Vivian nodded. She felt naked before him even before she'd removed one piece of clothing.
He was so close to her that she could easily reach out and touch him... Without a word she lifted her hands to her kerchief and eased it out of the V neckline.
By the time I'm naked, she thought, he won't be so casual about me!
She opened the buttons on her jacket with a deliberate slowness... Then came the skirt. She reached around and undid the bra. The instant it was opened, her naked breasts leaped free, their nipples already hard.
Tentatively, he moved a hand toward her.
"It's all right if you touch them!" she whispered...
CHAPTER ONE
Dr. Vivian Temple felt as though Eric Bentley had stripped her naked. His pale blue eyes had lingered on the bare swell of her breasts above the neckline of her green gown; his eyes had moved down her flat belly to the base of her torso, where the flare of the gown hid the lines of her body.
"You're a beautiful woman," Eric whispered.
She tried to smile, but her heart was pounding so fast and so hard that she was afraid the smile would become a gasp for air. She looked down at the long-stemmed crystal glass in her hand. A cocktail onion impaled on a toothpick rested on top of a half-melted ice cube. "Just enough left for one more sip," she said without looking up at Eric.
"Do you want me to ask you?" he questioned.
She moved slightly sideways and drained her glass.
"That's the fourth or fifth martini I've had," she announced, and looked straight at him. He was very close to her, and she could feel his hot breath on her face.
"You know how much I want you," he said.
The urgency in his voice made her tremble.
"It's what you want too," he went on.
She wanted to deny it but couldn't. All her strength was gone. She searched his handsome face for an indication that he would help her and not take advantage of her weakness. His jaw was set, his thin lips bloodless, and his ice-blue eyes relentless. She knew he was determined to possess her.
She tried to look beyond his broad shoulders into the dining room, where the other guests were. She could hear their laughter and even the sounds of dance music being ground out of the host's stereo phonograph.
Again her eyes sought his.
"You knew I'd follow you," Eric said.
She nodded and whispered, "Please, Eric, let's go back before...." His strong fingers suddenly touched her face. He tilted her lips to meet his.
She twisted away but immediately felt sorry for him. Her feeling of regret for having hurt him and her desperate, clawing need to be taken by him commingled within her. "All right, Eric," she said softly; "take me home."
This time when his fingers touched her, they slid down the side of her face, brushed her patrician neck, and finally played across the naked tops of her luscious breasts.
She closed her eyes and let her senses respond to his deft caress. "Take me home," she said again.
"Yes," he answered, and kissed her closed eyelids.
Eric drove his English-made sports convertible down the West Side Highway in a cavalier fashion. The white fabric top was down, and the wind rushed past them with a whistling sound. Though the night was warm for early spring, Vivian gathered her mink closer and turned up the collar.
From time to time she sensed Eric's eyes on her, but she looked straight ahead. She was hardly aware of the black, mirror like surface of the Hudson River on her right or the poetic splendor of the city on her left.
She was not concerned about what would happen between herself and Eric when they reached the apartment-she was positive he would be able to satisfy her. Even the fact that she would soon commit adultery had no reality for her. She felt disembodied. She was able to take a good, hard look at herself...
* * *
She was twenty-eight years old. She held a doctorate in English literature, and her specialty was Chaucer, whom she'd chosen because of his earthiness. For her, his characters in the Canterbury Tales were very much alive. Chaucer had an eye for life and wasn't at all afraid to write what he saw.
For twenty-five years her name had been Vivian Summerhill. While on a trip to Europe, directly after she'd received her doctorate, she'd met Professor Steven Temple, chairman of the English department at one of the city's colleges.
Vivian found Steven Temple a quiet man with a dry sense of humor. He was one of the few men she'd ever known who looked like what he was. He was tall and sparsely built, with snow-white hair. He wore his tweed sports jacket and slacks very well.
She felt comfortable in his presence-he made no demands on her for anything but her companionship, and she was thankful for this. Men her own age frightened her. They all seemed to have a single predominating goal-to use her sex as an end to their pleasure.
She'd foolishly permitted herself to stumble down that road once. The experience had been enough to teach her that the primrose path of dalliance had at its end the bitter knowledge of self-defilement. She'd given her lover her virgin body only to discover the man had no capacity for love. His only interest was what was between her naked thighs.
When Vivian was a girl, her father had called her Princess. In a memory dimmed by the passing years, she found a great many similarities between her father and Steven Temple. This had been the biggest reason she had agreed to Steven Temple's marriage proposal.
She was pleased with Steven' considerateness. From the first time he saw her naked body he had enjoyed looking at it. She often thought the sight of her nude held more meaning for him than the actual sex act. But his need for her as a love partner was not very-great; when they did come together he was unable to muster the endurance necessary to give her a hint of satisfaction.
Early in the marriage, to make him happy, she had feigned ecstasy she did not feel. She would have begun to resent him if he had not looked around and realized she had much to be thankful for. As soon as Steven was able, he appointed her as an instructor in the English department. Immersed in her work at the college and accepting her lot with Steven, Vivian lived a contented life.
The first disruption occurred at a faculty tea. Steven was aglow because of the coup he'd pulled off-he had hired away from a famous Ivy League college a promising young professor named Eric Bentley. Steven introduced Vivian to Eric, excused himself, and left the two of them looking at each other.
Eric's eyes boldly traveled the length of her body before he said one word. When he did speak, he said, "What a waste!"
She pretended not to hear him but she knew he was aware of her pretense.
That same night Vivian tried to rouse Steven into making love to her. His only response was to tell her that the excitement of the faculty tea had tired him. He promptly turned onto his side and fell asleep. She was left with taut nerves and a need that made her stomach feel like a giant knot. She silently swore never to ask Steven to make love to her again. At the same time she felt the enormous satisfaction of knowing that Eric Bentley would like nothing better than to tumble her in bed.
Whenever she and Eric were alone, she baited him with her body. She began to dress so he could not help but notice the fullness of her breasts or the roundness of her buttocks. She even tinted her titian-red hair to give it more than its natural radiance. They began to speak about sex with astonishing frankness. She enjoyed his attentions and wondered how long he would take to suggest that they sleep together.
Just before the spring term started Eric came into her office one day while she was alone. Those light blue eyes of his were all over her body. Without a word he came toward her, reached down, and lifted her out of her chair, and suddenly his lips were on hers and his hand was closing over her breast.
She let him kiss and fondle her. His assault had been too quick-it made her giddy. She wriggled free and laughingly told him she was not a castle that had to be taken by storm. He must wait for the right time and the right place. Her laughter was infectious, and he laughed too.
What Vivian had told Eric served as a verbal agreement between them, which would have meant nothing. But on the first day of the spring term Vivian Temple walked into a required English course, wrote her name on the blackboard, turned around and looked at her "twenty students. Twenty pairs of eyes looked back. One pair out of the twenty was coal black and belonged to a deeply tanned young man. He was not looking at her as the others were-he was frankly appraising her as the male animal examines the female. In his eyes was the blatant question of whether or not she would make a good lay.
She turned away from his impudent stare and began to teach. From that instant she hated him. But she also knew her own body would not tolerate the almost chaste existence she was forced to live with her husband...
* * *
The sound around the speeding car suddenly changed. Vivian looked around. They were in the white-tiled throat of the tunnel.
She glanced at Eric, who turned toward her and smiled.
"We'll soon be home," she said above the roar.
Eric nodded and indicated it was difficult for him to hear her. When they came out on the Brooklyn side he slowed down and stopped at the toll booth. A moment later he drove off to the spur that would take them to Atlantic Avenue. A few minutes after that they would be in the apartment, where the living room and the bedroom had a splendid view of the Upper New York Bay. He held the wheel with one hand and with the other reached over to pat Vivian just above the knee. "You were in another world," he said.
"I truly was," she answered.
"Was it as good as this one?" He winked.
She shrugged and said, "I was putting together the bits and pieces of the past-"
"Do you feel guilty?" he asked, interrupting her.
She laughed. "As yet nothing has been done to feel guilty about."
He squeezed her leg and put his hand back on the wheel. "If it would make you feel better," he said, "we'll go to a hotel."
"Steven won't be back until Monday night," she said. "You know he went to a conference in Chicago. That was why he asked you to escort me to the party tonight."
Once they reached Atlantic Avenue Eric turned left up a side street and a short while later stopped in front of a large, red-brick apartment house. "This is the right time and right place?" he asked.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes."
* * *
Eric unlocked the door, swung it open, and handed the key back to Vivian. As she walked into the darkened apartment, she heard the door being closed behind her. The lock snapped.
She went to the huge window in the living room that was high above the Esplanade and framed the upper harbor. She watched the Staten Island ferries pass each other. The loud whir of a helicopter filled the air as the whirlybird dipped and twisted over the bay to land at the downtown heliport. They were the same sounds and sights she'd heard every night for the past three years.
She turned away from the window. Eric had been standing quietly behind her. She leaned against the wall near the window. Her mink was half-on and half-off.
"Would you like me to switch on a light?" Eric asked.
"No." She saw his shoulders move in a slight shrug. She wondered if he was becoming impatient.
But why should he? she thought. Doesn't he know I want and need his body as much as he wants mine?
She was very careful not to think the word "need." Need to her had a special meaning. She was starved for sex and therefore needed a man, while Eric wanted her for the sheer pleasure of possessing a beautiful woman.
Her mink slipped lower. "The lights," she said, "would only reveal too much of Steven. This was his bachelor apartment before we were married. Except for a few feminine frills I did not change it much."
"Vivian!" Eric stepped toward her.
She made a slight motion with her hand to stop him. He obeyed the gesture.
The mink was trailing on the floor. She looked down at the bare tops of her breasts and the valley between them. "I wore this green gown for you, Eric," she said. "I wanted you to look at me and...."
"Want you?"
"Desperately."
"Yes. Desperately." _ She finally let the mink glide to the floor. Many times in the past she had seen in her mind's eye how Eric would love her. She closed her eyelids. "The right time and the right place," she whispered, and stretched her arms toward him.
She felt his arms close around her and gently ease her body against his own. Eric was a big, broad-shouldered man, with crew-cut blond hair. She reached up to the back of his head with her hands and pushed his head down toward her eager lips.
He kissed her softly, nibbling at her lips until they opened. Eagerly she sought the taste of his tongue. He teased the tip of hers and darted away. She followed. His mouth was filled with a delicious warmth.
Vivian was so caught up with the wonderful sensations that played on her lips and spilled across her tongue that she could feel nothing else.
One of Eric's hands let go of her and moved between them. He placed it on the naked swell of her breasts. She took her lips away from his and looked down at his hand. The touch of it on her bare skin made her quiver. As Eric slid his fingers into the naked valley between her breasts, she leaned slightly forward to make it easy for him to reach his goal.
The gown she wore had a built-in-bra consisting of nothing more than two gauze cups supported by plastic wire.
Eric's hand closed over one breast, and he rolled one stiffened tip between his fingers. "You're teasing," she chided softly. "Should I stop?"
To answer she placed her own hand on his and squeezed hard.
Eric put his lips to her ear and let his tongue kiss the lobe. She trembled and ground her body against his. She could feel his manhood through the folds of her gown.
"Now who's teasing?" he asked.
She backed away from him. "I think it would be better," she said, "if we went into the bedroom."
Eric took his hand from her breast. Before they started toward the bedroom he kissed her hard on the lips. This time there was pain in the kiss, but the pain was also pleasure.
Vivian's senses were keyed up. She felt him lift her gown, and then his hands closed over her round, full buttocks. All that separated his hands from her naked flesh was a flimsy pair of briefs. Holding the cheeks of her rump in his two hands, he violently caressed them. No man had ever done that to her, not even her first lover. One moment she felt as though she were being torn in half, and the very next instant the two cheeks of her rump came together to make her feel as though the lower part of her body were being crushed in a huge machine.
This time Eric pulled her to him and, with his hands still pursuing their course on her buttocks, guided her grinding against him.
"Enough," Vivian said. "It would be a shame to waste it." She drew away and looked to the lower half of his body.
A few moments later they were in the bedroom. Eric had slipped off his jacket and flung it over a chair. He opened his tie and pulled it free of the collar; then he went to her.
He buried his face in the graceful curve of her patrician neck. She held on to him. He moved lower and kissed the bare tops of her breasts. Still bent over the white swell of her luscious breasts, he looked up at her. Without a word he began to slip her gown off her shoulders.
"It won't come off that way," she said, smiling down at him. "There's a zipper in the back." She took hold of his hand and guided him to it.
The zipper opened with a single swift downward pull.
Vivian's gown hung slack, supported only by its loose cling to her bare arms and the natural fullness of her breasts. She wondered if she should slip the top of the gown free of her body. Before she'd decided what to do Eric's two hands took hold of the top of the gown. Though she could not see the light blue of his eyes in the darkness of the room, she saw the hot glow in them. Slowly, he began to push the gown down.
She stood very still and watched. More and more of her breasts became visible. The downward flow of the gown stopped just above her hard nipples.
"I'm teasing myself," Eric said with a small laugh as his hand stroked her bare skin.
She took a deep breath and thrust her breasts toward him. Swiftly he pulled the gown down. Her turgid nipples bent with movement of the material as it passed over them; they popped free a moment later. Vivian's breasts were naked. Eric's hands closed over them. The sudden rush of pain into them made her wince. Her breasts were so full that even his large hands could not completely cover them.
She stroked his head. She knew from the expression on his face how pleased he was.
His hands had relaxed their grip. "They're like full fruits," he said, placing a hand under each one and hefting it as though he were trying to determine its weight.
Her nipples jutted provocatively forward. Eric took each full stalk between his fingers as though he were holding the stem of a pen. He drew on them. An exquisite fire burned along the tips of her naked breasts. The heat reflected back into Vivian's breasts and down, deep down into her love tunnel, where her own passion had already begun to throb.
She grabbed her naked breast from his caressing finger and pushed it forward, full against Eric's lips. Only when he took it wholly into his mouth did she sigh with pleasure. Expertly he used his tongue, lips, and teeth, going from one to the other and back to the first.
Vivian pushed back her head and pulled his face into the deep valley between the naked mounds. With her own hands she pushed her bare breasts against the sides of his face.
"Strip me," she murmured.
The gown slid down the rest of her body with agonizing slowness. Finally it lay in a heap on the floor. She wore thin briefs under it. This time she did not hesitate; she reached out, caught hold of the zipper on Eric's pants, and ripped down, and her hand burrowed inside. The moment she touched him she felt him shudder.
"Wait a minute," she said, and started to remove her hand.
He grabbed her wrist to hold her where she was. "It would be easier if we were both naked," she said.
Eric let go of her.
She unbuckled his belt and undid the button of his trousers, and he did the rest. He took another moment to free himself of his shirt and underclothes. Naked, he stood before her. She looked down at him, then took his hand and led him to the bed.
The cover was already turned down-she'd done that just before he'd called for her earlier in the evening. Vivian flung herself on the bed. She lay on her back and arched her bottom toward Eric. "Take my panties off," she said.
"I want to look at you," Eric told her.
She knew he could see her in the darkness, but he wanted more. "A small light," she said. "That one on the night table."
He leaned over and turned the switch. A muted glow spread over a small area, and Vivian's near nakedness was fully revealed.
She could see him, too. His body was even whiter than hers. It was sturdy without being muscular. She could see that he was fully aroused. She arched her bottom toward him without saying a word, and he slipped her panties over her hips. When the panties were far enough down her nude legs she kicked them free.
Eric came down next to her in bed. His kisses were hot and demanding. He set his lips into hers, into her neck, across the tips of her breasts; then he covered her navel with his mouth. Each of his movements evoked a sigh or a whimper from Vivian. She was on fire. His hands pushed apart her naked thighs and toyed with her womanhood, while she thrashed around under his touch.
Her own hands took hold of him and gave him back in kind what he was giving her.
Eric started to kiss her again. This time he went lower. His face was just above the tuft of hair that marked her sex. She stopped him and deftly insinuated her naked body under his. She'd allowed no man ever to put his lips there-that kind of lovemaking was something special, more intimate. Reserved, perhaps, for someone she really loved.
Her thoughts stopped the instant Eric brought himself to her. At that instant all that mattered was meeting his drive with her own body. Eric's hands grabbed her naked breasts, and he flung himself at her again and again, while she responded and flailed the air with her naked legs. The pace quickened. The knot of warmth inside her seemed to swell as though it were a balloon. She closed her eyes, gasping for air and at the same time urging him to a faster pace. A brilliant white light spread across the insides of her eyelids. As their lovemaking grew more frantic the color changed to searing red. The tension in her mounted. She racked Eric's naked back with her nails, and her teeth sank into his shoulder.
She longed to cry out a host of words-Everything a woman might tell the man with whom she was making love.
The color on her lids flamed into a hot yellow. The balloon in her swelled larger. She crushed Eric's body in the vicelike grip between her naked thighs. The balloon burst. The yellow color melted away from her eyelids. She found herself looking at the swarthy, muscular body of Barry Holmes, the young man in her class whose eyes... She cried out in silent protest. Oh no! Not now! Not when...
The cry became a living thing. It tore out of her throat at the apex of her ecstasy in the wordless language of a woman who has just reached her moment of sexual completion.
An instant later Eric's body quivered above her own. His lips bore down on her naked breast, and he sucked hard on it like a child as he reached completion.
Vivian had hoped to spend the night locked in Eric's arms, but that single fleeting image of Barry Holmes was enough to unnerve her.
How could it be?
She did not answer the self-put question. She opened her lidded eyes and looked down at the man who lay on her naked breasts. Intuitively she knew she'd used him to attempt to exorcise this new demon. She'd wait until Eric had rested enough; then she'd seek his love again.
By the time Eric was ready to take her again, Vivian was more than willing. This time she closed her eyes and kept them closed. That way it was easier for her to hold the image of Barry Holmes on the lids of her eyes. Even when she reached the summit of her passion she knew she was giving her sex not to Eric Bentley, but to a young man named Barry Holmes.
It IDOS insane!
CHAPTER TWO
MONDAY MORNING was always hard for Barry to make. He managed to get to Joe's luncheonette for a cup of hot black coffee and a buttered roll. He liked Joe as much as he liked anyone. At least Joe didn't bug him the way Hornsbee did every Sunday.
Hornsbee had been his parents' legal eagle, and he would be executor of their will until Barry reached his maturity. As far as Barry was concerned Hornsbee was as dead as his parents, but Hornsbee didn't have enough brains to crawl into some hole in the ground.
To hell with him!
Barry drained the cup, slapped a half a buck on the counter, picked up his large sketch pad, and started down Flatbush Avenue toward the college.
He walked rapidly. Fifteen minutes later he passed through the open gate on the Campus Road side of the college and slowed down. His first class was English literature. The subject matter was dull and dry. Barry didn't object to reading the classics, but he strenuously objected to the way Vivian Temple managed to cut everything into bits and pieces. He was saved from utter boredom by the simple expedient of looking at her.
At least she's beautiful; she has the kind of body I wouldn't mind painting.
The thought of Vivian Temple naked sent hot flashes into his groin. He smiled.
That'll be the day!
The very same instant he saw her, walking with Doctor Bentley. They were very close together. Barry slowed his pace.
Doctor Bentley suddenly stopped, swung around until he faced Vivian Temple, and kissed her full on the lips. A moment later they continued to walk.
Barry halted and waited until his instructor and Bentley were well ahead of him; then he started after them with a quick stride. Just as he passed them he swung around and looked at her.
