Enchanted Again (24 page)

“What is that in the wastebasket?” he asked Joyce, keeping his voice remarkably calm, and even more curiously, continuing his slow, gentle brushing of her hair.

“Hmm?” she murmured, still under the glow of his attentions. But in the next instant she froze and her eyes flew open wide, automatically meeting her husband’s in the mirror. “It’s nothing, Peter,” she said earnestly. “It’s nothing.”

“Why would you go to the trouble to actually burn something that is ‘nothing,’ Joyce?” The volume of his voice was menacingly low. “What were they?” he persisted.

“They…were…just some old notes I found,” she said, adding as a second thought, “from Bob.”

“Okay, letters from your ex-husband. Again, why not just throw them out? Why burn them?”

“I don’t know,” she lied.

“Why would anyone go to the trouble of burning notes unless they wanted to be absolutely certain that no one else would read them?”

“I don’t know,” she said again. Peter was outraged. “I don’t know” seemed to be her ready answer for every question he put to her. He struggled for calm. Every sign seemed to point to what he dreaded most.

Peter had managed to contain his fears thus far, but he felt himself being seduced by the oddly alluring promise of something terrible to be discovered. In a dizzying rush of anticipation, he could even feel a simulated anguish for the injury to follow. Like a wounded animal he began to work over the injury, digging and picking relentlessly regardless of the pain—or perhaps it was to better get to the pain.

“What did you wear today?” he asked her, aware that he was about to cross a line but no longer caring.

“Peter.”

“Before your
early
shower,” he continued, heedless of her objection. “What were you wearing?” He had not stopped brushing her hair, but now the strokes of the brush, although still deceptively gentle, felt like sharp spikes driving into her scalp.

“What does that have to do with anything?” She watched him move the brush through her hair with fascination. Her heart had begun the erratic pounding again.

“Where are the clothes you wore today?” he demanded.

“They’re in the washing machine,” she said.

“In the washing machine? In the washing machine?” He stared at her, aghast. “With all the laundry you never have time to get to,
today’s
clothes are already in the washing machine?” Voices from the past were now returning to his mind in a garbled rush, overlapping each other as his memory randomly replayed conversations gone by. He perceived foremost among them his own self-satisfied voice, advising Joyce to wash the evidence of him from her clothes and body the minute she got home so that Bob would not smell him on her. Icy panic swept over him at the thought of all evidence being gone. He was suddenly more afraid of never knowing than of finding out the worst. He was still outwardly in control when he set down the hairbrush and slipped his fingers through her hair, distracted for the moment by the thick masses and streaks of color as he absently massaged her scalp. With his enhanced awareness suddenly, he seemed to be seeing her hair for the first time, noticing every unique nuance of color as it picked up the light.

“Why did you feel the need to wash your clothes immediately after taking them off?” he persisted, still seemingly preoccupied with her hair. He was thinking about how Joyce was such a procrastinator about everything. He dragged his eyes away from her hair and met hers in the mirror as he waited for her answer.

“I don’t know,” she murmured futilely. She had no answers that would make any sense out of her behavior—at least not any that would appease him now.

“‘I don’t know,’” he repeated. “You must have been thinking something while you were burning notes and doing laundry and destroying computer history.”

Joyce thought perhaps she had gone too far this time. It seemed that the tables had turned and she might lose him after all. But her clever mind, unfailing in its capacity to manipulate logic, seized upon a solution. She knew that, although Peter could not quite bring himself to admit it, he was thinking of each and every instruction he had given her in the process of seducing her away from her previous husband. This, she felt, could be used to her advantage.

Peter’s fingers were still moving through her hair as he waited for her response, so she slowly reached up and began gently caressing his arms with her hands. Peter’s eyes bored into hers in the mirror as he waited. Joyce knew that his desire for her was still strong; so much so that all she had to do was produce doubt, and he would grasp at it like a drowning man would grasp at a life preserver.

