The Lovers (13 page)

We're several yards down the beach before Jack stops and turns to me, his face clouded.

“Well, that was classic Audrey,” he says, and I am surprised at the vehemence in his tone.

“Yes, I gathered that.”

“I have no idea why it even bothers me anymore. Why it ever has.”

“Maybe because it doesn't feel good to be dropped like that, no matter the circumstances, your own feelings. Or lack of them.”

“I never said I lack feelings for Audrey,” he says, his tone defensive.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“No. Shit.” He runs a hand through his dark hair. “I know
what you're saying. I'm just annoyed. More at myself than her, maybe.”

“I just meant that even though you're not into the whole relationship thing…I mean, that's what you said, right?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Well, it doesn't mean that being rejected is going to feel good.”

He nods, looking at me. “I'm sorry. You're probably not thrilled right now, either.”

I look away, out to the sea, the water swelling, surging. It still looks like something entirely sexual to me. “No,” I say quietly. “But I'm okay.”

“Are you?”

I turn to him, and am surprised to see the concern on his face. His eyes are such a brilliant green, with flecks of silver gleaming in the midday sunlight. I have another moment of being absolutely stunned by the beauty of them. I hate myself for it a little. I don't want to be so damn fascinated with him. With a man who has no desire for anything other than the free and easy sex I am sure is readily available to him anywhere he goes.

People like him, like Audrey, are sort of spoiled in that way, I think.

“What is it?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.

“What do you mean?”

“Your face went dark.” He reaches out, brushes a few stray curls from my cheek and I can't help that my heart lurches in my chest. That I can feel it low in my belly. “Just clouded over like the fog coming in.”

I laugh roughly. “Oh, you are a writer, aren't you?”

“Yeah, I am. A little poetry is allowed now and then.”

He smiles, and I smile back, this time more sincerely.

“So, what is it?” he asks.

“You're not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.”

He plops down in the sand and drags me down next to him, and I am momentarily thrilled at the touch of his hand on mine.

I sit for a few moments, my pulse racing, waiting for him to let go of my hand. But he doesn't. And he's watching me, waiting for me to answer him, I suppose.

“I…I don't know what to tell you, Jack.”

“Tell me what's on your mind.”

“I thought it was only women who ever asked anyone that question.”

“I'm interested.”

“Are you?”

Damn it. I know right away I've weighted that question far too heavily.

He raises one dark eyebrow. “You're a little bitter about men, aren't you, Bettina?”

I shrug, leaning back to rest on my hands. “I prefer to think of it as being a realist.”

He's quiet a moment. “That's sad.”

“But true, nevertheless.”

“I still think it's sad. That someone has hurt you, made you feel this way.” He pauses, watching me. “I'm sorry. I'm not asking you to tell me anything. I'll shut up now.”

He turns to the water, and I have a few moments to study his profile, which is strong and sleek, his jaw sharply chiseled, with just enough beard stubble to make him appear even more masculine. I'm sitting on his left, so I can see the shallow suggestion of the dimple resting on his cheek, and the tattoo that wraps around his left biceps. It's all black, the lines thick, dark, like a ring of thorns done in a very stylized manner. And beneath it are letters done in a beautiful, Gothic script.
I've seen it before, but I don't know what it says. It looks like Latin.

“‘
Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit,
'” I read. “What does it mean?”

Jack laughs, turns to me. “It's from Horace. ‘The fellow is either mad or he is composing verses.'”

I grin. “So, which is it?”

“Both, don't you think? None of us creative types are completely sane.”

“Glad I'm not the only one.”

“So am I.”

“You like to be crazy?” I laugh.

“I didn't say that. But I'm glad I'm not the only one who feels like I'm losing my mind sometimes.”

“The work does it, I think,” I tell him. “Especially working under deadlines. Being creative on demand. Things were simpler when I was still writing for myself, before I had my first book contract.”

“Were they? Were you less neurotic?”

“Hey! I didn't say I was neurotic.”

“Just…crazy?”

I smile at him. I don't mind his teasing. And the truth is, I often think I'm both neurotic and crazy. Hence the need for therapy. But it does seem to be part of the creative process, for me, anyway.

“Do you think it's not healthy?” I ask. “That we're driven to create by our neurosis? Our craziness?”

He shrugs, his shoulders rippling with muscle beneath his tanned skin. “I don't know that it's a matter of healthy or unhealthy. It is what it is.”

“That seems to be your attitude about a lot of things in life.”

“Maybe. It makes life easier to deal with, anyway.”