She was startled.
He had just enough time to see her turn to Bentley. Barry didn't have to be within earshot to know what she was saying...
* * *
"I tell you," Vivian said, "he saw you kiss me." Three times she'd said the same words to Eric, and three times he'd answered the same way.
"What difference does it make?"
She wondered how stupid he could be. To him it made no difference. He didn't have to walk into a class and face Barry Holmes.
"Why don't we stop and have a cup of coffee?" he suggested. "It will give you time to calm your nerves."
She glared at him.
"All right; we'll skip the coffee." He smiled. "Even when you're angry you're beautiful."
"Will you stop!" she exclaimed. "I don't understand why this boy upsets you so," Eric said. "He was just getting some sort of kick. You know these kids-they'll do anything for laughs."
"He disturbed me from the first moment he walked into class."
"He's just a boy," Eric said. "A good looking one at that, though he looks as if he's angry at the world."
"A gutter snipe!" Vivian exclaimed. "Forget it."
"He makes me feel naked every time he looks at me," she said. Eric laughed.
"I don't see what's so funny!"
"If at this moment," he said softly, "we weren't standing in front of a college building, I'd... you're blushing!"
She managed a smile.
"That's better."
"I'd better go to my class," she said. She looked at him. She'd spent not only Saturday night with him, but all of Sunday and Sunday night, as well. He'd possessed her more in that interval of time than Steve had in the past two months; yet she did not love him.
"See you," Eric said softly.
She nodded, then turned and went up the steps to the door of the building. She did not look back, though she was sure he was waiting for her to do exactly that.
* * *
Vivian tried to ignore what she saw. "Shakespeare's seventy-first sonnet is considered his masterpiece on the subject of love," she said. She looked up, and her eyes met Barry's unwavering stare. She watched his hand move across the leaf of the large artist's pad. She tried to start her lecture again, but her lips and throat were dry.
"Mister Holmes," she finally rasped, "this is an English literature class. It is not a class in sketching."
The other members of the class turned toward Barry Holmes. He stopped his sketching and looked up. His dark eyes were lit with laughter and mockery. "More's the pity," he laughed.
Her face reddened. "No one is forcing you to take this course," she said, trying to control her anger.
Barry looked around. "That's right," he said. "But the rules say I need it to graduate. It's a Hobson's choice, ain't it?"
The "ain't" was meant for her as well as the remark about Hobson's choice. "You may drop the course if you wish," she said. "I'll arrange it with the chairman of the department."
Barry tossed his head back and laughed again. "You mean you'll talk to Mr. Temple about it," he said. "What's wrong, are you afraid to say husband? We all know you're married to him."
"How dare you?" she questioned. The anger inside of her roared up. "How dare you speak to me that way?" She had been holding a thick book; now she dropped it on the table in front of the room. Her hands went to her hips.
"Oh, I dare," Barry answered, with obvious mockery in his voice. "I dare."
Part of her knew she was about to do the wrong thing. He'd reduced her to his level. She could do nothing now to lift herself above him. She took several long strides. She stood in front of his desk. "Let me see your great contribution to the world of art," she said in a voice that was keen with sarcasm.
"No."
"I asked to see what you were doing!" Her voice was a step below a scream.
She looked down at her antagonist. He was big. Not that he was tall, but his shoulders were wide, his features were manly, and the muscles on his tanned arms were knotted like cords of thick rope. Everything about him was boldly animal. She had the distinct feeling she was facing something out of the jungle. It made her queasy, but she was determined not to back down. "Let me see it!" she demanded.
Barry sat absolutely silent and still.
She reached for the large pad.
"Don't!" he exclaimed. His voice was like the snap of a whip.
Again her eyes found his. There was no longer mockery in his look. If anything, she saw a challenge in those slits that looked up at her.
She hesitated. She could see his broad chest heave in quick, shallow movements. A pulse on the right side of his thick neck quivered with anger.
She knew if she backed down she could not hope to hold the class for the rest of the semester.
He is nothing, just a lout who has managed to make his way through college, she reminded herself.
She had the full weight of her title and the college behind her. She was resolved not to be beaten by him. Her hand moved toward the pad again. Suddenly pain shot through her wrist and up her arm. It was so piercing that it made her bend closer to him and cry out.
"I told you not to touch it!" Barry said harshly. He tossed her hand free as though it were something repugnant to touch.
A low cry of surprise came from the other students. Another male said, "C'mon, Barry, knock it off. What do you want to prove?"
"Don't mess with me," Barry answered without looking where the voice came from. "Just don't mess with me, or I'll take you on next."
The voice was effectively silenced.
Vivian still stood next to the desk. The pain lingered in her wrist like the memory of a bad dream. Yet she was very conscious of the powerful maleness of her antagonist. She was more determined than ever to see what he'd drawn. She moved her hand toward the pad.
"You're not stupid enough to try that again," he said. The lines around his mouth hardened. He looked up at her and smiled.
The smile confused her. She wasn't sure whether it was one of triumph or animal cunning.
"No one," Barry told her, "ever takes anything from me without asking. Now if you had been polite in the first place, maybe you wouldn't have gotten yourself hurt."
Suddenly a girl's voice cried out, "Barry, what are you trying to do? She'll have you expelled for this!"
Vivian focused her eyes on the young woman. She vaguely remembered having seen the two of them walking arm-in-arm across the campus. The girl didn't seem to be the kind he would be interested in. She was demure-looking, with high cheekbones, interesting lips, and a young body no different from those possessed by thousands of other girls at the college.
"I'm not trying to do anything," he answered without looking at her. "Anyway, Mona, this is my affair."
"Not if you don't graduate," she answered. "Not if you get tossed out." A sob broke from the girl's lips.
For a moment Vivian sensed he'd retreated. He glanced back at the girl, and his face seemed to soften. He almost looked as though he wanted to say something comforting.
But then his eyes went back to her. His temper rose, and his determination to stay with it no matter what the cost became a reality. "She's been at me all semester," he said. "I guess it's time for one of us to give way." He smiled again.
That smile made her more nervous than his violence.
The violence, snake-quick as it was, was something she could see, but the smile was the kind of camouflage learned in the gutter.
"If you had completed your assignments," she said haltingly, "you would not have stuck out like a sore thumb."
Barry shook his head. The smile was gone from his face. His eyes opened wide and filled with mockery. "You still want to see the drawing?"
Vivian understood the smile now. He'd trapped her.
If I back down, then what was all the fuss about to begin with? She thought.
She glanced around at the others in the class. They too were wondering what she would do.
What I should have done was to ignore him and continue with my lecture.
Even in retrospect she knew that would have been impossible. She'd been on a collision course with him from the moment he'd entered the classroom at the beginning of the semester. His gawking stare earlier had not helped matters. She was sure he was baiting her. She wondered if he would risk a clash with her if he didn't have something with which to defend himself.
She looked down at him. He was tense, like a big jungle cat ready to spring and make its killing. She could feel the electricity of his anger. This kind of emotional storm frightened her. Her knees felt as though they'd turned to liquid.
"I asked you," he demanded, "if you still want to see the drawing." There was no mockery in his eyes now. A black fire blazed in them.
She edged away.
"Are you afraid?"
She wanted to run back to the safety of the front of the room.
"Leave her alone!" Mona cried. "Can't you see she wants to drop the whole matter?"
The cry had no effect on him. He acted as though he had not heard it. "You know what I drew," he said.
"No," Vivian answered. Her voice broke.
Barry shook his head. He put his hand down on the pad and opened it to the sketch. He held it so that she alone could see it.
The sight of it forced her to step back. To suppress a cry, she pressed a hand over her mouth. He'd drawn her-nude. She'd felt his eyes pierce her severely tailored suit and roam at will across her naked body.
He picked up a drawing pencil. "These parts," he said, pointing to the nipples on the figure,"
"and this," he added, letting the pencil drop to the darkened triangle of the woman's body, "were done from imagination."
Even as he spoke Vivian was seared by his eyes. They moved along the curve of her breasts until they rested on her nipples. She felt them skim down her flat belly and come to rest on the tufted apex of her body.
If he could, he would force my thighs apart with his eyes.
She tried to disentangle her tongue from itself to say something. There was nothing obscene about the sketch. But because she was nude, Vivian felt as though he had caught her in some private act. She was sure he had seen Bentley kiss her. His filthy mind had instantly grasped their entire relationship. She looked at the sketch once more, stopped a quiver that was beginning to move up the length of her back, and abruptly turned away.
When she reached the front of the room she took a deep breath and said, "Class dismissed!"
There was the scraping sound of the chairs being moved against the hardwood floor, followed by the tread of twenty pairs of feet.
The last student to leave was Barry Holmes. He paused at the door. Their eyes met. His face seemed softer now, almost penitent. A moment later he was gone.
Vivian saw the thick book on the table. She picked it up and clutched it to her breast until it became an instrument of pain, a way to tame her own body and make it stop clawing at her. With the book still clutched to her she walked to the window. She looked out on the newly seeded quadrangle. She tasted the salt of her tears before she realized she was crying.
CHAPTER THREE
BARRY SAT in the corner booth of the luncheonette, hunched over a half-finished cup of coffee. Seated across from him was Mona Ross. She waited for his anger to ebb slowly away before she would speak to him.
Now is not the time, she thought.
She possessed a wisdom beyond her nineteen years. When she did speak to him, her voice would be soft and her words carefully chosen. She knew that to directly accuse him of deliberately provoking Mrs. Temple would only defeat her purpose. She must convince him to apologize in order to stem any disciplinary action. Without this course completed with a passing grade, he would not graduate, and their marriage plans would go down the drain.
Mona looked down into her light coffee. She was tired of having bits and pieces of her life slip away from her because of Barry. She was tired of using her young strength and will to pull and tug him along with her so that someday they could have a decent life together.
Half the time she was his mother; part of the time, a friend; seldom, the girl he was going to marry. She wanted him to be aware of her needs and her moods. She did not want to be taken casually. Sometimes she wondered if he really loved her or if, for that matter, she loved him. He was something like a habit-a bad one, at that.
She'd known Barry since grade school. He was wild then and, as he grew older and both his parents died, his wildness became the hallmark of his behavior. If he hadn't been naturally gifted with a fine intelligence and a natural artistic talent he would have wound up in prison before now.
Maybe I'll never be able to mold him into the kind of man I think he could be.
Her parents didn't think she would. Even her friends counseled her against making any plans to marry Barry. In so many words they told her he'd make a lousy husband.
"Okay," Barry grumbled; "say it!"
Mona let her brown eyes rest on him for a moment, then turned her attention back to her coffee. "There really isn't much to say," she said softly. She was determined to make him move toward her.
If he'd only admit he was wrong, that would be half the battle.
But Barry just wasn't the kind of a man to back step once he'd committed himself to a particular direction. He struck back at life itself for having cheated him of a mother and father. She wondered what he would have been like if his parents had lived.
She glanced at him. Probably the same. Angry at something else? Maybe even angry at them for getting in his way?
"If she hadn't been on my back all semester long, nothing would have happened," Barry said sullenly.
"I guess you're right," Mona answered. Then she added, almost as an afterthought, "You had a perfect right to draw her nude."
"She was pushing me," he said.
Mona shook her head. "You did what you had to do."
"I don't let anyone ride me!" Barry exclaimed.
"I agree with you," she replied, and lifted her coffee. She was getting to him. He'd expected her to jump all over him; when she didn't he had been caught off guard. She decided to take another swat at his conscience. "Of course," she said, "she did expect you to do the work assigned to the rest of the class."
Barry slammed his hand down on the table. The cups and dishes jumped up, then fell back with a clatter. "I thought it was too good to be true!" he said hotly. "You're not on my side; you're on hers!"
"Is this a game of cowboys and Indians!" Mona asked. She was looking straight at him. "The good guys against the bad? Tell me what makes you always think you're a good guy?"
Barry sucked in his breath. "She didn't have to see the sketch," he said. "She wanted to. Do you know why she wanted to?" The reason had suddenly come to him.
"Tell me."
"She knew what it would be," he laughed. He was immensely pleased with his perception. "She would have been terribly disappointed if it had been anything else."
"Really, Barry, sometimes-"
"Okay, don't believe me," he said. "But my hunch is that Professor Vivian Temple would like to strip naked, run through the woods, and be raped by the first male animal she sees."
Mona remained silent. She wasn't exactly sure how to answer. If he were right, then there would have certainly been a clash between him and Professor Temple, no matter what she or anyone else did to avoid it.
Mona had no illusions about Barry's sexuality. It was blatantly there, and he used it wherever and whenever he could. She couldn't help but think it was his way of rebuking her for not permitting him complete liberty of her body. When she was in his arms she always retained enough presence of mind to stop him from going the full route with her. A sixth sense warned her not to surrender to him in the final act of love if she ever hoped to marry him. It had become kind of a game. He would try his darndest to get her to agree, and she in turn would playfully put him off simply by saying no at the right moment.
She glanced at him and saw that he was waiting for her answer. "Why must you put sex into it?" she asked.
"Because it's there without me putting it there," he said with a superior laugh. "That's something you fail to understand." He waved his finger at her. "The trouble with you women who go through life trying to dodge it is that it sneaks out from behind you when you're not looking."
"I take it," Mona said, "that that comment was meant for me as well as Professor Temple?"
Barry shrugged. "If it applies," he said, "then I guess it was meant for you too!"
"You don't care what you say or to whom," Mona said, trying to suppress her anger, "as long as you say what's in that thick skull of yours."
"You asked, and I told you."
"Well, let me tell you something, Mister Holmes," Mona said. "I think you don't want to graduate. I think you don't want to marry. I think you think you're above all that nonsense. I think you're a fool."
Barry reached into his chino pants, took out a fifty-cent piece, and put it on the table. "This'Il pay for both our coffees and a tip. You stay here and think some more."
"Where are you going?"
He was already out of the booth. "Right now," he said, "away from what you think. I've had a bellyful of that. Maybe I'll go back to my place and paint, or maybe I'll prowl around and pick up a woman who's not afraid to act like one in bed."
She let him go without attempting to call him back.
If he thinks he's going to get back at me this way, he's in for a surprise.
An instant later she buried her face in the palms of her hands. She tried to tell herself he wasn't worth crying over, but she knew she was just thinking words, not emotions. She loved him almost to the point of hate. Slowly she straightened her shoulders.
I've got to get him to apologize to Professor Temple, no matter what I have to do.
Mona left the luncheonette. She knew she could bend him to her will if she would bow to his.
It would be worth the gamble.
CHAPTER FOUR
BARRY'S MOOD was black. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run. He wanted to scream his defiance at everything and everyone. He rushed toward the railroad cut that ran parallel to the college, forced his way through an opening in the hurricane fence, and slid halfway down the embankment before he stopped to catch his breath.
He resented Mona for making him look at the truth. - He knew damn well he hadn't needed to sketch Mrs. Temple. He'd done it to irk her, to show her he was one person in the class who...
Who what? What the hell was I trying to show her?
He picked up a rock and hurled it into the abandoned railroad bed. He was always trying to show somebody something-how tough he was or how much he could drink or if it came to girls, how good he was in bed.
Barry Holmes against the world!
The image of himself as another Cervantean hero, tilting at windmills, made him feel ridiculous. Yet he realized that since his parents had died he'd been fighting everyone, including himself. But in anger!
He looked down at the rusted rails and the black ballast on which the ties were laid. Spears of green grass had already forced their way to freedom. The light green and the shades of black caught his attention. As he studied the combination of color, shading, and forms that lay below him, visualizing how he might paint it, his anger slipped away. He stretched and for the first time that day saw that the sun was out. He decided to cut his next class and at least make an attempt to apologize to Mrs. Temple.
Maybe I still can get my degree.
He stood up, brushed off the back of his pants, and made his way back to the college. A few minutes later he stood in front of Mrs. Temple's office. Barry raised his hand to knock. He hesitated. He felt as though he were creeping back to ask her forgiveness.
She didn't have to make an issue out of the drawing.
He knew he couldn't stand there much longer. He'd either have to fish or cut bait. He reached down and grasped the knob...
Without knocking Barry opened the door to Mrs. Temple's office and stormed into the small room. His shoulders were bent low, like those of a football player ready to charge the line. Before she had a chance to say a word he announced, "I want to speak to you."
She lifted her hand and motioned him to a chair.
"I'll stand," he said. Now that he was facing her again his anger returned with double intensity.
"Suit yourself."
"Why have you been after me all semester?" he asked.
She gave a slight shrug. "I hadn't noticed that," she answered.
He ran his hand across his unshaven chin. "I need this damn course in order to graduate," he said.
"Is that why you're here?" She took her glasses off and looked up at him.
He noticed that her features were soft, more like a girl's than those of a mature woman. He dropped his eyes to her breasts.
She's a woman, all right!
"Are you finished with your inspection?" she asked.
"Purely professional," he said, regaining some of the composure that had been swept aside by the fury of his anger.
"I don't like your kind," she said. "I am sorry if it has taken the form of a personal antagonism."
"What about my kind?" he asked. His voice was hard and exact. "Just what do you know about my kind to like or dislike?"
"It is a philosophical matter," she replied. "You said you wanted to speak with me about what I assumed was your work in the course. If you came here to chat, please excuse me. I am very busy."
"I don't like your kind either," he said.
"What?"
"Don't be astonished." He smiled. "I just wanted to let you know we're in the same league, playing the same ball game."
"Will you excuse me?" she said.
He stepped closer. "I want to know why you've been riding me," he said. "Tell me that, and I'll leave."
"There is nothing to tell," she answered icily. "If you satisfactorily complete the assigned work and refrain from exercising your other talents in my class, I see no reason why you should not at least pass the course."
Barry rose on the balls of his feet. He should have been satisfied with what she'd told him, but he wasn't. It wasn't the answer to his question. "Why don't you level with me?" he said.
She seemed to hesitate; then she said, "All right; I'll tell you." She stood up and went to the window. Then she turned and faced him. "You're a lout," she told him. "It's just a quirk of fate that you're in college. How you ever managed to go this far I'll never know. But this I do know," she said, pointing a finger at him while her voice rose in pitch, "you're not much different from any street hoodlum. Just look at yourself! You haven't shaved for days. Your clothes look as if you slept in them. You're just part of the picture of insanity that has taken hold of young people. Your single answer to everything is a shrug of your shoulders, and the only drive you know is toward finding satisfaction for your appetites. These are the things I see when I look at you." Her breasts rose and fell with the violence of her denunciation. "Now you know," she hissed.
Barry moved slowly toward her. Her words were like flint striking the steel of his being. The sparks fell onto the tinder of his feelings. "What right have you to judge me?" he asked. He was angry now, and he would say what he felt should be said. "What the hell do you know about life? I'll tell you what. Nothing. A big, fat zero. All you know is what you read." He shook his head. "The trouble with you, Mrs. Vivian Temple, is that you're frightened."
"No."
"I say yes. I say you're scared silly of grabbing hold of life by the tail and swinging it for all it's worth. Listen, if you've got problems, don't take it out on me. I got a slew of my own problems."
"I have no problems," she managed to stammer.
"Tell it to the Marines," he said. "I know your kind. I meet them all the time in the Village. The intellectual woman who'd rather talk something to death than live it." He laughed. "They got their heads so stuffed with garbage they can't even enjoy a good roll in the sack."
"Oh!" she exclaimed.
