disliked. Some remnant of puritanical instinct, she surmised.

"What's the matter, Gail? You're like an iceberg. Not very encouraging-making love to an icicle." He kissed her throat, his hands clutching at her breasts.

"Ouch, that hurts," she wiggled away.

"But I do want to give you pleasure." In the darkness she felt his eyes on her face

"You know what gives me more pleasure than anything, darling."

He breathed hard. "But-it's so unnatural, Gail. Good, decent sex-"

"If you don't want to then don't ask what I like." She moved to the edge of the bed.

He was right at her, doing as she desired. He was clumsy, stopped mid-way, tired, leaving her up in the air. It took a long time till finally her nerves responded and twitched in joyful spasm of release.

They lay side by side hardly touching. Her hand finally shot out, finding him not in a state of readiness. She plucked and teased till he finally panted and tensed.

As his sweating body belabored hers she decided there would be no more marital lovemaking; his attempts proved distasteful to her and she was glad when he finally collapsed, winded and exhausted, giving her the offering she didn't really want.

"Darling," gratefully he kissed her closed lips, "it was wonderful. I-I was out of practice. We must do it more often."

Never again, she promised herself, keeping her lips tightly compressed.