“Why does life need to be made easier?” I know what my own answer is, but I want to know what his might be.

He's silent for several long moments. Then, “Life is hard sometimes. And if you let it get you down, it'll beat you. Right into the fucking ground.”

I am stunned. I'm not sure what he means, if there is something specific he's referring to, although I feel there probably is. But mostly I'm stunned by the raw honesty seeping through this brief remark.

I put my hand on his arm, and he flinches a little. He immediately turns to me and smiles, so I know not to take it personally. But his eyes are distant, a bit vacant.

“Jack? Do you want to tell me what you mean?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He turns to look out at the water once more, then he lies back onto the sand, his gaze on the sky, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. “It was my last year in college.”

“What?”

I don't know what he's going to say, only that it's something important.

“That's when I learned what an asshole I was.”

“Jack…”

“No, it's true. And it was a lot more true then. A chip off the old block, isn't that what they say? That's true, too, you know.”

I shake my head. “I don't know that at all. I think we're each responsible for who we are, who we become.”

“I
am
taking responsibility for who I am. I'm simply stating where I learned it.”

“So, your father was not a very nice person I take it?”

“He was a nightmare.”

“I'm sorry.” I don't know what else to say.

“Yeah, well…” He trails off, and we sit quietly for a while.

The sun is beating down on my skin, but I don't mind it. I turn my face into the golden rays, close my eyes, breathe in the ocean, Jack's nearness.

“Come here,” he says suddenly, pulling me onto my back on the sand beside him.

I lay there, looking up at the sky like an endless blue dome overhead, punctuated only by the reeling gulls. The sand is hot. It's soft and hard all at once beneath my back, and I can feel every vertebra in my back pressing into it. I don't know what to say, so I stay quiet, hoping he'll eventually open up to me a bit more. After several minutes in which I can hear my heart hammering in my ears, he does.

“My father cheated on my mother. All the time. That was his M.O. That was just…what he did. And when I was a teenager—and I mean just barely, like thirteen, fourteen years old—he would sit me down at night, sometimes after my mom went to bed, and he'd tell me…everything. Too much. I didn't know how to stop him. And frankly, a part of me didn't want to. It pissed me off, that he was doing this to my mom. But at the same time, there seemed to be something glamorous about it. He actually made me admire him for it, in some weird way.”

“You were a teenager. A kid.”

“Yeah. But even as a kid you should have some moral code.”

“That doesn't mean you didn't.”

“Maybe.” His brows are drawn, scowling.

“But you were angry with him.”

“Not enough to do anything about it.”

“He was your father. What were you supposed to do?”

My stomach is starting to twist. There's pain in his voice. I
don't turn my head to look at him, though. I don't think he'd want me to right now.

“That doesn't excuse any of it. It doesn't excuse what I did later.” I stay quiet, waiting. Finally, he blows out a long breath. “I don't know why I'm telling you this.”

“I don't know, either. But it's okay.”

He's silent again, and I focus on the waves of heat shimmering over the sand, a watery mirage. A gull flies overhead, then another, and I watch them catch a current of air, spiraling upward together, their bodies dark silhouettes against the sun.

“So,” he says, his voice low. “So…I became just like him. I cheated on all my high school girlfriends. The ones I had in college. I didn't even know why I was doing it, but I felt
driven
to do it. And I thought nothing of it. I was so damn cavalier about it. I never thought for one moment about the consequences. But this was only the beginning of me being an asshole.” He takes a breath, then another. “In my senior year I met a girl named Sheri.”

He stops again, and this time I turn to look at him. I swear there was a catch in his voice just now, and I am filled with dread for him. I know something bad is coming. He won't look at me. He just continues to stare at the sky, but I know he's not really seeing it.

“What happened, Jack?” I ask, keeping my voice down. I don't want to startle him, and I feel as though I might.

“Well, I cheated on her, too, of course.”

“And?”

“And she tried to kill herself.”

He says this matter-of-factly, his voice gone dead, dry. My breath hitches in my throat.

“Jesus, Jack.”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving his palm
on his forehead. “That's when I finally saw what I was. What my dad really was. That he wasn't some cool guy who got away with being bad, which in truth was my completely childish version of what he did, who he was. What I'd been telling myself in my head. I finally saw that we were both just these selfish assholes. That we were hurting people. And I couldn't fucking stand it.”

“But you learned from it.”

“Yeah. I learned that I would never do that to another human being.”

“Why can't you forgive yourself, then?”

I shut my mouth so fast, as soon as the words come out of it, that my teeth clack together. This is
so
none of my business.

“I have. As much as I can.”