"I hit it on the head," he said. "That's your problem, eh? The good Doctor Temple, head of this wonderful department, can't get to you. Can Doctor Bentley? And that's what you really want, a man to get to you. Why did you marry him? He's old enough to be your father!"
"What right-"
"The same right you have-maybe even more. I don't walk around hankering for something. I go out and get it. Yeah, I know why you married him," he said, shaking his head. "It was the proper thing to do. You wanted all the outside glow of his life, but he couldn't really give you the guts, the blood of what makes a man a man and a woman a woman. Well, you did it; not me. Don't tell me I'm this or that. You don't even know me. You leave your frustrations at home. Don't take them out on me."
Barry stood directly in front of her. The sudden silence in the room when he stopped speaking was louder and more deafening than the boom of his voice had been. Her eyes never lift his face. "I guess we both said what had to be said," he told her softly.
She still didn't move.
He noticed her Lips were slightly parted. She seemed to be straining toward him. He was trying to think of something else to say. Then suddenly he reached out.
She came to him willingly. His arms closed around her, and her body was soft against his. Her eyes were closed and her face upturned.
He felt as though he were living through some crazy erotic dream, but the taste of her warm, yielding lips was no fantasy. Instinctively his hand moved down the curve of her slender back and around to the front of her body until it came to rest on her breast.
She moved slightly away, her face flushed. He wasn't sure what her reaction was going to be until she said, "I tried to fight so hard against it."
He pressed her head to his chest. "Nothing has really happened," he said, trying to soothe her. "We just kind of got caught up in anger-"
"In passion," she whispered. "In passion." She tilted her face to his.
Barry knew she was right.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN VIVIAN faced her class on Friday morning, her eyes automatically went to the seat where Barry Holmes usually sat. To her disappointment the chair was empty. She wondered if he was too frightened to face her again, but she immediately dismissed the idea as absurd.
She looked at the girl Mona Ross. There were dark circles around the eyes. The girl looked as though she hadn't slept for several nights. Vivian guessed they must have argued over what happened in class.
He's just the kind of boy to hurt her.
The restless movements of the students brought Vivian back to the purpose at hand. Since her meeting with Barry she hadn't really been able to concentrate on anything. She was a soul in torment, trying desperately hard to find relief from the hellish fiends pursuing her.
Vivian rebuked herself for what had happened. She hated Barry for having guessed the truth about her. But even her excessive amount of self-punishment could not still her need. The more she denied it the stronger it became. Vivian never wanted anything as much as she wanted to be loved by Barry Holmes.
She finally found her voice and began to lecture. It wasn't a planned presentation. She was trying to explain the possible reasons why Shakespeare wrote the sonnets. She had just mentioned the dark lady when the door opened and Barry walked in and went directly to his seat. Mona turned to look at him, but he gave the girl no sign of recognition. Vivian continued with her lecture.
Twice she caught Barry's eyes on her. She was glad she'd worn a drab, square-cut suit. She felt some security from those probing eyes of his behind the gray fullness of the suit. The class was fifty minutes long. It seemed like fifty hours.
As the words gushed out of her, she wasn't sure she was making sense.
Since she'd been in Barry's arms and felt his lips on hers, whatever thinking she'd done had been devoted to planning some way of being alone with him. To whatever scheme she'd think through she also developed logical reasons why it wouldn't work. She'd already admitted to herself she wanted him as a lover and not as an instrument to wreck her marriage.
Finally, the bell rang and the class was over. She glanced at Barry. "Mister Holmes," she found herself saying, "will you please stay a few moments."
Barry remained seated.
The rest of the class shuffled out. Mona lagged behind. When she reached the door she turned, glanced at Mrs. Temple, then said to Barry, "I'll wait for you at the library steps."
Barry nodded.
"Is Mona your fiancee?" Vivian asked. He shrugged his shoulders but said nothing. Vivian went to the window and looked toward the library steps. Mona was just mounting the steps. "How long have you known her?" she asked, facing him again.
He smiled. "Since I was a kid. We went through grade school, junior high, and high school together," he said.
"And now college," Vivian said. She fought back the desire to add, "How terribly touching." The suppressed sarcasm turned to gall.
"Mona knew my folks before they died," he said.
"I didn't know about-"
"Forget it," he answered harshly. "I don't want pity."
"With whom do you live?"
He smiled again. "With whomever I can," he replied.
She felt as though he'd slapped her. "What I mean is, do you live with a relative?" she said, trying not to give way to the wild desire to be taken into his arms again.
"No one. I have my own pad."
He seemed to want to say more, but then he changed his mind and remained stolidly silent.
She pursed her lips. "Are you planning to marry Mona?" she asked.
"She does all the planning," he said. "I sometimes have difficulty making it from hour to hour. How the hell could I plan for a lifetime?"
She walked away from the window and stood over him. She desperately wanted to reach out and touch his jet-black hair. In the sunlight it glistened like bright hard coal. "How are we going to-"
"Sleep together?" he asked, cutting her short. He'd tilted his face up toward hers.
Damn him! Oh damn him! What does he expect me to say? He wants me to suggest his place. Go there some afternoon between classes and, like some cheap tramp, let him take me.
She wondered if that was the way he did it with Mona. His eyes were still on her, and they demanded an answer. "You put it crudely," she said tightly.
"I call a spade a spade, even it it's sex."
She shook her head and took a deep breath before she said, "I will not go to your apartment, if that's what you had in mind."
He stood up. "I haven't asked you," he said. "When you think of something, you'll let me know." He gathered his books together. "See you Monday. Have a nice weekend."
Vivian didn't answer. When he was out of the room she went to the window. A few minutes later she saw him join Mona. Together the two of them went along the path that led to the college gate.
CHAPTER SIX
SUNDAY HAD come again and had almost passed. Friday and all of Saturday had been shattered to bits by Vivian's frustrating encounter with Barry. She was positive he wanted to make her crawl. She promised herself she never would, and to prove her strength, she made life absolutely miserable for Steven.
She lay in bed listening to the staccato sounds of Steven's typewriter. She had been a perfect bitch since Friday afternoon, and Steven had taken it like an indulgent father putting up with the spoiled antics of a daughter or a child bride.
When he asked if anything were bothering her she hastily answered, "I'm just tired. Just tired."
He sympathetically said something about driving herself too much. He assured her the summer vacation would be here before she realized it. Then they'd spend a few weeks in their summer cottage out on Fire Island, an after that they'd be off for Greece.
She wished Steven had grabbed her by the shoulders and shaken her until she stopped acting as though he were the cause of all her difficulties. The idea of such an action, she knew, would never occur to Steven.
The sound of the typing stopped. She stiffened with the absolute knowledge of what would happen next. This one time she hoped she'd be wrong, but the moment the door to the bedroom opened she knew she was right.
"Viv?" he called.
She tried to feign sleep.
He padded into the room and went close to the bed. He called to her again.
She stirred and opened her eyes.
He was looking down at her with a smile on his face. "I hope the sound of the typewriter didn't wake you," he said.
At times like this Vivian found it hard to tell whether he was being truly solicitous about her comfort or sarcastically condescending.
After all, he has feelings too. No one enjoys being treated like a dog, not even Steven.
"No," she finally answered; "I just woke up."
Steven patted her partially naked legs. She knew that meant she should move them and make room for him to sit next to her.
His actions were predictable. Sunday he reserved for making love-though once in a while he'd want her during the week.
He patted her legs again. She moved and he came down next to her.
Steven Temple was a good-looking man of fifty-five. Although his hair was snow-white, his lean, well-kept body gave him a virile look that belied the weight of his years. When she married him the twenty years separating them had seemed but a moment. They shared the same interests, from their mutual professional capacities to their love of classical music, though his taste in this area was more baroque than hers. She preferred the more romantic, the more passionate.
He leaned closer to her. He'd already showered and shaved. He smelled of lime aftershave lotion and cologne. She closed her eyes and felt his lips brush against hers. She tried not to stiffen. His tongue worked her lips open and tried to engage hers in an all-embracing soul kiss.
"Move over," he said gently.
He settled down close to her. His hand was already in the V cut of her dressing gown, working over her breasts. Her nipples became erect from the steady teasing of his fingers.
Her stiffness began to dissolve in the slow, steady heat driving up from deep in her.
This time when he kissed her she allowed her lips to part easily and engaged his tongue with startling eagerness.
"Easy," he laughed, obviously delighted by her response.
The simple word was taken as a rebuke. The glow in her began to die.
If he want me at all he had better move fast.
She felt as though she were outside her own body and able to comment on its responses.
Steven must have sensed something was working against him. He quickly slipped her breasts free from the gown and with remarkable swiftness played his lips and tongue against each naked peak until they were gorgeous pink buds blossoming out of the richer red of the areoles.
Small sounds of satisfaction gurgled deep in her throat. The fire had been rekindled. She wanted to be taken at that instant, but she knew Steven would play upon her body as though he were going through a finger exercise at a piano.
His hand pushed her sheer nightgown above her waist; then he began to knead her warm, yielding flesh. He found his way to the valley of her thighs. Gently he opened them until he had full reign of her soft, moist womanhood.
She arched toward him, hoping to quicken his response and thereby satisfy the growing void in her. But Steven was not the kind of man to be rushed at anything, even his lovemaking. He had to take his time, execute every move over the erogenous areas of her naked body until she was almost out of her mind with raw passion, until he was so steeped in her body, in her perfume, that when he finally did claim her she never did reach the promised heights of sexual delight. Yet she was never completely disappointed. He had patiently taught her enough about her own body for her to derive a great deal of pleasure from their lovemaking. But ecstasy? It was always out of reach.
He moved his hands so expertly over her naked body that the glow was now a fire.
She reached for his body. When her fingers closed around him he was startled. It was something she seldom did. She was determined to make him move faster. Skilfully she used her fingers on him until he too sighed with delight. She moved her hands faster.
"Please," he said. "I want...." He was unable to complete his sentence. With one swift move he swept her under his plunging body and moved wildly as she braced her body hard against his.
"You tricked me," he said breathlessly.
She did not answer. She could feel the tenseness build across the lower part of her stomach. She closed her eyes. Barry's unshaven face floated in front of her sealed eyelids. The coal-black eyes laughed at her.
She felt Steven's hands squeezing at her breasts. The pleasure and pain commingled until the pleasure dominated. He sought her lips and kissed her hotly and wildly.
Her body seemed to be one mass of raw nerves over which brushed a feather. A feather and a great heat...
She tried to make that high peak of passion. She tried to push her body into Steven's with such force that the drive alone would carry her there. She couldn't make it.
Steven already lay breathless on her naked breasts. He could hardly move. She made one last effort. The tenseness tore away from her like an over-stretched rubber band suddenly giving way. It was relief, even satisfaction. It left her exhausted but not contended. Intuitively she knew that at the hands of Barry Holmes she would know absolute ecstasy, and that was what she wanted. She looked down at the top of Steven's head.
I have twice been unfaithful. Once with my body and now with my thoughts.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"HORNSBEE?"
"That's rather a ridiculous question, isn't it?"
Barry rubbed his unshaven chin. Bleary-eyed he looked at his legal guardian. He had had too much to drink the night before and managed to stumble back to his pad with some chick from out of town who was just dying to be taken to bed by a big-time city boy, especially if she found him in the Village and he was the artist type.
"Are we going to spend the rest of the afternoon this way?" Hornsbee asked. "You on one side of the door and me in the hall?"
Barry jumped aside and opened the door. "It's just that...." He looked toward the bedroom. The door was open, and the broad he'd brought home was still in bed flat on her back. Part of the light blanket covered her. Her bare legs could leave no doubt that her naked thighs were already spread wide and waiting.
"C'mon, lover," she giggled. "You promised to put out the fire."
"A friend?" Hornsbee asked. He made no attempt to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.
All right, you old biddy, I'll play this lovely Sunday game your way.
"A pick-up," Barry answered. "She's young, not bad to look at, and happy as a lark when she gets laid. Want to have a go at her?"
Hornsbee turned twelve shades paler than his usual pallid self. "Get rid of her," he said tightly. "Do you need any money to pay her?"
Barry laughed. "For love, daddy-o, she lays for love."
"What's all the noise about?" The young woman in bed sat up. She forgot to take the blanket with her, and her naked breasts thrust proudly forward. "Hey, who's that?" she cried. She grabbed the edge of the blanket and demurely covered her bare breasts. "Who's he?"
"Time to go, baby. Better get your clothes on and head back to wherever you came from," Barry said. He left Hornsbee standing by the door and sauntered into the bedroom.
"I thought we'd...." He cocked his head toward the open bedroom door. "That old man there comes here to...." Her eyes opened wide. "You let him share-"
"I'm very big-hearted to old men, stray cats, and dogs. Sometimes even goldfish."
"You couldn't! You wouldn't!"
"A buck is a buck anyway you make it when you're a struggling artist."
"Oh! Oh!" The girl began to shriek. With no pretension of modesty she tossed the blanket from her naked body, grabbed her clothes, and ran into the bathroom.
Barry walked back into the kitchen. "She'll be gone as soon as she's dressed," he said.
"Did you have to do it quite that way?" Hornsbee asked.
"I figured I owed her something." Barry smirked. "Your tender touch at the doorbell busted up a great love scene." He shrugged. "Maybe she didn't get what she really wanted, but at least she'll have something to tell the girls when she gets back home."
Hornsbee sighed wearily.
"Might as well make yourself comfortable," Barry said. He pointed to an empty chair. "I don't think she'll spend much time in the head."
Hornsbee took off his coat and hat. Carefully he sat down. He was a slender man without the height that might have made him look dignified. His head was pear-shaped and balding. His gray eyes were set deep into the bone of his skull.
"Why did you come here?" Barry asked. It was the first time Hornsbee had ever come to his apartment.
"You are my responsibility," the man said coldly. "I tried to phone, but all I got was a busy signal."
"Took the phone off the hook," Barry explained. He smirked again. "I didn't want to be disturbed."
The door to the bathroom opened, and the girl came out. Barry could hardly recognize her with her clothes on. For a few moments she stood in front of the two men. Hornsbee looked down at the floor. "He's the shy type," Barry explained. He directed his next comment to Hornsbee. "She's got the cutest little round rump a woman could have."
The girl glared at him and marched off toward the door.
Barry immediately followed her.
"How do I get back to the city?" she asked.
"Hop a cab," he said. "The driver will take you anywhere you want to go." He opened the door. "You're good, baby," he said, and pinched her bottom as she walked out of the door.
"I surely didn't expect this," Hornsbee said when Barry had rejoined him.
"You didn't think I ran a Sunday school up here, did you?"
Hornsbee didn't answer.
"The one thing I don't want," Barry told him, "is a lecture on my conduct. If, as the Good Book says, 'The wages of sin are death,' then that's the way I want to die-in the saddle."
"The saddle?" Hornsbee questioned.
"You know," Barry said. "With some broad."
"Is that all you ever think about?"
"No. Sometimes I think about how nice it would be if I didn't have to see your bellicose face every Sunday. Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. Not for me. I have to work not to throw up every time I see you."
"It is no more pleasant for me than for you," Hornsbee said. His face suffused with red. "I do it because I have an obligation to your father and mother. I don't enjoy being with you."
"Your fee has nothing to do with it, I suppose?"
Hornsbee snorted and rubbed his long hands on his legs. "I waived all claim to the fee when your father died," he said. "It went back into the estate."
Barry managed a weak smile. "I guess I pushed too hard," he said.
"You would have found out when you came of age," Hornsbee answered.
"How about some coffee?" Barry asked.
Hornsbee nodded.
"You knew my dad a very long time, didn't you?" Barry asked as he prepared the coffee.
"Grew up together."
"I only remember the years he was sick," Barry said. He turned from the stove to face Hornsbee. "That's a real kick in the head, isn't it? A man has a son. The man gets sick. The man dies. And the son only remembers the sickness, hardly even the man."
"He was a very remarkable man," Hornsbee said softly. "And you mother was a very remarkable woman too."
"Yeah!" Barry snapped. Hornsbee had told him that so many times that he was sick of hearing it. "What the hell is so remarkable about dying and leaving a kid? First him. Then my mother."
"Your question suggests that they had a choice," Hornsbee said.
"Skip it," Barry said harshly. He turned back to the stove.
"This time," Hornsbee said softly, "I don't think we'll skip it. I think we'll talk about it."
"I don't want to."
"Perhaps it's time you did," Hornsbee said. "You're not afraid to talk about death, are you?"
Barry wheeled around and glared at Hornsbee. "All right, talk," he growled.
"You talk. You're the one who seems to have so much to say."
Barry began to pace. Suddenly he stopped. He looked down at Hornsbee. "Okay," he said. "I'll talk, but you won't like what I'm going to say."
"Let me decide that for myself," the man said calmly.
"I remember my father," Barry said. His lips twitched as he spoke. "I remember the skin and bones of someone I called Father. I remember the stink of his room. I remember the dry, scaly feel of his hand when I touched it. And, oh, yes, I remember the nights of waiting in the hospital corridors. Part of me wanted him dead so bad that it seemed to be the only thing I wanted. Shall I go on?"
Hornsbee shook his head. "For a small boy," he said, "it must have been terrible."
"I don't want your pity," Barry said.
"What about your mother?"
"She willed herself to death," Barry said. "She wanted to die."
"She loved your father very much."
"What about her love for me, Mr. Hornsbee? Tell me, what about that?"
"They both loved you," he said quietly.
"Yeah!" Barry exclaimed. "They both loved me."
Barry poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Hornsbee. He asked if the man took cream and sugar. The answer was no. Barry took his black and without sugar. Without speaking they sipped at the coffee. Now and then Barry looked at Hornsbee over the rim of the cup. The man seemed to be deep in thought.
Hornsbee put his cup down. He stuck his hand into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a check. "For this coming week," he said.
Barry took the check without looking at it. "Thanks," he said.
"The thanks doesn't belong to me," Hornsbee said. "It belongs to your parents. By the way, have you ever thought about how all this money came to be or for that matter how much was involved?"
"I suppose so."
Hornsbee nodded as though he were pleased. "Besides being a sick man," Hornsbee asked, "do you know what your father was?"
Barry shrugged. "An engineer."
"Yes, but he was much more. He was an inventor. You look surprised. All the year he spent in bed, he never let his mind go to rot. He made a fortune on his inventions, and I might add that each year that fortune grows because of the royalties the estate receives."
"I didn't know that," Barry said.
"As for your mother," Hornsbee continued, "I knew her for many, many years. I was even in love with her, and after your father died I asked her to marry me. Not for the same reason you had your friend here last night and this morning but because we both needed companionship. We had both lost something very important to us when your father had died. She refused me because her love for your father was such that she couldn't dream of ever sharing her life with another man, and she respected me so much she couldn't dream of ever fooling me." He stood up and reached for his coat and hat. "I think I'll go now."
Barry walked to the door with him. "Next time you come," he said softly, "I'd like to show you some of my paintings. Maybe you'd like one well enough to hang in your office."
"I'd like that," Hornsbee said. He put out his hand.
For the first time in years Barry enjoyed shaking his hand. "See you next week?"
"Without a doubt," Hornsbee answered.
Barry watched him walk down the steps until he turned on the landing below and was out of sight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"You LOOK good today," Joe said.
Barry looked across the counter. "Feel like a million."
"On Monday morning?" Joe asked.
"Joe," Barry said, "I'm a new man."
