The Insiders (25 page)

"No... no, not that... not yet..."

So she remembered, too? Understanding her reasons and wanting her response again, he let his mouth move upward to her breasts, feeling the hardness of her nipples, her quickened breathing.

Not wanting to wait any longer, impatient now, he covered her body with his, nudging her thighs apart with his knees.

He tried to make himself gentle, but it was not possible for either of them to forget the last time and the way it had been when he'd raped her bruised, unwilling body, although this time her hands were not held over her head but rested complaisantly on his shoulders.

Eve had turned her head away from him, her face profiled against the pillow, teeth caught in her lower lip. She was doing this to forget David, to put him out of
her mind, but her mind was betraying her, bringing back the memory of the last time David had made love to her—the way her body had arched willingly, eagerly up to meet his while she had clung to him fiercely, never wanting to let go. She knew with a feeling of despair that she couldn't respond to Brant the way he wanted her to respond, the way
she
wanted to respond. His body was too insistent, forcing movement from her, a purely physical reaction that she couldn't feel with her mind.

Why had she suddenly begun to hold back? Brant had had enough women in his life to recognize, in spite of the automatic movements of her body that matched themselves to the rhythm of his, that she wasn't going to make it. Not for a long, long time yet, and he felt suddenly savage and selfish, wondering what was going on behind those closed eyes of hers. Well, he wasn't going to wait for her—goddam all that garbage about self-control, about hanging fire, holding back until the woman was ready to come. Hadn't Syl always told him, "Just
come,
darling, come for me when you feel it, as soon as you feel ready—that's what counts, the
feeling."

He'd always done just that, not giving a damn if the woman under him, or over him, or beside him had an orgasm or not. He used to think, contemptuously, that a woman was either hot and ready for it or she wasn't, and if she wasn't, then it was too bad for her. The few times he had waited, taking his time, were because
he
wanted to, because it was better that way, holding back until his climax was a hundred times more powerful, more achingly complete. It was always for himself, though, that he came; the only woman whose feelings and reactions he'd cared about had been Syl. . ..

Now, with Eve, he could tell that she wasn't ready and wouldn't be ready soon enough for him; and he was already impatient for the
next
time, wanting to be finished so he could
talk
to her, try to break through the damn wall she had put between them. Putting his hand under her taut buttocks, he lifted her body up higher, grinding her pelvis against his until he had forced a muffled cry of protest from her.

Eve felt him swell inside her, start to throb—spasm after spasm. She opened her eyes then, wanting perversely to watch his face. It was funny, with men, how different they all were at this particular moment. Most of them would grunt, or groan out loud, or shout something to her. David was like that; there were always words mixed up with his climax, like "Oh, my
God,
Eve!" or "Baby, oh you wild bitch you, you're so damned good!" But Brant didn't make a sound—his body tensed and he breathed a little faster and his eyes blinked shut for an instant and that was
it.
Just as if it had been nothing, as if that whole minor explosion of passion inside her had been nothing but a single hot spurt of semen, expended without emotion or any feeling that could ruffle or contort his guarded, handsome face.

He rolled off her, reaching for a cigarette, and they lay side by side in silence, their thighs touching.

The speakers she couldn't see were playing something by Bach, and without asking her, Brant handed Eve a lighted cigarette, lit one for himself. She saw his profile etched against the lighter's flare for an instant before he clicked it shut, and could not help thinking again how beautiful he was, his features surely too perfect, too handsome to be real. Hadn't she wondered if he was gay the first time she saw him? She was still not quite certain; he could be a closet queen or a bisexual— so many men were these days, and were not afraid to admit it, either. There was a certain purity of line and plane in his features and indeed his whole body that was almost too perfect—he should have been a movie star or a male model, Eve thought almost resentfully. It was like seeing an old Greek statue come to life, and the artists of that period had been kinder and more flattering to their young gods and satyrs than they had been to females, goddesses or otherwise! Why was she engaged in this monstrous, impossible experiment with Brant Newcomb, of all people? For that matter, why was
he
stepping so far out of character? She had sensed his patience with her earlier, and it amazed her. He had to have a
reason
for wanting to marry her, for pursuing her, that he hadn't told her about.

"You didn't make it, did you?"

His voice was dry and oddly withdrawn, and Eve wondered with a lit
tl
e shock of surprise if he could actually be human enough to
mind.
Well, he had asked her for honesty and she c
ould be honest with
him—she didn't care if she hurt his ego, it didn't matter—but could anyone actually do that?