“I'm sorry, Jack. I shouldn't have said that.”

“No, it's fine. Fine.”

But his fingers are gripping his hair, buried in the dark curls.

“And your father?”

“He died a few years after, in a car accident.”

“Oh, Jack…”

“Don't. Okay?”

His tone isn't harsh; it's more pleading than anything, and I feel awful.

“Sorry. I'm sorry. I'll shut up.”

“Fuck, Bettina, I didn't mean that. I just…I'm being an asshole again.”

“No, you're not. You're not, Jack.”

He's staring at me, watching me, a hundred shadows crossing his features. Finally, he says, “You're a good person, Bettina.”

“Oh, I'm not so great.”

“Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Try to make yourself so small.”

My chest tightens into a hard ball. “I don't.”

But that's a lie. How is it he can see me so clearly, this man I barely know?

He reaches out and pulls me into him, and when I resist, he pulls harder, until I'm on top of him. His skin is everywhere against mine and my bikini is suddenly nothing, as though the two small scraps of fabric don't exist. And despite the seriousness of our conversation, I am burning for him instantly. Wet.

His eyes are dark with desire; I can see it as clearly as if they are reflecting my own. Maybe they are. Maybe it's only myself, my own need, I see in them. But whatever it is, I am lost.

And then he kisses me.

Totally, utterly lost.

His kiss is hard, demanding. A little desperate. Or maybe that's my imagination, reading more emotion into what's happening here than there really is. But when his tongue slips into my mouth, I pretty much stop thinking altogether.

His hands are on my waist, making me feel small and female, and he's holding on to me so tightly it hurts a little, but I love it. Need it. To be possessed this way, by him. He shifts, and his hardening cock is against my thigh. And I'm getting so wet so fast, I wonder if he can feel it through my bathing suit.

I want him to.

Jack.

I want him to know how much I want him. I want him to feel my desire, for it to fuel his. I am craving that thing that happens when two people come together and it's really good, that thing that's happened between Audrey and me, between Jack and Audrey and me. But I want it to be about just Jack and me now.

All this is happening in the back of my head, not in words so much as pure, insatiable craving.

I grind my hips into him, and his tongue lashes into my mouth, tasting, pushing deeper. His hands move down and he grabs my butt, his fingers digging in just beneath the crease where the curve of flesh meets my thighs.

I moan softly, and he moans back, pulling me harder into him.

Then he pushes me back. I am left dazed.

“Jack…?”

“We can't do this, Bettina.”

“Wh-why not?”

Hurt is flooding my body. Rejection. I am weak with it.

“Not here,” he says roughly. “Come to my cottage, Bettina. Come into my bed.”

I am so relieved, all I can do is nod. He leans up and brushes a kiss across my lips, then he stands, taking me with him.

We're both silent as he leads me back down the beach, but his hand is warm in mine. Every now and then he glances over at me and I can see the desire clear on his face. I can see that his cock hasn't gone down beneath the fabric of his swim trunks. And I am still wet, burning for him.

Soon we're back on our section of the beach, making our way up the dune, heading for the small stand of ancient cypress and our cottages standing side by side. We reach his red door and he pulls me inside. It's cooler than it is outside, but I can still feel the heat of the day in the still air, on the wooden floorboards, as I kick off my rubber flip-flops. Or maybe it's his warm fingers still gripping mine as he backs me toward the bed.

I have barely a moment to take it all in: the room that looks so much like my own cottage, except for the red-and-white quilt on the bed, his table covered in messy piles of notepads, old coffee mugs, his open laptop, a pair of wineglasses.

I don't want to think of him here, drinking wine with Audrey, so I don't.

The back of my legs bump the edge of the bed, the cotton coverlet soft on my skin.

“I want to undress you,” he says, his hands already sliding the straps holding my bikini top from my shoulders. “I need to see you naked.”

I nod, but he doesn't see; he's already leaning into me, his face buried in my neck, licking the tender flesh there as his silky hair strokes my skin, and I'm shivering with desire, my legs absolutely shaking.

He takes my top off and lets it drop on the floor and he pulls back, watching my face for several moments before dropping his gaze to my breasts.

“Ah, beautiful, Bettina. Beautiful girl.”

And I feel beautiful. I don't feel like hiding anything from him.

Then he gathers my breasts in both his hands, and lust shoots through me, a shock of excruciating
wanting.
“Jack…”

His voice is low, full of smoke. “I know what you need, girl.”

Then he's down on his knees, and his hands are pushing my breasts together as his mouth closes in, his tongue lancing out at first one nipple, then the other.