Joe leaned on the marble top. He was a heavyset man with sad brown eyes and a receding hairline. His forearms were covered with tangled black hair. His left forearm was tattooed with letters and numbers. By this sign he was readily recognized as a fraternity brother of those who'd managed to survive the Nazi death camps. "Nobody is ever a new man," Joe said dourly. "Look at me. Every time I drop a bundle at the track or with a bookie I swear on my mother and father's blessed soul that I'll never play the ponies or do business with the bookie." He looked at Barry. "But I do," he said, and began to mop the counter vigorously.
"Maybe you're that way," Barry answered, "but not me."
Joe wagged his finger at his customer. "You got into some broad who said no before and over the weekend changed her mind? How many times do I have to tell you," he said, "a lay is a lay. It's either good or bad, but it never stops the world from going around. It doesn't make a new man. It doesn't even make a man."
"You're right, Joe," Barry said good-naturedly. He slapped his customary fifty cents on the counter and left the luncheonette.
The sun was bright and warm. He felt good just being alive. He walked along Flatbush Avenue and hummed to himself. He thought about Hornsbee and wondered if the man would let him paint his portrait.
Maybe we could even become friends.
Barry ambled through the open college gates. The warmth and brightness of the day argued against his spending it pent up in classrooms.
Straight up to class or else!
He smiled happily at his new-found strength to resist temptation. He took his seat near the window and opened his textbook. It was the first time that semester he'd remembered to bring the book to class.
"Barry?"
He looked up. It was Mona. "Hi!" he exclaimed brightly.
She was just about to say something when Mrs. Temple walked in. Quickly Mona started to ask, "Is it all right-"
"I'll see you after class," Barry said.
She smiled and returned to her seat.
Barry gave his attention to Mrs. Temple. She was dressed differently. Instead of the boxlike suit she usually wore, she had on a simple green knit dress with a broad cowl collar. The dress made her look years younger. The fullness of her breasts, her narrow waist, and her wide hips were fully revealed. The green of the dress was a perfect match for her titian-colored hair.
She glanced his way before starting her lecture.
He nodded approvingly and winked broadly enough for her to see it.
There was a lilt in her voice as she began to speak.
Oddly enough Barry had not thought too much about Vivian Temple through the weekend, but when he had he was filled with the enormous feeling of self-satisfaction.
He looked up from the page of the book where he'd been following Vivian's explanation of what the poet had written. She was seated near the corner of the ordinary table in front of the room. The hem of her dress was pulled tight against the outside of her thigh.
He knew she saw him looking at her. She made no effort to move. Her color heightened, and she continued to lecture.
Barry tried to focus his attention on the page again, but the lure of Vivian's sculptured thigh was too much for him to blot out of his thoughts, and he gave up. His eyes returned to Vivian, and he let them rove over the swell contours of her luscious body.
His vivid imagination began to function. He saw her in various states of nudity and in a variety of poses in which she was completely naked. His blood began to race. He even imagined her naked body under his own.
By the time the bell rang to indicate the end of the first hour his manhood had swelled to embarrassing proportions. He remained seated, his eyes still on Vivian.
As he watched her move, he was sure what she was doing was for his benefit. She uncrossed her legs. Her thighs opened, allowing him a full view of their stunning white nakedness and the panty-covered cleft where they merged.
He looked back at Mona, who was waiting for him. "I'll be with you in a few minutes," he called out. She nodded and left the room.
Vivian Temple was in front of him. The heightened color was still in her cheeks. She smiled.
He suddenly realized she'd intuitively divined his condition. He looked down at his own body, then up at her.
"I knew what was happening to you," she said, "by the expression on your face." She was pleased she'd evoked such a powerful response.
"Mona is outside waiting for me," he said.
"Oh!"
He felt the tips of her fingers glide across the side of his face. "I have my thoughts too," she whispered. Her eyes fell to his lap. "Only mind are easier to hide." She rubbed her hand over her stomach. "Somewhere deep inside I-" She bent close to him. "I long to have you fulfill me," she whispered. Her face became more flushed. She backed away, went back to the desk, picked up her book, and walked toward the door.
Barry turned to watch her. Underneath the clinging fabric of her dress he saw the provocative swing of her buttocks. Finally he was alone. He gave a deep drawn-out sigh and was about to stand.
"Ready to go?" Mona asked. She'd popped her head into the doorway as soon as Mrs. Temple had left.
"Sure!" He stood up, glanced down at himself, and, satisfied that his own maleness wouldn't betray him, walked to the door.
"Is anything wrong?" Mona asked as they started down the corridor.
Barry had neglected to tell Mona that he had settled his differences with Mrs. Temple. He had avoided mentioning what had happened for two reasons. The first and most obvious was that Mona would ply him with questions about what Mrs. Temple had said and what he had said. He knew he couldn't fabricate a dialogue that would satisfy her probing curiosity. The second reason had to do with his relationship to Mona. After the way she'd made him look like a fool in his own eyes he wasn't sure he wanted to remain as close to her as he had been in the past. He couldn't help but resent her maturity. He was perplexed and annoyed by her ability to see his attitudes and actions for what they were. Because he was feeling out of joint about her he had not bothered to phone her all weekend.
Mona held her books in schoolgirl fashion against her jutting young breasts. She turned her head toward him. "It seems as though everything is smooth between the two of you," she said.
"I went to see her and we had a nice long talk," Barry told her.
They started down the steps. He wondered if she would question him further.
"As long as you managed to satisfy her," Mona said, "that's all that matters."
Her choice of words brought him up sharply. "What had it to do with satisfying anyone?" he flared.
They stepped out in the sunlight. "You know what I mean," Mona said. "No I don't. Tell me."
"All I meant was that each of you managed to agree not to disagree," she explained.
"Oh!" Though he accepted her explanation he wasn't positive that what she'd told him was actually what she'd meant. He didn't trust her intuition.
They walked toward the library. From time to time Barry glanced at her. He'd known her so many years that he couldn't remember not knowing her. When his parents were alive they had owned a house on the same street where she lived.
He'd watched her grow from a gangling kid with braces on her front teeth to a young woman whom many of his friends thought beautiful.
She was small-boned and just a bit above being short. Her breasts were crescents. She had a tantalizingly narrow waist and provocative hips. Her buttocks swelled out just enough to make her body exciting. Mona's face matched the rest of her. With its small features and high cheekbones she looked almost like a little girl instead of a woman in the spring of her youth.
In all the years Barry had known her she'd never seemed to be a sexually desirable object. But in recent months whenever they came together to embrace or pet Barry had tried to convince her to sleep with him. Her answer was always the same-a resolute no. Even though she would he naked with him for hours at a time, she had never permitted him the final use of her body. He knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her, perhaps even more. She made no secret of the love she felt for him.
"Let's sit down," Mona suggested. "The weather is too beautiful to waste."
They found an empty bench by the lily pond, not far from the library.
Barry slipped his arm around her shoulder, and she snuggled close to him and took a deep breath.
"Paints and turp, tobacco and cologne," she laughed without looking up. She ran her hand across his chest.
He nuzzled her hair. Its scent was clean and fresh. He thought about suggesting that she go out with other fellows.
If only I knew whether I love her or not.
"How would you like to have Sunday dinner at my house?" she asked.
"With or without your folks there?"
"They'll be there, silly. They really would love to have you," she told him.
"I bet."
She moved away from him. "Now what's that supposed to mean?" she asked.
"We both know what they really think of me," he said.
"Prove them wrong."
"How?" he asked peevishly. "By having dinner with them?"
"It's a start."
"Yeah, some start."
"Barry, make a beginning,' she pleaded. "Maybe they'll see you the way I do."
"Okay," he said; "I'll come. What time?"
"Three?"
"Better make it fourish. Hornsbee will be at my place in the afternoon."
"Isn't that the man you don't like" she asked.
"He's not bad," Barry hedged. "It just takes a while to get to know him."
Mona snuggled next to him again. "Coming from you that's quite an admission. He must be a very nice man, after all."
"I really think he is," Barry laughed, and told her what happened with Hornsbee on Sunday. He made no mention of the woman he'd slept with or how he managed to get rid of her. "And what's more," Barry said, "I'm going to ask him if he'd let me paint his portrait."
"I think he'd like that," Mona said.
Barry hoped he would like it.
CHAPTER NINE
VIVIAN WAS amazed at how quickly Friday came. She had a peculiar feeling she was rushing toward something wonderful. She found herself daydreaming, imagining how she might feel in the love embrace of Barry Holmes. Her body had become a delicately tuned violin bowed by desire.
She'd finally discovered she was a woman, a passionate one at that. Her change had been so pronounced that she was very much aware of the attention men gave her wherever she went. To her surprise she no longer resented the frank appraisal of her body by a strange man who happened to see her in the subway or on the street.
Even Steven reacted to the bloom of her sexuality. His need for her was stimulated, and on two successive nights he made love to her with surprising ardor.
She was frightened in some ways by her keen perception of just how sexy she really was. On Thursday night she purposefully involved herself in a mass of work to avoid having Steven use her again. When she was sure he had fallen asleep she closed her books and prepared to shower. She changed her mind and instead decided on a bath.
The water in the tub surrounded her naked body with a delicious warmth. She stretched out. Her bare breasts were scarcely hidden by the blanket of soap bubbles. She looked down at them as they floated, their tops just above the water. She watched her nipples grow taut. Her hands moved across them, and she enjoyed the tingling sensation she induced.
She lay far back, resting her head on the slant of the tub. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her hands moved away from her breasts and down the length of her body. She thought of Barry, of Eric, of... Her fingers closed over her womanhood, and she felt her thighs open. The warm water lapped against her while her hand was already ministering to the needs. She wanted to stop but couldn't. She teased herself even more. Her back arched, and her body broke the surface of the water. The tension built, and her movements increased. Her breath caught in her throat. Her naked thighs clamped tightly around her wrist. She felt her body leap up. Her eyes felt as though they'd explode out of their sockets. The world spun. She was caught in a vortex of spasms that shook her naked body from head to foot. Finally she sucked in a large draught of air and slowly exhaled. She felt delightfully exhausted.
* * *
Vivian left her first-hour class with a feeling of complete frustration. Barry seemed indifferent to her glances and her body even though she'd chosen the clothes she wore to please him. She desperately wanted to ask him to remain after class but did not dare. She'd guessed he was a moody individual, but she'd never imagined him to be so oblivious to everything around him. Yet he did not look as though he was troubled.
Maybe this thing I feel for him is completely insane.
As she walked along the corridor to her office, anger built inside her. Her wrath was directed at Barry. She was sure he intentionally took no notice of her.
It's his way of bringing me to heel.
She remembered that Barry had asked her to come to his apartment. She'd refused. Her pace quickened to match her anger.
"May I join you?" a man asked.
She stopped. It was Eric Bentley. She felt his ice-blue eyes sweep down the length of her body.
"You look as though you're out for someone's scalp," he said with a laugh.
Vivian managed a smile. "I just got caught up with my own thinking," she said. "I'm on my way to my office." She began to walk again, knowing that Eric would be at her side. Except for a moment or two the previous night when she'd aroused herself with her own hands she had not thought about Eric at all.
Maybe that was a mistake too.
"How did Steven enjoy his trip?" he asked.
"He didn't really say," she replied.
When they reached her office she handed the key to him.
"The last time I opened the door for you," he said, "was-"
"Need we talk about it?"
The lock snapped open, and Eric pushed the door wide.
"Thank you," Vivian said.
"I haven't been able to get you out of my mind," Eric told her as he followed her into the office and closed the door behind him. "Loving you was truly a wonderful experience."
Vivian had entered the room and had gone straight to her desk. Her back was toward Eric, and her hands were still on the books, though they rested on the top of the desk. She knew he was directly behind her.
"I've seen you many times in the past days," he said. "I've noticed the way you've dressed, the way you've walked. There has been a change. I like the change very much."
She smiled. She was pleased to know that her choice of clothing had not been entirely wasted.
"I would have tried to see you sooner...." Eric said haltingly.
She realized he took her silence as a rebuke.
"One night doesn't make a love affair," he whispered. "I wasn't sure-"
"It was more than one night," she answered. "Why did you come now?"
"Because I want you again," Eric answered.
She felt his hands close around her upper arms.
Not need. He still wants.
She knew at that moment she'd agree to satisfy his want.
Only because I too want.
His hold on her became more demanding. She leaned back into him, the generous swell of her buttocks pressing against him. She heard him sigh and felt his lips seek the side of her face.
Eric's hands let go of her arms and moved to cover her breasts.
The instant he touched her, her nipples budded forth. He was still standing in back of her. Even through her clothing she could feel his manhood swelling, and she bent slightly forward and ground against him.
His hands dropped from her breasts to her waist, and in one abrupt movement he swung her around and pulled her to him.
"Lock the door from the inside," she told him.
She moved to the window shade and pulled it down. The room was bathed in a gray light. "This is neither the time nor the place," she said.
Eric nodded but came toward her. She left the window and went to meet him. The moment they came together her lips were ready for his. She opened her mouth, and instantly he filled it with his tongue.
They moved apart just long enough for Eric to slip his hands inside her jacket.
"Not that way," she said. Quickly she opened the three buttons that held the jacket closed. She drew the neckerchief from around her neck and threw it on the desk.
Her breasts were held high by a black lace bra. Eric pushed both his hands against them. She in turn put her hands over his, making him clutch her even harder.
He slipped one breast free and put his lips to its naked tip.
Vivian let her head loll back, closed her eyes, and enjoyed the wonderful darts of pleasure Eric's lips and teeth produced along the fully erected peak.
Eric lifted his head from her naked breast and looked at her. In his ice-blue eyes there was a question. His lips slowly formed the word. "Where?"
She knew exactly what he meant. She tried to think. "If we're caught?" she questioned.
"We won't be."
He began edging her back toward the desk. She glanced behind her. The desk was too small to hold her body. She looked at him. She had to ask, "The desk?"
He nodded.
"I can't," she whimpered. "Not naked on the top like-" He put his finger over her lips. When she was silent he reached around for her zipper and pulled it down. She wasn't sure what he was going to do, but she helped him slip the skirt off. She was about to remove the half-slip she wore.
"No; your panties," he said.
She lifted her slip and slid her panties off. Eric reached under her open jacket and undid her bra. Her breasts were naked. He moved his face between them and worked over each peak until they felt as though thy were filled with fire.
Gently he lifted her onto the desk. She sat with her feet just off the floor. For a brief instant she remembered sitting just that way when she was a little girl. The moment Eric's hand pushed up her slip and moved over her naked thigh she knew what would happen to her and how. This sudden insight made her bold. She dropped her hand to the front of his trousers and unzipped them. Her hand went deep into his clothing until he quivered.
"Vivian," he whispered. He kissed the side of her neck and cradled her naked breasts in his hands.
Eric moved closer to her. She spread her naked thighs wider, and his hand caressed her.
She moved against him as he probed her with his fingers. She became feverish with desire and wiggled closer to him.
After a moment she closed her eyes and guided him to her.
They moved in a weird pattern, as though they were performing a ritualistic dance. Each movement Eric made had its effect. She held him fast. Movement followed movement. He took time to play his lips over her naked breasts. Then suddenly she threw her hands back and braced herself on the desk top, and with the palms of her hands she flung her body into his. She could see or hear nothing. For the moment the entire world existed within her body. She contracted in ecstasy at the very instant Eric reached his peak.
Somewhat dazed, Vivian managed to dress.
Eric asked her to meet him the following Thursday, when he would have no classes. At first she declined but without much conviction. Before they left her office Vivian had agreed to pretend to be ill and wait for him the following Thursday.
CHAPTER TEN
BARRY WAITED impatiently for Hornsbee to show. He'd spent all of Saturday cleaning his small apartment. To avoid a repetition of what had happened the previous Sunday with the woman he'd picked up he dodged temptation and spent Saturday night reading and watching television.
When the doorbell rang at one minute after two, Barry ran to the door and flung it open.
It was Hornsbee.
"Hi!" Barry exclaimed. He thrust his hand toward the man. "I kinda cleaned up the place," he said as he followed the man into the apartment.
"No guests?" Hornsbee asked. A mischievous smile played across his thin lips.
Barry flung open his arms. "I'm clean," he laughed. "Go see for yourself. There's not one woman hiding anywhere."
Hornsbee took off his topcoat and hat, placed them on a chair, and stepped back. He took a good look at Barry. "You didn't shave especially for this occasion?" he asked.
Barry turned beet red. "I have a dinner date," he answered. "I mean," he hastened to explain, "a girl I know asked me to dinner at her home. She lives on the same street where Mom and Dad had the house."
"Oh!"
"Her folks knew them," Barry explained. Hornsbee nodded. "Is the girl anything special to you?"
"I don't know," Barry answered. "Are you something special to her?" All at once he felt guilty. He nodded yes but said nothing.
Hornsbee ran his hand across the bottom of his chin. "Just don't do something foolish," he said. "Marriage is a serious business."
"Marriage" Barry laughed.
Hornsbee stood up. He began to pace back and forth in short slow steps. From time to time he glanced at Barry. He seemed to be trying to decide something. He stopped. "Maybe," Hornsbee said, "I will be making a mistake by telling you something that when you come of age you'll know, but I think the circumstances... Barry, have you any idea of the amount of money that'll be yours when you reach the age of twenty-one?"
"No," Barry answered softly. "I always hoped there would be enough to see me...." he hesitated. He wasn't sure Hornsbee would understand or approve of what he wanted to do after college. He took a deep breath. "Enough to see me through two years of painting." He braced himself for a violent reaction from Hornsbee. None came!
"There'll be a great deal more than that. Don't hold me to the exact amount, but it is very close to half a million dollars."
Barry felt as though a fist had hit him in the solar plexus.
"That kind of stunned you, eh?" Hornsbee asked. "I had no idea."
"Well, now you do. But keep it to yourself. Don't make the mistake of buying people's respect and trust. Let them take you for what you are, not what your bankbook reads."
Barry nodded. He knew Hornsbee's remarks specifically applied to his relationship to the girl he might marry.
"Now," Hornsbee said, "let me see if I'll honor you by taking one of your paintings."
Barry had arranged ten canvases along the wall of the bedroom.
Hornsbee moved from one to the other without making a single comment. He made the same circuit three times. "I'll take that one there," he said, pointing a long, slender hand at the painting of a weather-beaten fisherman.
Barry was surprised by the choice. It was a dark work, filled with blacks and grays and deep browns. Even the man's face had the look of stained leather. "It's yours," Barry said.
Hornsbee picked it up and held it at arm's length. He turned to Barry. "The others are very good, but this says something to me," he explained. "I think your parents would have been very proud of you if they had lived to see this."
Barry felt his throat tighten. He cleared it several times before he was finally able to ask Hornsbee if he would like a cup of coffee.
"Very much," Hornsbee answered.
As they sat and drank coffee Barry discovered that Hornsbee was a man of wide interests, with a solid background in the classics. Almost before Barry realized, the afternoon had passed. Hornsbee offered to drive him to Mona's home, and he accepted.
"Not a word about what I told you," Hornsbee cautioned as they shook hands. "Now have yourself a good home-cooked dinner."
Barry stood at the curb and watched Hornsbee drive away. When he turned toward the Ross house he saw Mona at the window. She waved to him, and he gestured back to her, but he did not move.