“Actually, Peter,” she said, with more conviction now, “I started these little habits because of you.” She let him think about that, and waited for him to draw her out as he chose. She did not want to say too much.

“What do you mean by ‘these little habits’?”

“Well, if you’ll recall, you were always telling me to burn everything, even if it wasn’t important. I just got into the habit of it. And although I don’t regularly get to all the clothes that are piling up in the hamper—it’s true—I will often put that day’s clothes in the washer immediately after taking them off just because I got in the habit of it before.” She knew he could not for a certainty deny any of this, even if he still had doubts.

Peter was silent and thoughtful. Now that his anger had emerged it wanted to take hold, but his desire had not quite been extinguished and his body was inclined to side with that latter emotion, giving it strength. Joyce continued to run her hands up along his arms as she watched him in the mirror. She allowed her body to fall back and lean against his. She moved her hips seductively up against him.

Peter struggled for a moment, uncertain. The pain, should he face it now, would be piercing and debilitating, while the pleasure, he knew, would be even more intense with the pain lingering so closely behind it. The pain could be pushed aside for a later time, if in fact it was merited at all. It was hard to believe the pain when her body seemed to tremble with desire for him, and her eyes burned with emotion that could not be pretended. He began to yearn for her.

Peter knew that he was losing control.

Aroused and angry and confused, he could no longer resist the hazy glow of desire in Joyce’s eyes, or her parted and willing lips. He pushed the anger into a back corner of his mind where it mingled unhappily with his doubts. He succumbed to the only certainty he could extract from the ambiguous connection he shared with his wife; that her lips would soothe and her body temporarily alleviate the doubt and anger that regularly antagonized him. He gave himself over to his desire completely, and his simmering anger only increased the passion and intensity of his actions. Thinking only of tasting her lips, he pulled her to him, unaware that he had yanked her head around by the fistfuls of hair he still held in his hands. Joyce gasped as he ravaged her lips. He jerked her head back even farther to give himself better access to her lips and face and neck as he spread hot kisses all over her. Joyce delighted in his brusque handling of her, finding any discomfort brought on by his overzealous passion preferable to indifference. She did not think she could bear Peter’s indifference. So she endured his violent attentions and actually enjoyed the discomfort they brought with them. His breath was hot and moist, and the sharp shadow of that day’s whiskers grazed her skin as he moved his lips over her with both hands still buried deep within her scalp, holding her head firmly in place.

Joyce didn’t struggle against Peter, or move at all in fact. She simply drank in his attentions as well as she was able, nearly drowning in the rush of sensations that were assaulting her as violently as he was doing. She shuddered helplessly as his strong hands finally released her hair and moved down along her jaw and lower, tentatively circling her neck. The sensation of his fingers curling around her neck left her feeling curiously safe and content. She arched her head back even farther and closed her eyes, giving herself over more fully to his caresses. Her mouth was open to his prying tongue, and the intense passion of the moment actually caused tears to flood her eyes. She waited eagerly for the pleasure to come. And all the while Peter could not help but wonder,
Was this how she responded with Bob when she returned home from an afternoon in my bed?

This thought came to his mind just as his hands had moved down toward the straps of Joyce’s nightgown, and without really intending to, he tore the gown in his effort to remove it. But the sound of the tearing cloth only emboldened him, and he yanked it away from her body with renewed vigor, leaving it in shreds on the floor. Joyce shuddered again.

Peter immediately reached for her breasts, and he clutched one in each hand, tenderly cupping and fondling them, as if weighing them. His attentions caused them to tighten and swell, making them seem heavier and fuller. While he held them, he moved nearer and gazed at them attentively, almost as if he was examining them. She wondered. But in due course he turned his attention to her nipples, which jutted out to him teasingly, and he began to play with them, first pressing them firmly between his fingers and then sliding them lightly across the palm of his hand. Finally he bent his head and seized the tip of one breast carefully between his teeth, circling his tongue all around it and then drawing it into his mouth and sucking vigorously. The intense pulling of his jaws on her nipple caused a surge of tingling pleasure to ripple through her. She moaned with abandon, throwing her head back and leaning against the counter of the bathroom sink behind her. The strong flood of arousal left her feeling light-headed.