“Oh…”

I bury my hands in his hair. It's so soft, the curls twining around my fingers. And even this smooth texture of his hair between my fingers becomes part of the sensation rippling through my system.

His tongue is wet, teasing. I arch into his mouth, pulling his head closer. He chuckles against my skin.

“What do you want, baby? Tell me.”

“Jack…”

“Tell me,” he says, his tongue darting out once more, then cruelly pulling away.

“I want…God, don't make me say it, Jack.”

“Do you want this?”

His mouth meets my flesh, closing around my hard nipple and sucking.

“Oh! Yes…”

He pulls away. “Or this?” And he bites the tip of my nipple, making me groan.

“Yes, that, too.”

He pulls back once more, kissing his way down my stomach, and desire is like a lead weight in my body. I can't move, his head, his silken hair, slipping from my fingers. His hands are on my sides, then my hips, and he pulls them forward with a sharp jerk, slipping his fingers beneath the edge of my bikini bottoms, and right into my slit.

“Ah, you're wet. So damn wet. You want me, don't you, Bettina?”

“Yes, please…”

“You want me to touch you. To push my fingers into that tight hole. To fuck you with my hand.”

He does it, his fingers slipping right between my pussy lips, impaling me. I gasp, trembling with pleasure. He moves his fingers in, then out, pumping me, and I want to cry, it feels so impossibly good.

“Look at me,” he demands, and I do.

His eyes are dark with desire, his mouth loose and lush. I can see the whiteness of his teeth between his parted lips.

“Do you like this?” he asks.

I like everything. I am nearly breathless, but I manage to answer. “Yes. Jack…”

“But you'd like my mouth even more, wouldn't you?”

“Oh, God, please…”

He smiles as he pulls my bottoms off. And with his gaze steady on mine, he parts my thighs and moves his face in between them. His hands are cupping my buttocks, and he pulls me in closer, just pushing his face into my soaking-wet mound. I cry out as his wet tongue meets my aching flesh.

I would fall if he weren't holding me up, his hands strong on my ass. And he's pulling me into him, over and over, his tongue lashing out at my clit, his fingers working my pussy lips. I am nothing but sensation, his hands rough on my skin, his tongue even rougher on my swollen clit. Sensation and the heady scent of my own juices mixing with the salt air and the fragrant undercurrent of old wood.

He is licking me, licking me, and I am pumping my hips into his face, shivering all over, pleasure driving into my body. And when my climax hits, my whole body explodes, fire and smoke and indescribable pleasure. I am blind, my body clenching: my sex, my belly, my hands on his broad shoulders.

“Jack! Oh… Oh…”

Finally it's over. I'm still shivering. He pulls away, his face slick with my wetness, and I feel it slide down the inside of my thighs. I don't think I've ever been this wet in my life. But I'm not done. And neither is he, thank God.

He pushes me down on the bed, onto my back, and quickly strips his trunks off. His cock is all hard, golden beauty, the head swollen and dark. My mouth waters. He kneels on the bed over me, his hand stroking my thighs, and I swear even this touch causes tiny rippling orgasms to run over my skin, or maybe just beneath it. And in his other hand are my tie-dyed bikini bottoms.

“You taste so good, I can't get enough of you.”

He holds my bottoms to his face, inhales deeply, and I don't know why this turns me on, but it does. Maybe because I am
still a helpless, shivering wreck, laid out on the bed, unable to move, my climax heavy in my body.

“Jack, I need you,” I tell him, my voice a small mewling sound.

“And I need you, beautiful girl.”

He lowers his hand, still gripping my bathing suit, and rubs it over his cock. My pussy clenches, hard. And as I watch, he begins a slow, thrusting rhythm, into his fisted hand, into my bikini bottoms, and it's almost as though he's fucking me. The sight of him is so damn hot, his rigid cock, the tip glistening with pre-come, his tight, tanned abs flexing as he moves, that lovely line from his hip to his groin.

“Fuck, Bettina,” he growls, but I cannot stop watching his beautiful, pumping cock. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, girl. Tell me what you want.”

I lick my dry lips, my body burning with need. “I want you to fuck me, Jack. Yes… But this is too good.”

He laughs, his tone low and rough, and he throws his head back and gives a few good, hard thrusts, his fist going tight around his cock as he pushes into the bright fabric. “You are so damn hot, all that golden hair. Your skin. Christ, your skin, Bettina. I would come all over your bathing suit if I didn't want to fuck you so badly.”