He looked toward the corner of the street where he'd lived before his parents had died. The house he'd lived in then was very much like the one he was about to enter. There were two stories to it. Downstairs was the kitchen, a large dining room, a living room, and a sun parlor. Upstairs were the bedrooms. Next door to them lived an army officer who had a huge black-and-brown dog. Across the street was a lot overgrown with tall hedges and weeds where Barry had played. It had been his jungle, and in it he had stalked the beasts of prey that every boy dreams of capturing or killing.
A tremor passed down the length of his body. He felt very old and very sad. There was no way for him to hide from the past.
"Barry?"
He looked toward the small stone landing at the. side of the house. Mona was standing there. He walked toward her. "Just remembering," he said as he walked up the steps.
She took his hand. "Don't be sad," she said. Her brown eyes were wide with understanding. "Was that the illustrious Mr. Hornsbee?" she asked.
"We're good friends now," Barry said. "You know the painting I did of the fisherman?"
"Yes."
"He took it."
"Really?" Barry nodded.
"My folks are waiting," Mona said as she guided him through the open door. "What's for dinner?" Barry asked. "Rib roast."
He licked his lips. "It's been a thousand years since I had that," he laughed.
The dining room was immediately off the foyer. The huge table was already set. A large mirror on one wall reflected the table and everything on it.
"Mom's in the kitchen, and Dad is in the sun parlor," Mona said.
"Was that info by way of choice, who I see first?"
She poked him in his ribs and was about to lead him toward the kitchen, when her father called out, "Why don't you bring your guest in here?"
"Our fate has been decided," Barry quipped.
Mona tried not to laugh. She steered him into the sun parlor. "You remember Barry Holmes," she said to her father.
Mister Ross got to his feet. A half-smoked cigar was stuck between his lips. He was a small, portly man with full, cherubic face and brown eyes. He folded the business section of The New York Times under one arm and extended his other hand toward Barry. "You're the boy who used to live down the block," he said.
Barry shook his hand. "Yes. My folks owned the house just off the corner," he said.
Mr. Ross shifted the cigar in his mouth. "You and Mona go to the same college?"
Barry nodded.
"Didn't you want to go to an out-of-town school?"
"No."
Mona's father made a humming sound. "Who do you stay with?" he asked.
"I have my own apartment," Barry said.
Mister Ross looked at his daughter. "Mona tells me you're studying art," he said.
"Yes."
"Why, Mona, you didn't tell me Barry had arrived." Mona's mother had come out of the kitchen. "Hello." she said.
Barry shook her hand. "Hello, Mrs. Ross."
She gave him a bright smile. "You look just like your father," she said. "You've grown a bit since the last time I saw you."
"I guess so."
"I bet you're starved," Mrs. Ross said. "Everything is ready. We might as well get to it."
Mr. Ross took his place at the head of the table. Barry sat on his right. Mona was across from Barry. She helped her mother serve.
It was a huge dinner. Barry couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten so much and so well. After the pie and coffee Barry could hardly move. He complimented Mrs. Ross on her cooking. The woman laughed and graciously said, "It's nice to be told."
Mr. Ross sat back. His eyes were on Barry. "I'm going to be frank," he said.
"Please, Dad!" Mona exclaimed.
He looked at his wife. "I think that this is as good a time as any to clear the air," he said.
Mrs. Ross nodded her agreement.
"So you're studying art," Mr. Ross said as though he were talking to himself. "Just what do you intend to do with it?" he asked.
"He wants to paint," Mona said helplessly.
Mr. Ross glared at his daughter. "I asked him," he said. "Please let him answer." His eyes went back to Barry.
"Mona already told you," Barry answered. Mr. Ross's eyes reminded him of beetles. He could feel his anger rise. He tried very hard to hold it in check. He glanced at Mona. She looked miserable.
"In other words, you want to be a painter," Mr. Ross said.
"I am one," Barry replied in a whisper.
"Have you sold one thing?"
"No. What difference does that make?"
"To you probably none. But Mona happens to be my daughter."
"I think it is time for me to leave," Barry said. He shifted his chair away from the table.
"Running won't change matters," Mister Ross said.
Barry whipped around. "I'm not running," he said tightly. "I want to avoid-"
"Let's not avoid it, young man. So your plan after college is to paint?"
"That's the general idea," Barry snapped.
"What about Mona?" Mr. Ross asked. "I assume you two expect to be married. Just how do you intend to support a wife?"
Barry shrugged. He fought back the desire to tell him about his inheritance.
I won't buy him. He'll take me as I am.
"You do intend to marry her?" Mr. Ross asked. His face was very red. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
Again Barry shrugged. "I don't know," he said.
"Oh, Barry!" Mona cried in desperation.
"You mean to sit there and tell me that after all the time you've spent with each other you don't know whether you'll marry her? If your parents were alive, I'd have a few well chosen words to say to them."
Barry's eyes blurred with anger. "Well, they're not, Mr. Ross, but if they were, I think you've already said just about enough. What Mona and I decide has absolutely nothing to do with you."
Mr. Ross's hand slammed down on the table. "Are you or are you not going to marry her?"
"I don't know."
"You know what I think?" Mona's father said. "I think you're a bum, a tramp. He glared at his daughter. "And you're trying to make Mona one too."
Barry started to laugh. "So that's what's bugging you."
"Just what did you mean by that crack?"
Barry stood up and leaned close to Mona's father. "You're afraid she'll bring home a little gift from heaven-isn't that it?"
"Get out! Get out of my house!"
Barry stood his ground. "I'll put your dirty little mind at rest, Mr. Ross; I never laid your daughter. Though I tried."
Mr. Ross was on his feet. His open palm slammed against Barry's face. The blow jolted Barry's head and brought tears to his eyes. "Get out of this house!" Mr. Ross snarled.
Though Barry could hear Mona crying, he never once looked at her. He left the table and went straight to the door.
"Mona, if you follow him," Mr. Ross yelled, "don't ever expect to come back to this house."
Barry was at the door when Mona ran to him. "Stay," he told her. "Don't follow me." He rushed down the steps.
"Barry!" Mona called after him. "Barry, please wait for me!"
Without looking back he started to run.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BARRY WAS a full block ahead of Mona. She hoped he wouldn't turn the corner and vanish from her sight. What had just taken place between him and her father was a nightmare. She knew her father had acted like a bull in a china shop, but Barry had acted no better.
She felt that if he really loved her he would have behaved differently. He would not have said anything about... She bit her Up and tried to hold back the echo of his words.
"I never laid your daughter." For him to say that to her father was a terrible thing.
But that's what Pa was thinking.
Tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her cheeks at the realization of how little her father trusted her. She thought of all the times she and Barry had lain naked in each other's arm.
Never once did Barry force his will upon me, and there were times when I wished he had.
She wiped her eyes and again looked at the figure in front of her. Barry- was still there. He'd crossed the street but was no longer running. She quickened her pace.
I love him so very much!
Her grief suddenly erupted, and she began to sob. Her father had always been a quiet man, remote in some ways, but never violent. It seemed incredible that he'd struck Barry. For as long as she could remember he'd never raised his hand to her.
I had hoped they would take to each other. That Dad would have found something of a son and Barry gained a friend.
She was a few paces behind him. He was walking with a slow, determined stride. His body was slightly bent as though he'd slipped back to the primordial man. The closer she came to him the more intensely she could sense his raw, hot anger. She was almost afraid to join him. His anger might, like a savagely wielded cutlass, slash against anyone who stood before it.
I'm not afraid.
She took a deep breath and moved up beside him.
He said nothing to her-he did not even acknowledge her presence by glancing at her.
Mona tried to guess what his thoughts might be, but she could not. She hoped his anger would miraculously vanish. But from the hard, determined set of his jaw she knew the fires of hell were still flaming inside him.
By the time they reached Sheepshead Bay it was dark. Barry crossed the street and went directly to the water's edge. He leaned on the rail and looked down at the floats that bobbed up and down with the restless movement of the water. He said nothing for a long time. Finally, without looking at her, he spoke. "You should not have followed me," he said. His voice was very low, and he sounded as though he were exhausted. "It will only make your father angrier than he already is."
She put her hand lightly on his arm. "I didn't want you to go alone," she told him.
"I'm used to being alone."
"Even when I'm with you?" she asked.
He turned to her. "It's not going to work," he said.
Mona knew exactly what he meant but she was determined to prove him wrong. "What?" she asked.
"Us. You and me!" he flared.
"Because of what happened back at the house?"
"Don't be smart, Mona. You know what the score is. Your old man doesn't exactly have a picture of me as the ideal son-in-law."
Carefully Mona chose her words. "He would have asked the same questions to any other man," she said. "Perhaps he wasn't as tactful as he could have been, but he was really looking out for my future."
"He was a one-man kangaroo court," Barry said vehemently.
"Try to put yourself in his place and think how you would have acted."
"I was a guest in his house."
"He is my father," she said.
Barry wheeled around. "His main worry," Barry said harshly, "was whether or not I was laying you."
She recoiled from the obscenity of his language.
"Well, wasn't it?" Barry demanded.
"He just doesn't want me to get hurt," she sobbed.
"It doesn't really make a hell of a lot of difference what he wanted," Barry said. He turned back to the rail and in a much softer voice said, "I want out." I can give you nothing but trouble. You heard your father. I'm a bum, a tramp."
Mona began to understand that her father's words had hurt Barry even more than the slap he'd received. "Things are said in anger that have no meaning," she answered. Again she put her hand on his arm.
"You know that corny bit about two different worlds," Barry said. "Well, it's not so much corn after all. For a while there Hornsbee made me forget, but your father made me remember the hard way, with a slap across the face."
"He never before struck anyone."
"Congratulate him on his first victim."
"Barry!"
"I'll stay with my world, and if you know what's good for you find somebody from yours. I'd make a lousy husband."
"I'm willing to gamble."
"Well, I'm not. The woman I want... Ah, what the hell is the use?"
"Is this your way of telling me that you have someone else?"
Barry grabbed her shoulders. "I'm trying to tell you to leave me alone. I don't want you, and I have no one else. The whole marriage bit makes me sick."
Mona winced. "You're hurting me. Let me go," she whimpered.
He dropped his hands. "Go home. Leave me alone."
"You told me you loved me."
"So what? Anyway, I've told a lot of women I loved them."
"It was different. We made plans."
"You made plans!" he shouted. "I have all I can do to live from day to day."
"I mean nothing to you?" She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "The times we spent in each other's arms...." She faltered. "The times," she began again, "when your hands caressed my naked body." She was crawling and she knew it.
"You got what you wanted out of it."
"And you?"
"I got what I could get," Barry answered harshly. "I could have gotten a lot more from half a dozen other broads I know."
Mona was seized by the compelling need to strike back. She wanted to hurt Barry as much as he'd hurt her. She lifted her hand and swung it toward his face, but he was too fast. "Not twice in one afternoon," he said. He grabbed her hand as it rushed toward him. He twisted it down and flung it from him.
"Oh my God!" Mona wailed.
"Don't ever try that again," Barry hissed. He turned his back on her and started to walk away.
"Barry? Oh, Barry, wait!" she pleaded.
He stopped.
She ran up to him. "I'm so ashamed," she cried. "So terribly ashamed."
"Go home," he said.
"Barry, please!" she exclaimed. She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. He tried to disengage her, but she held fast. "Take me home with you," she pleaded. "I'll do anything you want."
"I don't want you to do anything for me."
"Barry, I know what you want." She tried to force her breasts against him. She closed her eyes. "Barry, take me home with you."
"Stop it!"
Her lips quivered. "I'll... lay for you," she sobbed. "I will-I promise."
He tore her arms from his neck. "You're acting like a slut in a grade-B movie," he told her. "Go home!"
He turned from her and started to walk away.
"Where are you going?"
"To find a woman who'll give me what I want without any talk about marriage!" he yelled back at her.
Mona stifled her sobs. She watched him walk away and made no attempt to call him back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CLUB ABSURD was a small gin mill near the end of Horatio Street in Greenwich Village. Two blocks away was the West Side Highway, and beyond that were the docks of the Hudson River. Most of the Absurd's customers were neighborhood people, and these were a mixture of dockworkers, artists, and writers who managed to eke out a poor living from what they produced.
Barry had no conscious though of where he was going once he left Mona. His main purpose was to get away from her. He hailed the first cab he saw and told the driver to take him to Horatio Street in the Village. He slumped back into the corner of the cab and tried to lose some of his anger. The ride was a blur.
He walked into the Club Absurd and went straight to the back, where there were several tables. Bent over one of them was a talk thin figure of Don Jeffrey, who was completely occupied with a chess game in which he was the sole participant.
Barry didn't know too much about Don except that he was in his mid-twenties, had exhibited his paintings several times without much success, and enjoyed balling it with any broad he could. Don never seemed to lack for women. The combination of the man's long face, Lincoln-like beard, and bedroom eyes gave him an air of mystery that women couldn't seem to resist.
For a long time Barry stood in front of the table without saying a word.
"If you're waiting to see what piece I intend to move," Don said, "you're very likely to get tired." He spoke in a slow, easy manner with a hint of a Southern drawl. His eyes never left the board.
"Why don't you give up?" Barry said. "You know you always lose."
"That's why I never give up. I also know that someday I'm going to die, but I don't kill myself. I go on living."
"Good for you!"
"Good for all of us. The whole human race deserves a medal for courage above and beyond the call of duty."
Barry plopped himself down in a chair and jostled the chess pieces.
"Careful, boy; you don't want to rock the boat."
"Yeah!" Barry stood up and reached across the table. He grabbed Don by the front of his shirt and lifted him out of the chair. "That's just what I want to do-rock the Goddamn boat."
"Okay, strong man, you made your point."
Barry let go of him.
"Too bad you can't paint as well as you can use your fists," Don said, smoothing out his shirt and jacket.
"Just don't ever tell me not to rock the boat," Barry growled.
Don pushed back on the rear legs of the chair. "You're in one of your better moods, I see. Let me try to guess whether it's manic or depressive. I'd say you were depressive. Of course, you understand that's just a preliminary diagnosis."
"If words were money you'd be a millionaire."
"Look, kid, we all have our problems," Don said.
"I just left Mona."
Don shrugged.
"It's over. Fini."
"So that's it," Don said. He tossed back his head and started to laugh. "The way you came roaring in here, I thought-"
"Every time you try to think," Barry said, "it's a waste of time."
"Okay," Don said. "Time to cut the wisecracks. What happened?"
Barry told him.
"That was quite a Sunday dinner you had," Don said. "How come you didn't tear into her old man?"
"I just wanted to get out of there."
"I bet," Don answered. "Well, it's no great loss. I never could see what you saw in Mona."
"You sure looked hard enough every time you saw her."
"Anatomically she interested me," Don answered. "Anyway, I think you need a few good solid belts of booze to give you some perspective. What would you like?"
"I'll drink whatever you take."
Don left the table. A few minutes later he returned with two filled shot glasses. He handed one to Barry. "Drink enough of this stuff, and even the worms won't go near you. Well, here's to a free-and-easy life."
Barry bolted his drink down. His insides roared with fire, and his eyes blurred. Half-choked, he managed to sputter, "You weren't kidding about the worms."
Don made the trip to the bar several times. Barry's head began to feel as though it were buoyed up by big white clouds. "I'm feelin' better," he said, "lots better."
"Good. Say, what happened with that chick you picked up in here about two weeks ago?"
Barry tried to think who he meant.
"The one from out of town," Don said.
Barry smiled. "I took her back to my pad."
Don shook his head. "I thought you'd score with her."
"Easy."
"Got anything going for you now that Mona is out of the scene?"
Barry was about to say no. Instead he answered, "Somethin' real good if I want it."
"What could be that good?"
The clouds around Barry's head suddenly vanished. He was startling sober. "A woman," he said. "Aren't they all?"
"A married woman," he said.
Don showed an interest. He leaned across the table. "Fill me in, boy," he said eagerly. "She teaches at the college."
"And?" Don questioned. "And that's all I'm going to tell you."
"I think you're dreaming," Don said. "I'll think of that when I make it with her."
"On the level?" Barry nodded.
"Let's celebrate! I know a place where there's a big blast going on. The booze will be free, and maybe some of the women will be too. How about it?"
"Sure."
"Let's blow this place."
Barry followed closely behind Don. "Aren't you going to change?" Barry asked, noticing his companion's tight faded levis and worn, dirty corduroy jacket.
"What!" Don exclaimed. "And forego the accepted uniform of my calling? Never!"
They both laughed as they stepped into the street.
"Where's this blast?" Barry asked.
"In touristville," Don said. They walked east.
Touristville was a native Villager's disdainful way of referring to the few streets around Washington Square Park which had become another Coney Island, complete with freak shows, hot dog stands, and palm-reading parlors.
Don's stride was big and easy. He hummed as he went along. He didn't seem to have a care in the world; yet Barry knew he was perpetually short of cash, always on the verge of a big deal with a gallery that never came through. Barry wondered if Don would ever make it as a painter.
Most probably not. But what the hell; I have my own problems, and I can't solve them, so how the hell can I hope to understand his?
Yet Barry knew damn well that Don wouldn't make it because he wasn't willing to work.
He'd rather act the part of a painter than be one.
"Hey," Don said, "you look like your muscle brain is working real hard."
"Naw," Barry lied, "I was just thinking about how nice it would be to connect with some babe who is ready, eager, and willing."
Don laughed. "You don't grieve for long, do you?"
"Too young to."
"Can't keep a good man down."
"Not if there's a woman to put it up." They laughed and crossed Sixth Avenue.
The party was in full swing by the time Don and Barry arrived. Don opened the door without bothering to knock.
"Whose pad is it?" Barry asked.
"Some geek who works up on Madison Avenue as a big-time art director. He lives down here because he says it puts him close to the center of things, whatever the hell that means."
"You boys don't have a drink," a woman said, staggering up to them. "Now you wait here; I'll bring you something." Her rump bounced provocatively from side to side as she walked away.
"The rear view's better than the front," Don commented.
Barry agreed. The woman wore tight pale blue stretch slacks that separated the cheeks of her buttocks into an inviting V.
"Why don't you wait here for her to come back with the drinks?" Don suggested.
"No thanks. I'd rather try potluck."
Don shrugged. "Suit yourself."
Barry made his way into the living room. From what he could tell there were four or five rooms to the apartment and about thirty people in it. A phonograph trumpeted out a twist. A few couples were dancing, but most of them were busy talking or drink- "Looking for somebody?" a man with a soft voice asked.
Barry's skin crawled. "Get lost!" he snarled. "Don't be angry."
Barry wheeled around, and his fist shot out. The man gave a startled cry and fell backward. "I told you to get lost." A woman screamed.
Without looking back, Barry crossed the room. This wasn't his kind of scene. He figured he'd tell Don he was cutting out What the hell, I'll just go and explain some other time.
He was about to turn around and start for the door when he spotted Don standing in the alcove near the terrace. With him was a woman. Even from where Barry stood he could see that her hair was the color of burnished copper. She wore a green silk dress that highlighted her long-limbed body.
Leave it to Don to take the cream.
He made his way to the alcove. "I'm cuttin' out," he said.
"The evening's still young," Don said.
Barry looked at the woman. Se was even better-looking than he'd thought. Enough of her breasts showed in the plunge of her neckline to stop any man. The dress clung to her body as though it had been sewn on her. Her eyes were green with bits of yellow in them.
"This is Miss Rhonda Stiles," Don said.
"Hi!" he exclaimed. "I'm Barry Holmes."