Peter continued to kiss and suck her breasts leisurely, each in its turn; with pleasure, yet not without also a sentiment of competitiveness to surpass in performance any other man who might have been there before him. While his lips and tongue were thus engaged, he let his hands roam over Joyce’s stomach and hips, delighting in her soft roundness. She trembled with joy at his touch. How she loved it when his attentions stretched beyond his own needs, when he was striving after something other than mere sexual gratification. It was far more intimate and momentous for her when he touched her as he did now, with his hands gliding over her skin, down along the curve of her back and cupping her buttocks with reverence. She wished it would never end, but knew that it would, and far too soon to satisfy her ravenous soul. Already his fingers were running along the cleft in her bottom, dipping between her legs greedily, delving into her with a fierce determination. She moaned with pleasure over the contact, even as she lamented the loss of his earlier caresses.

Upon discovering her wetness as it poured over his fingers, Peter’s attention was redirected. He gazed down at her in awe, fairly gawking. He picked her up suddenly and set her carefully on top of the bathroom counter, spreading her legs wide apart as he nestled himself in between them with his knees on the floor.

He took his time, examining her thoroughly, opening her labia wide and scrutinizing every inch of her. She had the sense that he was once again looking for evidence of another man. Nevertheless, his prying fingers and intense inspection was having a wonderful effect on her. She watched, rapt, as his eyes and hands thoroughly dissected her. Slowly his face inched closer, and his fingers opened her up even wider as he approached. He pressed his face right up into the cleft of her, inhaling deeply as he did so. She gasped. Peter turned his face ever so slowly to the right and then the left, unconsciously scraping her inner tissue with the day’s growth on his cheeks. His prickly whiskers sent sharp stinging thrills of sensation rippling through her tender flesh. All the while, he continued to inhale her scent, burying his nose deep into her softness and breathing in long and hard as he held her squirming body firmly in his hands. She was certain now that he was looking for signs of another man but she no longer cared. The invasion into her secret self was far too exquisite to be insulting.

Seemingly satisfied with his findings, Peter began to dip his tongue into her, tentatively tasting her at first, but apparently finding it to his liking, he suddenly set out to devour her. He clung to Joyce’s hips almost violently, with his powerful fingers pressed into her supple, white flesh so firmly that she could not move in any direction. She struggled against him all the same, moving reflexively in opposition to the force of his advances. Her struggles were barely noticed by him, but he did unconsciously slow his actions and become more deliberate, moving his tongue leisurely up along the center of her parted labia and at the top circling around to her clitoris and firmly pressing down over the peak of the little swollen flesh, making her jump. Then he descended back downward along her wet and gaping slit again until he reached her bottom. There he paused to tickle that nether opening with the tip of his tongue, causing her to jump yet again. Over and over again his tongue burrowed its way up and around and back again, lingering especially over the top of her clitoris to press and prod and provoke her with pleasure. He continued to work her over with his tongue in this way tirelessly, ever attentive to the pleasure she received and mindful not to allow her to climax. Joyce did not fret over this; on the contrary, she thrived on his careful attentions and simply allowed her pleasure to build. She clung to the sides of the counter with both hands and gave herself over to Peter’s ministrations. All her concerns of the day were lost in the whirling sensations that came over her with the movement of Peter’s tongue. She opened her legs wider for him and even raised her feet so they rested on his shoulders.

Eventually Peter’s need, which was quickly becoming uncomfortable, overruled his wish to prolong Joyce’s pleasure. He took one of her ankles in each of his hands and pulled her legs outward as he raised himself up in between. Then he rested her feet back on his shoulders, this time with him standing, as he worked quickly to remove his pants. He stared down at the spectacle of Joyce’s body spread wide open to him and his eyes glazed over with desire. When his pants were removed he wiped his face with the back of one hand.