“Oh…”

Then he's on me, a condom produced from somewhere. Doesn't matter. All that matters is that he can't put it on fast enough for me. I need him inside me.
Need
him!

Finally he has it, the latex glistening on his hard cock, and I spread my thighs.

“Is this how you want it, my girl? Just like this?” Kneeling again, he moves in between my legs, pushing them
farther apart with his big hands, draping them over his on either side.

“Yes. I just…I can't wait. Please, Jack. Just do it.”

“Ah, I love this about you,” he says. “That you fall apart like this in bed.”

I bite my lip, wiping my hair from my eyes. “Jack…”

“Say it. I want to hear you tell me you want me to fuck you. I need to hear you, Bettina.”

His cock is poised at the entrance to my body; I can feel the slick latex sheath resting between the lips of my sex, right at that wet, aching hole.

“I want you to fuck me,” I tell him, my voice low, breathless.

“Ah, that's beautiful, baby.”

He snakes an arm around the back of my neck, and pulls me up, holding me nearly upright. And with his other hand between my thighs, he spreads my pussy lips wide, and slides right in.

“Oh!”

Pleasure, raging inside me, pouring into my limbs, my sex, my breasts, hard and aching with need. Lust. Desire like a torch in my system. And then he begins to move, fucking me in a slow, steady rhythm, and I really think I am going to lose my mind.

My arms go around him, the muscles of his back rock hard beneath my hands. And I remember to breathe him in, the lovely, clean scent that is Jack, mixed with his sweat, my juices still on his lips. Then he's pulling me upright, holding me tight to his body. I can even feel the hard points of his nipples against the soft flesh of my breasts, that faint scratch of hair on my skin. I feel his heart racing, or at least, I like to think I can.

His mouth closes on mine, his tongue snaking between my
lips. And it is everything at once: tongues and lips, breasts and hands, cock and pussy, flesh and wetness and me coming again, hard and sudden. My body clenches, and a long, keening cry comes from my mouth and into his. But he only kisses me harder, fucks me harder, as I shake and shake.

“Oh, yeah, my girl, come on. Beautiful,” he whispers to me.

His arms tighten around me, and he plows into my body, deeper, harder. I can barely breathe. His face is damp with sweat, and I lick it from his upper lip, drinking in the salt.

“Harder, Jack. Fuck me harder.”

“Yeah…Christ, Bettina. I'm fucking you…fucking you…ah, baby…”

Then he's coming, his body jerking into mine, his pubic bone rocking hard into mine, bruising me. But I don't care. I know in some distant way that I'm moaning, small orgasm-like tremors shuddering through me. That I am whispering his name over and over. That I am incoherent.

But what really matters is that Jack is inside my body, the pleasure we are sharing, our sweat mingling. And still we rock together, his softening cock moving inside me, our hips coming together over and over. He's kissing my neck, sweet, openmouthed kisses, over and over. And when his hand comes up to push my hair from my damp face, I grab his wrist, take his fingers into my mouth and suck.

“Ah, that's nice,” he murmurs.

I feel perfectly calm inside, as though he has put me into some sort of meditative state. And happier than I've been in a very long time. Maybe ever.

Don't get used to it.

But I am too suffused with pleasure, too weakened by it, to pay that censorious voice much attention. I am too in the moment, for once.

When I let Jack's fingers slip from my mouth, he wraps both hands around the back of my head and lays me down on the bed on my side, gently, as though I'm a baby, fragile, precious. He lies with me, facing me, and cradles me with one hand while the other moves over my body, down my side, back up again, sliding over my hip, up my spine. His touch is lovely, warm. And I am entirely comfortable, trusting, nearly in a dream state.

After a while he stills for a few moments. I am content to simply lie here with him.

“Fuck, Bettina,” he says, his serious tone making my stomach lurch.

Have I done something wrong?

“Jack…?”

He turns his face into me and buries it in my hair, and suddenly I want to cry.

What is going on? With him? With me?

His voice is muffled. “That was spectacular.”

“God, Jack.”

This would be funny if it weren't so damn true. If I weren't so completely overwhelmed by the intensity of what just happened between us. And it is more than hot sex, although this is by far the hottest sex of my life. Hotter than what happened with Audrey: the two of us, then the three of us. This is more…personal. But I can't say any of these things to him. I don't want to say anything at all, to jeopardize what's just happened. Because I want it to happen again.

I want it not to be over. Not now. Not ever.

What the hell am I even thinking?

He's on his back now, his arm under my shoulder, my head pillowed on his strong chest. And I am in heaven, just like this. I'm afraid to move, to breathe, to break the spell.