Rhonda's eyes were as frank in their appraisal of him as his were in theirs. He guessed she was closer to his age than to Don's. She didn't look like she belonged at the party.
"Hello," she said. Her voice had a warm liquid sound to it. "Are you an artist too?"
Barry knew that Don had given her his usual con job about being an artist, and an artist has to have experiences. He must live and love. Love was very important. All Rhonda had to do to help Don's cause would be to spread her legs and let him in.
"I might be one someday," Barry answered.
"Such modesty!" Don exclaimed. "It's not like you at all."
Barry ignored the obvious sarcasm. Much about Rhonda reminded him of Mrs. Vivian Temple.
"I thought you were bugging out," Don said.
"This place is such a bore," Rhonda said.
"Now just a minute!" Don exclaimed. "You're not going to beat my time."
Barry's eyes were on Rhonda. Her breasts heaved with excitement. "You want to stay or come with me?" he asked.
"I'll go with you," she answered.
"Now just you wait a Goddamn minute," Don protested.
"Why?"
"I-go to hell!" Don said hotly.
Barry took hold of Rhonda's arm and guided her to the door of the apartment.
"Do you always do this?" she asked, once they were out in the hall.
"What?"
"Spoil Don's evenings?"
"No. But I didn't want him to spoil yours," he answered.
"Such gallantry!"
Barry lead her into the elevator. The doors slid closed. "You can ride back up to him if you feel badly about leaving him," Barry told her.
She laughed. "No thanks. I like your style."
"Where would you like to go?" he asked.
"For now, let's just walk."
"And later?"
"Let's take a step at a time," she answered.
* * *
Let's take one step at a time.
Barry remembered that Rhonda had said that to him not more than three hours ago. Now he stood in the living room of her apartment. Rhonda had just stepped out of her bedroom. She no longer wore the green silk dress. A pair of tight black hip-hugger slacks beautifully molded her long limbs. A tailored white shirt, held closed by two muttons and tied above her naked midriff, accentuated the bold thrust of her bare breasts beneath the delicate weave of the cloth.
"Like the change?" she asked.
Barry nodded and polished off the remaining Scotch in the glass he held.
Rhonda moved away from the door. "You don't talk much," she said.
"Some people say I talk too much."
She laughed. "That's hard to believe."
He knew what she'd said about his talking was true. Once they had left the party, he'd said little to her. But she did a lot of talking. His first hunch about her was right. She didn't belong with the group at the party. Rhonda Stiles was money, lots of it. Going to the party was her way of slumming, taking a look at life, so she thought.
"You want another drink?" she asked, stopping in front of him.
Barry handed the empty glass to her. He looked at the swell of her breasts against the thin cotton batiste of the shirt. His lips felt very dry.
She let him take a good look before she moved away. She asked, bending over the brass tea wagon that served as a bar, "You take it straight-right?"
"Yes."
"One straight and one with soda," she said.
He watched her pour the drinks. Her slacks clung to the curve of her rump, revealing each buttock and the cleavage between them with startling clarity.
She came back to him. "Your drink," she said.
"Thanks."
"To fun!" she toasted.
He touched his glass to hers. "To fun!" he echoed.
"Why did you take me away from Don?" she asked, as she lowered glass from her lips.
"This is a hell of a time to feel guilty about poor ol' Don," Barry answered.
"You know what I mean."
He knew exactly what she meant, but he wasn't about to admit anything.
"Okay," Rhonda said: "maybe I just don't interest you. Sometimes it happens that way."
"I have a lot on my mind," Barry said.
She made a little humming sound. "Too much to see that I'm a woman?" she asked.
"I'd have to be blind not to see that."
"Good," she laughed. She tossed her head about so that her burnished copper hair whipped about like windblown fire. "Oh, I saw you look at me with your eyes." She tapped the side of her head. "It's up here that all the fun takes place. Know what I mean?"
He nodded. "I have problems," he said.
"You're not...?"
"A fag? No."
"You want to talk about it?" she asked.
How could he tell her she reminded him of another woman or that he had broken with a girl who had wanted to marry him or...
"Maybe I can help," she said. She took the glass out of his hand and put it down beside her own on an end table. She looked at him for a few moments as though she were trying to decide something.
Barry watched her hands. They moved slowly up to the knot in front of her shirt. She untied it and opened the two buttons that held it closed. She pushed the shirt open and exposed her naked breasts. Her nipples stood proudly out from the deeper red of the half-dollar-size circles.
She walked close to him and pressed her naked breasts against him. "How does that move you?" she asked, tilting her face up to his.
"It moves me," he answered. He pushed his lips hard against hers. His arms circled her body and pressed it to his own.
"Ah," she said, "that's better!"
He forced her mouth open and found her tongue a willing partner. Barry kneaded the warm flesh of her naked breasts. He lowered his lips to their tips, and Rhonda made small throaty sounds.
She ground against him and smiled brightly when his response was obvious.
Barry took the open shirt from her shoulders, leaving her naked from the waist up. Then he found the zipper on the side of her slacks. He worked it down and put his two hands inside. Her buttocks were naked to his touch-she wore no panties. To tease her he ran his hand up the cleavage of her rump. She trembled. He pushed the opened slacks down.
"You want me naked?" she asked.
"Yes."
Rhonda stepped away from his embrace and quickly shucked the slacks from her body. "I'm naked now," she said, standing proudly in front of him.
His eyes traveled down her magnificent, long limbed body. The triangular tuft of hair at the base of her torso was the same burnished color as her tresses.
"I'm a real redhead," she said.
He drew her to him and plied his hands over her naked body. He let his fingers slip across the patch of red hair and enjoyed its wiry texture.
She arched her body and pushed his hand between her naked thighs.
"Wait," he told her. He stripped. When he was naked he drew her nude body to his own.
She touched him, and he felt jets of flame leap into his groin.
"Would you like it if... ? She looked up at him with blazing eyes.
Barry knew what she meant without her finishing her question. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down to the floor. A moment later he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the searing touch of her lips.
He reached down to her naked breasts and clasped them tight in his hands. "Better stop," he said, "or I won't be much good to you."
She laughed and pulled him to the floor. She spread herself wide for him.
Barry moved his hands over the warm satin smoothness of her naked thighs.
Her body quivered. She tried to hold his hand to her body, but he freed it and began to tease her with it.
"You're making me beg," she said weakly. "Beg," he commanded her. He was sure she wanted to.
"Please. Oh please!"
He skimmed across her smooth belly. "Please what?"
"What you want."
He bent over her and took the tip of one of her breasts into his mouth. "No what?" he asked, letting it slip from his lips.
"Take me! Oh, take me!" The words exploded out of her.
Barry flung his body over hers, and she smashed her body into him. Her hands gripped his shoulders. He took her hard, and she urged him on.
Her body contracted; her fingers raked his back; her teeth sank into his flesh. Rhonda cried out. She flung her legs high in the air and then locked them around his body.
Just as he felt her relax his own storm whipped roaring through his loins. In the yellow flash of the moment the naked woman pinned under his body was Vivian Temple. He buried his face between her jasmine-scented breasts.
Slowly the moments reassembled themselves. Rhonda was playing with his hair.
"You quiet one," she laughed. "A regular tornado." She laughed again and kissed him on the lips.
He tried to lift himself off her naked body, but she held him to her. "Rest," she told him. "Next time we'll try the bed. Okay?"
"Okay," he said.
She began to grind against him. "Helping things along," she said.
He let her do what she wanted, while he clung to the image of Vivian Temple's naked body.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Miss Ross?" Dr. Vivian Temple called just as the first hour class ended. "Would you mind waiting a few minutes after class?"
Mona remained seated while the other students filed out.
Vivian went to the window and looked down on the quadrangle. New grass was already beginning to show, and some of the bushes along the wall of the building were in bud. She took a deep breath before she turned and asked, "Would you happen to know why Mr. Holmes was absent from class?"
"No," the girl answered in a voice not much above a whisper.
Vivian crossed the room and stood in front of her.
I had better put this on purely a professional basis.
"If you have any contact with him at all," she told Mona, "you had better tell him I will not permit him to be absent from this class more than the school rules allow."
"I have...." Mona began. Her face wrinkled, and she began to sob. "I have no contact with him."
Vivian saw that the door to the classroom was still open. "I'm sorry," she said. "I had the impression you were friendly with each other." Her eyes went back to the open door. She was afraid the sound of Mona's sobbing would attract the attention of anyone who happened to be in the corridor.
"He...." the girl was unable to continue. She buried her face in her arms.
Vivian put her hand on Mona's quivering shoulder. "Why don't we go to my office?" she said.
The last thing I want to do is listen to her tale of woe, especially if it concerns that boy.
Vivian had no illusions about herself as the motherly type. She was being forced into the role. "Come," she urged. "You'll feel much better once you talk about whatever is upsetting you."
Mona lifted her tear-stained face. "I'm all right," she said.
"Good. Now dry your eyes and we'll make a bee-line for my office." Vivian fervently hoped they would not meet any member of the faculty on the way there.
"I'm so terribly ashamed," Mona said as they left the room. "It's really not your problem at all."
By the time they reached the office Vivian's thoughts were racing as though the hounds of hell were after them. She'd already imagined how Barry had misused the girl. Her teeth clenched in jealous anger at what she was able to visualize clearly- Barry's naked body on top of... She glanced at Mona.
She'll find no pity with me if the fault is with her. Vivian unlocked the office door. "Now, at least," she said, "we can have some privacy." She sat down at her desk and indicated that Mona should sit beside it. "You understand," Vivian said, "that my interest in Mr. Holmes is purely professional." Mona nodded.
"Furthermore," Vivian continued, "I feel I have extended myself on his behalf more than he deserves." Even to herself she sounded terribly officious.
Something like a testy old schoolmarm. But what other way is there for me?
"Barry told me he apologized after that incident in class," Mona said.
Vivian felt the color rise to her cheeks.
Did he tell?
"I know," Mona told her, "you've been very fair to him."
"I hope he realizes it," Vivian answered tersely. Oh, how stupid I sound!
She wished she'd never said a word to Mona, but the sight of Barry's empty chair was too much for her to contend with. The weekend had been pure hell. At times she had felt as though she would crawl out of her skin. The incident with Eric on Friday didn't help matters. She knew she'd let him take her as though she were a common tramp. Yet she could not deny that he'd given her pleasure.
Even on the top of the desk he was far better than Steven ever was.
"I'm sure he does," Mona answered.
The sound of the girl's voice brought Vivian out of her own thoughts. "It's hard for me to believe that, if he deliberately cuts my class."
Mona had to agree.
"That's why I asked if you-" Tears welled up in Mona's eyes. "I'd rather not," she sobbed. "He doesn't want me."
Vivian's heart began to thump. "That's a foolish thing to say," she said. "A boy-I mean, a young man his age really doesn't know what he wants."
"Oh, Barry knows," Mona cried. "He knows."
"How can you be so sure?"
I couldn't be more gauche at this if I tried.
"He said it just wouldn't work out between the two of us."
"Why shouldn't it work if you love one another?"
Mona convulsed with sobs. "He doesn't even want me. I told him he could have what he wants, but he told me to go home. He made me feel cheap and dirty. I never felt that way with him before."
Vivian felt her throat go dry. "Just what did he want?" she managed to ask.
"I thought he wanted to sleep with me," she cried. "I told him I'd go back to his place and let him."
"Did you?"
"No. He just wanted to get away from me."
Barry's rejection of Mona's offer was incongruous with the boy Vivian knew. She took a wild guess. "He must have given you a reason," she said.
Mona was silent for a long time. Then slowly she told Vivian Temple the story of what had happened Sunday afternoon between her father and Barry.
"Your father was right," she said. "He had your best interests at heart. Mr. Holmes is a terribly wild young man. He's the kind that can easily get a girl in trouble and think nothing of it."
"No!" Mona exclaimed. "He's not like that at all." She was on her feet.
"Perhaps not," Vivian answered in an attempt to mollify the girl.
Mona sat down. "I'm sorry," she said.
Vivian nodded. "Maybe," she said, "this will give you the opportunity to go out with other young men."
"My parents feel the same way."
"They may not be as wrong as you think they are."
"I love him," Mona told her. "Even as a little girl I never thought about marrying anyone else."
"But you're no longer a little girl," Vivian said. Mona was silent again.
I could give him so much more than this girl.
Vivian felt the tips of her nipples brush against the inside of her bra. The thought of Barry's body was enough to excite her. She pressed her thighs together to quell the strong demand of her body. She stood up and began to pace back and forth. "I'm sure," she said, stopping at the desk, "he doesn't know how to treat a woman." She hurried to the window and shut her eyes. She knew she'd said that just to have Mona tell her what she so desperately wanted to know.
"He does," Mona said softly.
"But you told me he had never made love to you!" Vivian exclaimed. She faced the girl. Mona blushed.
"Where you telling me the truth?"
"We never did it, but...." Vivian took several strides way from the window. She placed herself directly in front of Mona. "I don't understand."
"I'm sure you do," Mona said softly.
"And he was gentle?" .
"Yes, when he had to be."
"The two of you were naked?" Vivian questioned. Her voice quavered. "Yes."
She wanted to strike out at that small innocent face. She controlled herself and walked to the window, then back to the desk. She suddenly became aware that Mona was looking at her, examining her.
What does she see? More than what she sees, what does she understand?
"That's truly playing with fire," Vivian said. "I hope you had the good sense to spare your parents these details."
Mona bowed her head. "I think they've been able to guess."
Vivian made no comment.
"If I could be sure," Mona said, looking straight at Vivian, "that there wasn't another girl...."
"What makes you think that" Vivian asked.
Mona shook her head. "I don't know," she answered. "Something was troubling Barry even before Sunday. And it wasn't just one of his moods. He was restless." She bit her lip.
"Well, what do you think it was?" Vivian asked.
"It's just a guess."
"Guess, then!"
"Sex."
The answer surprised Vivian. "I would think that subject is always on his mind," she said glibly.
"Barry never fought it before."
Vivian could feel her pulse quicken. "I think you're reading into things," she said, as much to quiet herself as to answer Mona.
The bell sounded, ending the period.
Thank God!
They both stood up.
"I appreciate-" Mona began to say.
Vivian waved her silent. She smiled. "Sometimes it helps to speak to another woman," she said.
"It does. It surely does."
"See you at the next session," Vivian called as the girl closed the door.
Let it be true! Let him want me as desperately as I want him.
Her thoughts had the urgency of a prayer-a pagan prayer to propitiate the part of her that still belonged to the dark woman, Lilith.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"HAVE YOU seen Barry?" Mona asked.
Don looked up from his chessboard and squinted at her.
"I'm looking for Barry," she said. His eyes moved across her body like hungry bugs. She felt her skin crawl and drew her light suede jacket tighter. Mona had never cared much for Don Jeffrey. She knew he was a bad influence on Barry.
"Why? Is he in some sort of trouble I hope?"
"I thought you were his friend," she said.
Don laughed. "That's the funniest thing I've heard all day," he said.
He was looking at her again. She folded her arms across her breasts to protect them from his probing bug eyes.
"Why don't you sit down" he asked. "I won't bite you."
"No," she said. "I'd rather not. If you see him-"
"Oh sit down!" Don exclaimed. He pushed a chair toward her.
Mona lowered herself to the chair's edge.
"That's better."
"Have you seen him?" she asked again. "You have a one-track mind. I haven't seen him since Sunday night."
"Oh!"
He cocked his head to one side. "Come to think of it," he said, "after what happened between you two, I can't imagine why you should ever want to see him again."
Her cheeks burned. "He told you?"
"He told me," Don said with a chuckle. "Did your old man really haul off and let him have one!"
"Please; I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay." He smiled. "We won't talk about it.
Of all people to tell! Oh, the fool!
"Don't look so pained," Don said. "Barry doesn't waste too much time on the past." He winked broadly. "Know what I mean?"
"No."
He grinned at her. "Even though I know you don't like me...." For the sake of courtesy she tried to protest.
He waved her silent. "I'll level with you because I've always liked you. Know what I mean?" His eyes rested on her breasts.
Mona had lowered her arms. The suede jacket was no longer drawn tightly about her. She was trying to control her feeling of discomfort. She did not like either the man across the table or the place. Even when Barry had been with her she had never been able to feel comfortable in a place like the Club Absurd. She'd come to it only as a last resort. She was determined to find Barry.
He's not going to throw away his college career because he's angry at me.
"You know what I think?" Don said. "I think you need a drink."
"Please; I don't want any."
"You look as though you're chilled," he said.
His stare was obvious. Mona looked down the front of her sweater. The nipples of her breasts were hard, and they showed through the thin material of the bra. She started to stand.
"Okay," Don said with a smirk. "I guess you're not interested in Barry."
She sat down again.
"I'll bring you something that will warm the cockles of your heart," he told her.
When she was alone Mona closed her jacket. She felt oddly nervous.
"Here," Don said, putting a glass before her. "This will take the chill out of your body."
She hesitated.
"I swear there are no knockout drops in it," he said.
She drank. The liquid was sweet, and as it drifted lower in her she was warmed by it. "What about Barry?" she asked, putting the glass down on the table.
"The last time I saw him," Don told her, "he was leaving a party with a redhead."
"Sunday night?" Mona asked.
Don nodded. "I told you he doesn't waste too much time on the past," he said.
"I suppose not," she said, and lifted the glass to her lips. This time she wanted a drink.
"Yeah, good ol' Barry takes care of himself. I imagine she was a great comfort to him." He smiled. "She was really built to comfort a man. Know what I mean?"
Mona knew exactly what he meant. She'd never thought her looks or body anything but ordinary. They were girlish. Her breasts lacked the voluptuousness that maturity gives to some women. Her hips were slender. Even her buttocks did not have an exciting swell to them.
She lifted the glass and drank the remaining liquid.
"My tastes differ from Barry's," Don said. He leered at her. "They run more toward your build. Of course," he added, "I'm speaking from purely a professional point of view."
"Of course," she answered. She felt delightfully warm and, for the first time since Sunday, almost lightheaded. "What did you say was in that drink?"
"I didn't. How about another?"
Mona handed the empty glass to him.
"Be back in a jiff," Don said.
Barry lost no time in finding a woman.
She wanted to cry, but somehow she smiled and even chuckled to herself.
Don returned and put a second drink before her.
"I'm not used to this," she said, lifting the glass to her lips. She took it down almost in one swallow.
"If you ask me," Don said, "I think you're fighting a lost cause."
Cause? What cause?
"You tell me what I'm fighting for," she said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table. "Barry," Don answered. "Oh, him!"
"I tell you what," Don said. "Just because I want to prove something to you I want you to look at my paintings and tell me what you think of them. I mean, tell me which one of us is a better painter, Barry or me."
She slowly stood up. Her knees felt as though they'd give way, and she grasped the table for support. "That's the least I can do," she said. "The very least."
Don come around to her side of the table. "Hold on to me," he said.
"Thank you," she answered.
"My pad isn't too far from here."
Mona allowed Don to guide her toward the street. As they passed the bar she was sure she heard Don and the bartender speak to each other. The man behind the bar said something about someone being far out. Don answered with a shrill laugh and added something about the loss of a maidenhead. More laughter followed.
I couldn't care less what they said.
The cool night air brushed against her face. A chill seized her body, and she trembled. She felt her nipples stiffen and push against her bra. The sensation was different at the tips of her breasts from what it had been awhile before in the Club Absurd. Now it was somewhat pleasurable.
Don's arm circled her waist.
There seemed little point in objecting. He'd opened the palm of his hand and put it on her swaying hip.
"It's the building on the corner," he told her as they crossed the street.
Mona said nothing. Even in the darkness she could see the building was a shabby four-floor walkup. By the time they reached the front steps Don had moved his hand from her hip to just below her breast.
"Take it easy going up the steps," he cautioned. "The hallway isn't too well lighted."
"I'll take it easy," she assured him.
"I'm on the third floor."
The hall had a rancid odor about it. She felt as though she'd gag, but she didn't.
When they reached the third floor Don let go of her. He opened the door and walked in. "Wait until I put some light on the subject," he said. A moment later a naked electric bulb flashed on, and the room was filled with a harsh yellow-white light. "C'mon in," he said.
Mona closed the door behind her. Don's apartment was one big room. The bathroom door was open, and she could see the old-fashioned tub and toilet bowl. The room she was in had a bed on one side, a stove and sink on the other. The dirty yellow paint was peeling off the walls.
"It doesn't look like much," Don laughed, but, as the expression goes, it's home."
She agreed and asked to see his paintings.
"With pleasure," he said. He pointed to the corner behind her. "That's where I do most of my work."
Mona turned around. She saw an easel and a palette loaded with dried paints. "You haven't painted for a long time," she said, turning to him.
He shrugged. "Nothing inspired me."
His artful dodge made her smile. "Let me see some of your work," she said, "when you are inspired."
"Sure!" He went to the closet near the bathroom. "Most of my work," he explained, "is concerned with the human body, like these." He drew several canvases out. "I'll place them along the wall so you will be able to see them better."
The first painting was a nude. There was nothing extraordinary about it. The sight of the second painting confused Mona. It didn't look like a woman. Slowly she realized what she was looking at. Don had painted part of the female figure with photographic accuracy that was simultaneously revolting and erotically stimulating. His subject had been a head-on view of a model's wide-open naked thighs and the cleft of her sex. The other paintings had their erotic cast too, but none was so bold. Her eyes returned to it.
"She was a good model," Don laughed. "But I had to put her in the right mood to get her to pose that way. Know what I mean" Her heart began to race. Her hands felt cold and her cheeks on fire.
"What do you think of my work?" Don asked.
She had swallowed before she could answer. "I... don't know."
"Well, does it say something to you?"
"It's full of sex."
He moved away from the wall where he'd been standing. His eyes became slits. Mona stepped back. "I think you're scared of me."
"I'm not."
"People who are frightened don't back away," he said.
He was directly in front of her. She tried to look beyond him. Her eyes rested on the painting of the woman's wide-open naked thighs. In spite of Mona's feelings of revulsion and fear, she was conscious of another emotion. A disquietude in her body set her blood racing. To her astonishment her nipples began to bud.
"Barry doesn't know when he's got a good thing," Don told her.
"What?" she asked in a throaty whisper.
Don smiled. "He told me how good you were in the sack."
"He never-" Before she could finish her denial Don's arms locked around her body. His lips ruthlessly bore down on hers. She tried to struggle free, but he was too strong.
"Wha'd you think I brought you up here for?" he panted. "You goin' to be nice or do I take what I want?"
"Oh, no!"
"Yes."
"Please, I never-" His lips came down on hers again.
She closed her eyes. It was senseless to struggle against him. His hands were on her breasts. She felt his body pressing hers.
"Strip," he ordered.
She hesitated.
"Strip!"
She glanced back at the door. "I'm faster than you are," he told her. She slipped off her jacket and looked for a place to put it.
"Drop it on the floor."
Barry had been the only man who'd seen her naked body since she was a little girl. Despite the circumstances, she couldn't deny the perverse excitement she felt. She reached down for the button of her sweater. In one swift moment she had it up over her head and tossed it to the floor. Her breasts were covered by a simple white bra.
"That goes," he said, pointing to her bra.
Mona reached around and undid the hooks. The bra loosened, and she let it drop away from her breasts and fall to the floor. She looked down at her naked nipples. They were full.
Don nodded approvingly. His tongue skirted his lips. He reached up and put his hands on her bare breasts.
She winced.
He tried to kiss one naked peak, but Mona stepped away.
"You still don't want to play, eh, baby?" He was angry. "Okay, have it your way. Take everything else off."
She unzipped the zipper at the side of her skirt and stepped out of it.
"Hurry it up, unless you want me to help."
Her half-slip lay next to the skirt. The white garter belt and stockings joined her other clothing.
"You're built for action," he said.
She gave him a defiant look and quickly stripped her panties off. Completely naked, she stood in front of him. She could see the hot lust in his eyes. She suddenly realized her naked body had given her a certain power. He'd made no move toward her. She began to smile. The smile became a laugh. "What's wrong, Don?" she taunted, "haven't you ever seen a naked woman before? Know what I think? I think you're just plain scared."
He grabbed her wrists and pulled her toward him. A few moments later he tossed her on the bed and flung his own body on top of hers. "Now who's scared?"
Mona didn't answer. He tried to kiss her, and she twisted her face away.
"Scared," Don panted.
She felt him unzip his trousers.
"You goin' to open for me or do I have to do it myself?"
Slowly she relaxed. Her naked thighs began to spread.
"Wider, dammit. Wider!" he hissed. "Yeah, I think you're the kind who likes it rough."
Almost before Don had finished speaking Mona felt his body drive against hers. Tearing pain slashed at her, and she started to scream. Don's hand jammed the scream back into her throat. Her eyes felt as though they'd explode out of their sockets. She tried to buck him off but the more she moved the more the pain tore at her. "Easy," Don said. "Easy."
Mona's naked body was bathed with sweat. She shut her eyes. The knifelike pain had become a dull hurt. She was vaguely aware that he was moving now, and something was happening to her when he moved.
I don't want to feel anything. I don't want to know. Oh, God; not this way! .
Her body was no longer her own. Don had full possession of it. She was moving to his beat. She felt she was being led to a wild, windswept place. Her body tightened. She opened her eyes. Don's face was above her own. Whatever was coming was coming with tremendous speed. "I wanted it to be Barry!" she cried when her moment of fulfillment came. "I wanted Barry!"
"Damn Barry!" Don yelled. "Damn him to hell!" He slammed her across the cheek. His face was charged with blood. "I told him I'd get even! I told him!"
Mona closed her eyes and wept softly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE ALARM went off. Vivian extended her hand and blindly groped for the clock. She found it and shut off the alarm. Thursday had come. She opened her eyes and looked toward the window. The blind was drawn.
Anyway at this time in the morning it would be hard to tell what kind of day it was going to be.
"Aren't you going to get up?" Steven asked.
He usually spent fifteen minutes more than she did in bed because he could dress in less time.
"I don't feel very well," she said.
He sat up in bed.
"A touch of a cold," she explained.
"Maybe you should run over to see the doctor today," he suggested.
"I don't have the time. I have three classes-two in the morning and one in the afternoon."
"Well, I'm sure I'll be able to find someone to cover your classes, and if need be I'll take them myself."
"Are you sure?"
His hand slipped under the blanket and moved over her breasts. "You take care of yourself," he told her.
It took Steven an hour to shave and dress. Just before he left for college he stuck his head into the doorway of the room. "Take care," he said.
"I will," she answered without opening her eyes.
She heard the door close and smiled to herself. She glanced at the clock. The time was eight o'clock. By nine-thirty Eric would be at the door. She threw the blanket back, quickly got out of bed, turned on the radio, and prepared for the events of the day.
Eric looked exceedingly dapper and handsome as he stood in the living room waiting for Vivian. He wore black tapered slacks, a gray sport shirt opened at the collar, and a maroon sport jacket.
He had arrived earlier than she'd expected. She was still wearing a very thin pink negligee over an Empire-style nightgown that gave a full view of her naked body.
There's no sense playing coy about this. If it makes him happy let him look.
"I thought you'd be here somewhat later," she said matter-of-factly.
"What's that expression about the early bird?"
She smiled. "You just wanted to see me in a state of undress," she said.
"Not consciously, of course. But now that you mention it, I think you might be right."
"You'll have to wait while I dress. I'd offer you a drink, but it's too early for that. I made some coffee for myself. I think there's enough left for another cup."
"That would be fine."
She swept past him, but he reached out and grabbed her wrist. He whirled her around, and her body collided with his. She felt his Lips on her own. She closed her eyes. She couldn't resist her own growing need.
She opened her mouth to make the kiss even more passionate than it had been.
The thin material of her nightgown offered no protection from his hands. He moved them over her breasts, around, and down her back to her buttocks.
"You're not being fair," she whispered.
"Do you want me to be?"
She hadn't the strength to deny her own passion. She tilted her face up to his. This time she kissed him.
Eric lifted her into his arms, carried her into the bedroom, and put her down on the unmade bed.
"You don't mind?" she asked, looking around at the bed, knowing he'd understand the question.
"I want you now," he answered.
"Yes, now!" She stood up, took off the negligee, and pulled the nightgown over her head. Naked, she stretched herself out on the bed again.
Eric stripped. He came down next to her and put his lips to her naked breasts while his hand gently opened her bare thighs.
Her whole body trembled the instant Eric touched her. She had no need of further foreplay. "Now," she told him. "Come to me now!"
Vivian felt him come to her immediately. He tried to set the rhythm of their lovemaking, but this time she was too close to her own ecstasy to allow him to interfere with it.
Her naked body arched into his in a frenzy of movement. The tenseness in her grew. She could hardly breathe. She could feel the ever-increasing pulsations ripple deep inside of her.
Eric had become a means to an end, a tool in her body. She could feel his lips on her naked breast.
The huge tenseness in her grew beyond dimension. She was submerged in it. Her body began to tremble. She struggled to break its surface. In one huge heave of her naked body she'd made it. She shook with lesser spasms of fulfillment until her ecstasy was completely spent. She was exhausted but completely satisfied.
Vivian opened her eyes. She was about to say something to Eric, but he made a low growling sound deep in his throat, and then reached his own ecstasy.
Vivian began to drift off into a warm and restful sleep. Eric was magically transformed into Barry. She moaned contentedly in a dream of renewed desire.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"TELL Mr. Hornsbee Barry Holmes is here to see him," Barry said.
The receptionist gave him a peculiar look. She lifted the phone and dialed a number. Her eyes remained on him as she spoke to Hornsbee. "Yes," she answered and put the phone down. "Go right through that door," she told Barry.
He nodded, turned, and walked rapidly away from the reception desk.
Hornsbee was on his feet when Barry entered his office. He extended his hand. "Well, if this isn't a pleasant surprise," he said.
Barry looked around. The office was as he'd imagined it would be-dark, victorian furniture, the walls covered with big thick books, a Currier and Ives print on one small panel. And to his delight and surprise, another panel held the painting he'd given Hornsbee.
"I told you," Hornsbee said, "that I'd hang it in my office."
"So you did," Barry answered.
"Shouldn't you be at college?" Hornsbee asked.
"I only have an afternoon class."
"Oh!"
"You have quite a layout here," Barry said.
Hornsbee smiled. "I'm not sure how you mean that," he said. "I know it is a bit old-fashioned, but after so many years I'm too old to change."
Barry felt ill at ease. He stood up.
It was a damn fool thing to do to come here. After all, what can he do?
"I guess," Barry said, "I had better be going. I know you're a busy man."
"Not that busy," Hornsbee answered.
The tone of the man's voice suggested much more than he'd said. Barry sat down. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward. "I need...." He stopped.
"Help," Hornsbee said quietly.
"Yes."
"Are you in trouble with the police?"
"It's nothing like that," Barry answered. He was somewhat amused by the way a legal mind thinks.
"Shall I guess again, or do you want to tell me straight out?"
"It's about Mona," he said.
"The girl at whose home you had Sunday dinner?" Barry nodded.
"What about her?" Hornsbee asked. He leaned far back into the big high-backed leather chair in which he sat.
Barry told him what had happened at the house and later at Sheepshead Bay.
"After you left Mona where did you go?"
"To the Club Absurd in the Village. I met a friend there, and we went off to a party."
"A party, eh? Well, I don't imagine you were disturbed by what happened earlier," Hornsbee said.
"That's not true!" Barry was on his feet. "I was angry. Her old man...." He sat down again. "I was angry," he repeated.
"You said he struck you across the face?" Hornsbee questioned.
"Yeah!"
"You did not return the blow?"
"No. I should have. Boy, that would have rocked him."
"I'm sure it would have. Mona saw all this?"
"Yes."
"What did you do at the party?"
Barry flushed. "Why all the questions?"
"I want to get all the events straight in my mind," Hornsbee said. "So far I don't see where all the trouble is-I mean, the trouble you told me about. Now what happened at the party?"
"Don, the guy I was with, was trying to con this broad to play ball with him. She was a redhead, and she reminded me of someone else."
"Mona?"
"A woman, okay? Just leave it at that-a woman."
"All right; you saw someone who reminded you of another woman."
"I wound up at her place, and I banged her," Barry said swiftly.
"You spent the night with her."
"And all of the next day," Barry added.
"I still don't understand," Hornsbee said. "It would seem to me that you should be as happy as a skylark. You got rid of one girl and found a playmate."
"Well, damn it, I'm not! I feel lousy," Barry said.
Hornsbee spread his hands wide. "Some of us just enjoy being unhappy."
"That's a hell of a way for you to answer me," Barry said hotly. "I knew it was a mistake to come here."
"Your mistake, young man," Hornsbee said, pointing a finger at him, "is that you have a bad case of conscience...."
"Me?"
"You."
"What should I feel guilty about?"
"That is precisely what you refuse to look at, let alone own up to."
"That's screwy!" Barry exclaimed. He came to his feet and began pacing rapidly back and forth. Suddenly he stopped and looked hard at Hornsbee. The man sat in the big chair behind the desk and never took his eyes off him. "You tryin' to tell me I feel bad about taking that broad from Don and slipping it to her myself?"
Hornsbee shrugged.
"You must be kidding!"
"What about Mona?" Hornsbee asked.
"I already told you. It's over between us. Done with!" Barry came up to the desk and leaned across it. "Her old man was worried about how much loot I had. You know-the bit about how an artist will manage to support a wife in the style to which she was accustomed."
"What did you answer?"
"I told him nothin'," Barry said. "I listened to you. The old buzzard would have to take me, not the money."
Hornsbee nodded approvingly.
"Could, you imagine what his face would have looked like if I'd told him I was loaded, after he laid one across my face?"
"Why didn't you?"
Barry thought for a moment. He shrugged. "I guess the money didn't matter to me," he said. "I forgot about it."
Hornsbee smiled. "But there's still Mona to consider?" he said.
"Why the hell do you keep harping on Mona?" Barry asked. He flung himself into the chair. "She's a good kid," he said in a softer tone. "Maybe her old man is right after all." He looked at Hornsbee. "I guess if a guy didn't know I had some dough, I'd be a pretty damn bad risk, wouldn't I?"
"Yes."
"Mona deserves something better," Barry said forcefully. He laughed. "Would you believe that I knew her since before we went to kindergarten?"
"Barry," Hornsbee said, "why don't you think things out? Decide what you want to do; then do it."
"But-"
"There are no buts," Hornsbee said forcefully. "There's more to being a man than rolling around in bed with a girl. A man is, if you know what I mean. He doesn't need sex or toughness to prove himself. He just is."
Barry sat still for a long time. He began to think of his father.
Why now, of all times?
"Your father was a man," Hornsbee said in a very soft voice.
"How did you know-?"
"I thought you'd want to know," Hornsbee answered. "Now will you get on to your own thinking and let me get at my own work?"
"Sure." Barry grinned. He was on his feet. He shook Hornsbee's hand and left the office.
* * *
Barry walked into the Club Absurd at eight o'clock that night. He stopped at the bar and asked the bar-keep to draw a beer. He glanced toward the rear. Don was there. He took the beer and went to see his friend.
Since he'd talked to Hornsbee earlier in the day he'd done a lot of thinking. He was sure of two things, both concerning Mona. He was sure he loved her, and he was going to find a way of telling her.
Maybe Don would have some ideas on that score.
Don was engrossed in his solitary chess game.
Barry pulled up a chair and sipped at the beer. "How'd the party go?" he asked.
Don looked up. "I didn't think you'd be interested," he said, and gave his attention back to the chess pieces. "After all, you had your own little party going."
"Oh, that," Barry laughed. "You sore about that?"
"Me sore?" Don smiled. "All's fair in love and war; isn't that the expression?"
"I didn't think you'd be angry. After all, she was just a broad looking for some action."
"I hope you didn't disappoint her?"
"No," Barry answered. "She got what she was looking for."
Don looked up. "Trust you to fill in," Don said.
Barry laughed. "Hey, man, that's real good. Real good." Suddenly he realized he was laughing alone. Don was looking at him in stony silence. His laughter drifted away. "You sure you're not angry?" he asked.
"Do I look angry?"
Barry shrugged. He was sure something was bugging Don.
"Why don't you let me finish my game?" Don asked.
"I thought I'd like to ask you to help me," Barry said.
"Help you?"
Barry nodded. He felt terribly foolish. "Help you how?"
Barry hesitated.
"Oh!" Don exclaimed. "Before you tell me, I have something to tell you."
It wasn't Don's words that made Barry's skin crawl -it was the way he said them. They seemed coiled like a snake ready to strike.
"That bitch Mona-you did a smart thing by dropping her," Don said.
"What?" Barry asked. He set his half-finished beer down on the table.
"Oh, you don't know?"
"Know what? Just what the hell are you talking about?"
"Easy, boy, and I'll tell you."
"I'm listening," Barry said. He felt the muscles in his stomach tighten.
"Monday night she came here looking for you. She said you weren't in class and put on a big act about being worried." He stroked his beard and grinned.
"I gave her a hard time," Barry said sheepishly. "That's what I came to talk to you about."
"I gave her a harder time," Don told him. "Know what I mean?" He winked broadly. "Yeah, you're better off without her. How's that married woman you told me about?"
"What happened with Mona?"
"Like Rhonda, she got what she was looking for."
"She was looking for me," Barry said. He'd put his fingers along the edge of the table.
"She got me," Don said.
"You?"
"Me. A few drinks up to the ol' pad. On to the ol' bed. She's like a bunny."
Barry's fingers closed into a fist. He drove it straight for Don's face. It connected just above his nose. Blood spewed out of Don's quivering nostrils. "C'mon, you bastard," Barry yelled. "I'll kill you." He leaped across the table and brought Don to the floor. "Why'd you do it? Why'd you do it?" he screamed. He grabbed Don's head and began to beat it against the floor.
Somebody pulled him off Don. He tried to get free but there were too many hands holding him. "He raped my girl," he yelled.
Don was brought to his feet. He looked at Barry. "I didn't have to rape her," he said. "She's a whore!"
Barry broke away from the many hands that held him and threw his whole body at Don. They tumbled to the floor again, and Barry smashed his fists against Don's face.
Don squealed in pain.
Again hands pulled Barry free.
"Get him out of here," the barkeep said.
The hands began to push Barry toward the door.
"I'll go myself," he said.
They let go of him, and he walked out of the Club Absurd without looking back. His hands hurt. He looked down at them. The right one was cut along the knuckles. He wrapped his handkerchief around it.
He walked until he saw a telephone booth.
Til talk to her. That bastard called her a whore.
He fished a dime out of his pocket, deposited it, and dialed Mona's number. As soon as the phone was picked up at the other end of the line, Barry asked for Mona.
"She's not in," Mr. Ross answered. "Where is she?"
"Who is this?"
"Barry."
"I don't want you calling my daughter," Mr. Ross yelled.
"Where is Mona?"
"She's out with a decent boy."
Barry's anger flared. "You idiot," he screamed. "The boy may be decent, but what about your daughter? ; What about her?"
"Barry!" Mona yelled.
The line went dead.
She'd been there all the time.
In a frustrated rage he smashed a glass panel of the telephone booth.
I love her!... I love her!... I love her!
He looked at his hand. It was bloody and throbbing with pain. He dragged himself out of the booth and began to walk.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"You LOOK somewhat feverish to me," Steven said.
Vivian was stretched out on the couch. She closed the magazine she'd been reading and removed her glasses. "I'm really feeling much better," she said, and looked at her husband.
He was seated in the club chair diagonally opposite her. He had been reading too, but now his eyes were on her.
"I don't see why you don't go to the doctor," he said. "Maybe you're run down."
"Don't be silly," she laughed.
"There's nothing funny about running yourself into the ground," he retorted. "Don't think I haven't been aware of how jumpy you've been in the last couple of weeks. You've been working too hard," he pronounced pontifically.
Vivian picked up the magazine again. She was not about to involve herself in an absurd discussion with him. What he took for a feverish look was the afterglow of her lovemaking with Eric. Three times that day she and Eric had joined together to become the beast with two backs. Each episode of sexual pleasure had been more violent than the one before.
The third time she and Eric had plunged toward ecstasy, the phone had rung. Steven had called to ask how she was feeling. Even as she had held the phone, Eric had been moving delightfully. She'd finally assured Steven she was feeling much better and had replaced the phone in its cradle; then she'd completely surrendered herself to the joy of gaining ultimate satisfaction.
Afterward she and Eric had remained locked in each other's embrace. At that time she and Eric had talked. She'd asked him if he had ever been attracted to any of the girls in his classes.
"Sure," he answered. "You know, they're really not girls." He laughed. "They are women and very much aware of it"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And you," he said, "do you respond to the boys the same way?"
From the laughter in his voice as he asked the question Vivian knew it would be foolish to he. "Yes," she said. "To one in particular." She told him about Barry Holmes. "I know it's foolish but...." He assured her it wasn't. "It's just your need asserting itself." He added, "You may not be the kind of woman you always thought you were."
She didn't have the courage to ask Eric what kind of woman he thought she really was. But his remark gave her a great deal to think about for the rest of the day. She was still thinking about it when Steven called to her.
"Vivian?"
"Yes," she answered. This time she didn't put the magazine down or remove her glasses.
"Something has been bothering me of late," he said.
Vivian felt her body stiffen. She managed to ask what it was.
Steven stood up. He went to the window and looked out at the harbor. "I'm not a young man," he said, without turning to her.
He knows. Not specifically, but he knows.
She suddenly felt very sorry for him.
"I don't understand," she said. "Aren't you well?"
"Oh, I'm fine."
"Then what's wrong?"
He faced her. "Are you happy?" he asked.
"What a foolish question!"
He turned back toward the night. "The relationship between a man and a woman is a delicately balanced one, at best. Between a man my age and a woman young enough to be his daughter, the knife on which the balance rides is indeed sharp."
Vivian hated herself at that moment.
"If you should...." He cleared his throat. "If you should," he began again, "find the need for additional companionship I only ask that you be discreet." He faced her. "Do you understand?" he asked.
"Yes," she whispered.
"I think I'll go to bed now," he told her. "Good night."
"Good night," she answered. She was sure there were tears in his eyes as he left the room.
He does know. Oh, the poor man!
She wanted to go to him. She even began to move but stopped.
I can't, not after Eric. Not with thoughts of Barry tormenting me.
* * *
Vivian raised her gloved hand, extended a finger and punched viciously at the black bell button. Damn him! Why doesn't he answer?
It suddenly occurred to her that Barry might have a woman in his apartment. The possibility of this angered her.
If he does... If he does.
She knew she could do nothing. She'd have to turn tail and leave. The prospect of not seeing him made her knees feel weak.
She pushed at the bell again.
"All right, all right! I'm coming," Barry growled from the other side of the door.
She could hear him walk across the apartment and fumble with the lock.
"Yeah, who is it?" He swung the door open.
She knew the sight of her caught him off guard. "That's not a very friendly greeting," she said. "May I come in?"
He stepped back.
She could feel his eyes follow her as she passed him. She was pleased she'd chosen a two-piece black suit to wear. It tugged the swell of buttocks with provocative snugness. The jacket gracefully contoured the high fullness of her breasts. A light green kerchief covered her bare neck and was tucked into the V of her jacket.
"I had expected you in class today," she said facing him.
He was unshaven and his jaw and cheeks were covered with black stubble. He looked as though he had not slept much.
Barry flung the door away from him. It slammed shut. "Forget it," he said.
"Oh!"
I'm not going back, ever."
"Ever is a long time," Vivian answered. She glanced around the room. It was neater than she'd expected. She looked toward the bedroom. The bed was rumpled. She guessed he'd been sleeping. She turned toward him and saw his bandaged hand. "What happened?" she asked, pointing to it.
He gave her what was obviously meant to be a tough smile. "First I punched the crap out of somebody. Then I tried it on a pane of glass."
She tried to match his attitude and said, "From the way your arm looks, I'd say you had more difficulty with the glass then with the somebody."
Barry's face softened and he smiled boyishly.
"Let me have a look at those cuts," she said, removing her gloves. She took hold of his hand and examined it. "You're lucky you didn't cut veins."
He shook his hand free. "Yeah, I'm lucky."
She ignored his belligerence. "If you're not in class on Monday morning," she said, "I'll have to report you to the dean of men."
"Be my guest. I told you I wasn't going back," he said angrily.
She shrugged. "If that's the way you want it, I expect, that nothing I could say will change your mind."
"Nothing."
"Since this is the last time I will see you, would you mind if I saw some of your paintings?"
She sensed he doubted the sincerity of her request if not the reason.
"If it's not too much trouble...?"
"No," he said. "I'll show them to you. "They're in the other room." He walked past her.
She followed him into the bedroom.
"These will give you some idea of my work," he said.
Vivian stepped forward. The paintings were not what she'd expected. They were filled with strong lines and sensitive use of color. She looked at him and then turned her attention back to the canvases. "They're beautiful," she commented in a tense whisper. "Have you tried to sell any of them?"
He laughed. "Naw; who would buy them?"
"Don't you think they're good, especially that one?" she asked, pointing to a painting of a harbor tug pushing a scow against a battered pier. It was done in browns, blacks, and grays. Overhead a hot red sunset flamed across the sky. She'd seen such a scene many many times.
"You really like it?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Take it," he said fiercely. "Take it!"
She wheeled around. "Can't you even give something without being angry about it?"
"I'm not angry," he answered. He picked up the painting of the tug and handed it to her.
The pulse in his neck throbbed.
Vivian took a deep breath.
Perfumes for men should have scent and not color; for women they should have color, not scent.
She had no idea why she should think of that, but the truth of the statement was undeniable. Barry had about him the heavy scent of maleness. Her whole being responded to it. If she didn't break contact with him, she would not be able to control the wild sexual need for him that was surging through her body.
She stepped back. "Even now," she said, "you're angry at being angry."
"I just want to be let alone, five my own life. Is that too much too ask from this cruddy world?"
"You think you stand alone, Barry. That's your trouble. There are people who love and respect you," Vivian said in desperation.
"That's a laugh! Name one; just name one for me!"
"The girl in class, Mona Ross." He can't even see me. He doesn't even know what I feel.
Barry's brow protracted. His fists opened and closed. "Sure. Sure she does! She loves me so much she let a friend of mine take her to bed."
"Barry!" Vivian exclaimed.
"That shocks you, eh? Well, why shouldn't I call a spade a spade?"
"I spoke to Mona," she told him. "I know what happened between you and her father and between the two of you."
"Fine, so you know too. Mona felt so bad about it she let my friend... Ah, what the hell is the use!"
"Your friend was that somebody you, to use your words, punched the crap out of?"
"Yeah!"
"Did anyone ever tell you you snarl?"
"Just why did you come here?"
"I thought perhaps you might be ill," she said.
He looked at her with an expression that was almost a sneer. The expression on his face was enough to tell her he didn't believe what she'd said.
She closed her eyes. "Maybe," she said very softly, "I changed my mind." She hadn't intended to say that, but a few moments before, she had caught sight of the sketch he'd made of her that day in class. Even with her eyes now closed she could see the bold lines of her nude body against the white of the drawing paper.
The beating of her own heart was the only sound she could hear.
Say something. Anything. I'm telling you I want you.
Slowly she opened her eyes. Barry had not moved. His face was like a mask. "Would you sell that?" she asked, pointing to the sketch.
He seemed not to have heard her. What would he have me do?
She set the painting down. She had thought of something. She was going to walk to the other side of the room and tell him she wanted to give him a gift.
Even if he doesn't ask what the gift is, he'll know when he sees me undress.
"Pose for me," he said abruptly. The sound of his voice was like the snap of a whip. It startled her out of her own thoughts.
"Pose for me," he repeated fiercely.
She nodded. Though she knew he meant nude, she had to ask.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Stand alongside the easel."
She walked to where he wanted her. "Is this all right?" she asked. She felt naked before him even before she'd removed one piece of clothing.
"Yes," he told her.
He was so close to her that she could easily reach out and touch him. To her it seemed he did not know she was there. He was busy putting a large canvas on the easel.
"Will you be able to do everything you want in one sitting?" she asked.
"How do I know until I see what I can get?" he growled.
Vivian had not begun to undress. She resented his impersonal attitude.
After all, I am going to he naked before him.
He was looking at her. There was no lust or desire in his eyes.
I've become something else to him. Surely he sees me as a woman... A catlike smile formed on Barry's lips. It jarred her.
"You can't refuse," he said.
"No," she answered quickly. "It's just that I'm not used to being looked at as though I didn't exist or could be seen through."
"Let your hair down," he answered. "If you would feel more comfortable, I'll go into the other room until you're ready."
"Stay," she said. Without another word she lifted her hands to her kerchief and eased it out of the V neckline. She undid the knot and pulled it completely off. Without asking him she tossed it onto the foot of the bed. The bare swell of her breasts was no longer hidden. She glanced at Barry. He was watching her intently.
By the time Tm naked he won't be so casual about me.
Vivian opened the buttons on the jacket, with a deliberate slowness. A nude-look bra accentuated the full lushness of her breasts. She slipped the jacket from her body and flung it on the bed.
She reached to one side and unzipped her skirt; then she stepped out of it and at the same time kicked off her shoes. Under the skirt she wore a black nylon half-slip.
"What next?" she asked, looking at Barry. His eyes were on her breasts.
She reached around and undid the bra. The instant it was opened, her naked breasts leaped free, their nipples already hard.
Barry moved his hand toward them.
"It's all right if you touch them, she whispered. She took a deep breath and thrust her bare breasts toward him.
His fingers delicately explored their soft, naked warmth. He rubbed the palm of his hand over one swollen tip, then the other.
Vivian made a small humming sound deep in her throat. She rocked back and forth. "That feels good;" she told him. "Exquisitely good." She took her hand and pushed it down on top of his.
He seized both her naked breasts, and a flash of intense pleasure burned deep into her.
Vivian moved out of his grasp and quickly shucked her slip. The garter belt and stockings followed. Her panties were sheer too. She rolled them down, let them fall to the floor, and stepped out of them. Completely naked, she stood proudly before him.
Barry stared at her. His hands went back to her breasts, then slid down over her bare stomach...
Vivian arched her body, giving herself fully to the soft caresses of his hands. She reached up and pulled the comb from her hair, which cascaded down her naked shoulders like molten metal. "Now draw or paint me," she said.
"I'll do neither," Barry said. He grabbed her and pulled her to him.
She ground her body into his.
He let go of her. Quickly he stripped, letting his clothes fall to the floor where he stood.
"A man is so quick," she said, reaching out to touch him.
Barry enclosed her in his arms. He sought her lips.
She kissed him with a wild hunger. Her tongue clashed with his. She wanted him to go deep into her mouth. She bit his lower lip and savored the taste of his blood.
His hands moved down to her buttocks. He was doing something to her no man had ever done. She felt each cheek of her rump being violently tugged and pressed together. She delighted in the new sensation of having a man's fingers edge their way down, then up, the crevice that separated her buttocks. She moved slightly forward. Immediately he understood, and the tips of his fingers began to tease...
"Everything can't be done standing," he said with a laugh, and let go of her.
She flung herself onto the bed and reached up to draw him down. He put his Lips to a naked breast. Using his teeth and tongue, he made her moan with delight. Then his lips moved to her stomach, and his tongue flicked at her navel.
Almost before she realized what she was doing, she had pushed his head down the length of her body. She felt him between her naked thighs, and she arched toward him. He responded with a fiery kiss. Vivian writhed in ecstasy. Her hands twisted his hair. It was wonderful beyond anything she'd ever imagined!
I must do it too. I want to give him as much as he's given me.
"Barry?" she called. "Barry?"
He looked up at her.
"How could I...?"
Immediately he understood and moved around.
He touched her naked thighs, and she spread them eagerly. The moment she felt him, she reached up and began to return his caresses. He quivered.
Vivian's sense flamed. She could feel herself throb with passion.
Barry sensed her mounting desire. He rolled free of her, righted himself, and straddled her naked body with his own.
She rolled slightly back, lifting her naked legs high into the air, and they came to each other with the delicious violence of a jackhammer smashing into stone.
She cried out in ecstasy, and her legs closed around his back. She wanted to make him do her bidding at her love feast, but he'd have none of it. The strength of his back broke her hold on him. He was already drawing away, forcing her body to follow his. Then suddenly he returned.
She let him have his way. He made her body sing with delight. Every fiber of her being responded to his pleasure. His lips brutally crushed down on hers, and his hands violently abused her breasts. She reveled in everything he did. Best of all were his expert movements, which made her whimper and cry for more. The tenseness in her grew to volcanic proportions. She no longer felt or heard anything. The world narrowed down to the last delicious moment. She heaved her body against his, and a paroxysm of exploding desire wracked her naked body. She raked his back with her nails, and her teeth sank into his naked shoulder.
The next moment Barry's own release was there, and their bodies jerked convulsively.
Exhausted and dripping with sweat, they lay in each other's arms.
"Will you paint me now?" she teased. "Maybe, but first...." She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the exquisite pleasure of letting Barry take her again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BARRY LAY with his hands folded behind his head and stared at the raw wood ceiling. He listened to the monotonous sound of the surf pounding along the beach. He was angry with himself for allowing Vivian to con him into a weekend jaunt to Fire Island.
She neglected to tell me that not only her husband would be around, but Eric Bentley and Mona. I should have bolted the moment I saw them sitting in the car. But the real mistake I made was going back to that damn class in the first place.
He'd gone back because Vivian wanted him to return. She'd threatened not to see him again if he stayed away. He'd felt incapable of refusing her.
I couldn't, not after making love to her.
Barry had to admit that Vivian Temple was like no other woman he'd ever had. Her appetite for sex often greater than his. After the first time there wasn't anything they didn't try. She thrived on it. She couldn't wait to strip and leap naked into bed. Often he wished she hadn't developed such a hunger for him.
It's great while I'm with her, but the fun of the chase is gone.
He turned on his side and looked out the window. The moon was full and very white. He was almost tempted to get up and walk down to the beach.
For what?
He hadn't painted a stroke since he began the affair with Vivian. She seemed to sap all his desire to express himself.
Thai's just nonsense!
He flipped onto his back again.
She didn't have to bring Mona out here.
Vivian had carefully explained why she'd invited Eric and Mona that afternoon when they had a few minutes to be alone. She'd told him it was to allay any suspicions her husband might have. He asked her why it had to be Mona, why it couldn't have been some other girl. Oddly enough she didn't know why and told him that it might have been a foolish choice.
She wasn't kidding.
In the month that had gone by since his fight with Don, he'd had nothing to do with Mona. Whenever he'd passed her, he'd scrupulously avoid even looking at her. He tried to force himself not to think of her.
The sound of the breaking surf was fading. He relaxed.
"Barry?"
Whoever called his name was bent close to him. "Barry?"
He recognized Mona's voice.
"Please, Barry; wake up." Her hand was on his shoulder.
He opened his eyes. . She was bent over him. In the darkness he saw her very clearly. She wore a terry cloth robe over pajamas.
"What do you want?" he growled. "I've got to speak with you."
"Let me alone," he said, and turned his face away from her.
"I love you," she said.
He bolted up on his elbows. "That's why you let Don lay you, eh?"
"I...." She began to sob quietly. Her body trembled. "I didn't let him," she said. "At least, not the way you think. Barry, please listen to me."
"I'll listen," he said harshly. Almost as an afterthought he said, "Come under the blanket with me, or you'll freeze to death." He moved to make room for her. When she was beside him he put the blanket over her and said, "Now tell me."
She told him everything. "When I found out you went with this girl from the party I was hurt and angry. Don made it seem as though you didn't care about me at all. I knew I shouldn't go up to his apartment, but I wanted to spite you. Then he wouldn't let me go. He made me undress; then he flung me on the bed. Maybe I could have fought back-I don't know. I think I wanted him to do what he did in order to get back at you. I even let myself enjoy it. Oh, Barry, I'm so ashamed." She started to move away from him. "I just wanted to tell you what really happened and to tell you I love you."
He put his hand across her. "Don't go," he said.
"No, I must."
He held her tightly.
"What can I say?"
"You don't want me," Mona told him. He was about to deny it.
"I know about you and Mrs. Temple," she said. "She came to my apartment," he sighed.
"I did too. I saw her go up. When she came down I guessed what had happened."
"I don't love her."
He felt her shrug. He took a deep breath. "I love you," he whispered. "I was going to tell you but...." He stopped and turned her face toward his. He put his lips to hers.
"Hold me tight!" Mona exclaimed. "Hold me tight."
He held her to him and closed his eyes. "Sleep," he whispered. "Sleep." She rested easily in his arms. Barry supped open her robe. Their bodies moved to each other. "I love you," he told her again. He was content to hold her in his arms until she wanted him to make love to her. His eyes closed but not before he realized something that brought a smile to his lips.
This is why Vivian brought Mona here. She wanted this to happen.
He wondered whether she'd seen Mona that very first day when she left his apartment.
Barry fell into a deep and restful sleep.
Vivian opened the door to Barry's room. She'd left Steven soundly asleep. It took a few moments for her eyes to make out the two forms in the one bed. She gasped and stifled a cry.
Suddenly two hands cupped her breasts. She tried to whirl around.
"It's me," Eric told her. He let go of her and looked into the room. Quietly he closed the door. "Let them be," he told her. "Is he the one?"
"Yes," she said.
Eric took her hand in his and led her to his room. "Take off your robe," he told her. Vivian removed the robe and then slipped the night- gown over her head. She followed him into bed. "Why were you outside just before?" she asked.
"For you," he said, pressing her naked body to his.
"Is this all you want from me?" she asked.
"It will do for now," Eric answered. He sat up in bed and took off his pajamas.
Even as she reached for him she thought of the word that aptly described her.
Whore!
What she was made no difference. She opened her naked thighs to the man who'd be her lover until...