"No, I didn't. But why should it matter? I—I suppose it could be a sort of cumulative effect. New York was exhausting,
you
were surprising, and then—seeing David—you
did
know about David, didn't you?"

She waited for him to say something cutting and hurtful to her, but instead he only laughed shortly, patting her shoulder.

"Was there anyone in town who knew
you
that didn't?" His voice was mocking, but gently mocking. "Are you still in love with him, Eve?"

She said too quickly, "No! It's just—something I can't explain, even to myself. It wouldn't have worked with us—I know that now. I let him use me, and I suppose he despised
me
for that—only I didn't want to see it, I kept hoping desperately that he— Why am I telling you all this?"

She felt the movement of his shoulder against hers as he shrugged.

"Maybe because I asked, and you needed to bring it out into the open. You see how easy it is to be honest when you're not all hung up on a person and can be objective?"

She put the cigarette out, wondering how they could both be lying there naked together after sex, calmly discussing David.

She said slowly, "I—I suppose I see what you're saying. But I don't know if I'm the kind of person who can be objective about anything—even this, my being here with you. What
am
I doing here with you, Brant?"

"You're here because I brought you, because I caught you in a weak moment when you were confused and unhappy and you wanted to show David that you didn't care. And because I took you by surprise when I asked you to marry me, isn't that it?"

He kept his voice flat and expressionless, but she had the impression that he was challenging her in some way. She looked at him, but his eyes were unreadable.

"Maybe you're right, but I'm still confused. Tell me again, Brant. Why did you ask me to marry you?"

"Because I
want
to, dammit! I'm not going to try to feed you a line of bull by saying I've fallen madly in love with you, but I do want you. Even now. There's something about you, Eve, some quality in you I haven't come across in any of the other women I've met. I can't define what it is, but it keeps bugging me—
you
keep bugging me, and I'm not used to that. I think I need you, I think you'll be honest with me and that— Shit, I talk too much sometimes. What about you, Eve? You were brought up an old-fashioned Catholic girl. Why haven't you been married before?"

His words stung her somehow, and she retorted without thinking.

"Because I never thought about marrying! I wanted to be free to find myself,
do
something, lea
rn
about life instead of reading about it. Marriage always sounded like a trap until I met David, and then I—"

"Did you really think he would marry you?"

"Why not? He made me feel right at the beginning he—he didn't want me to go with anyone else. He called me every day, took me everywhere he went! If that stupid house party hadn't happened and that bitch Gloria Reardon hadn't pulled what she did, he might have—"

"You going to console yourself with might-haves, Eve? Shit, doll, he was using you, you said so yourself, and I've used enough women in my life to know how easy it is. Did he tell you he loved you? That you were the greatest lay he'd ever had? Talk's cheap, baby. What else did David Zimmer do for you besides screw you when he felt like it and keep you dangling with half-promises? Yeah, Francie used to talk a lot about her big brother and the way he operated with women."

"Brant, don't!"

She felt attacked and would have squirmed away if his hands hadn't pinned her shoulders down. His bright blue eyes were hard.

"Tell me something, Eve. That night, the night of my party when you went running back to him for comfort, when you told him what had happened, what did he do for you? Take you in his arms, apologize for sending you here to do his dirty work for him, tell you to file a complaint—or did he accuse you of being a willing participant in that lit
tl
e orgy you were a part of? You don't have to answer that—I can see the answer in your eyes! Why don't you admit the truth to yourself? You're hooked on the way the bastard screwed you, the way he manipulated you and kept you dangling, never quite certain—isn't that it? Me, I'm the expert on kicks, baby —all kinds of kicks, like the party scene, and that poor little bitch Francie with her SM hang-up, and anything else new or different. Is that the route you want to go? Were you going to wait around and hope that David would come back to you? Would you have gone with him and that new chick he's been seeing if I hadn't been there at the airport, telling yourself that he was only trying to make you jealous, that maybe he'd call you afterward?"

His voice sounded harsh and almost evil, and Eve could feel herself flinch from every word he'd flung at her, every
truth
she hadn't wanted to hear.

"Brant, please!"

"Please what, Eve? Please leave you alone, or please don't say anything more that you don't want to hear, or please fuck you again so you can close your eyes and pretend it's him?"

She shut her eyes against the studied cruelty of his words and reached out blindly, touching his thigh.

"Please, try to understand that I'm afraid! I don't know what to believe in any longer—everything's been happening so fast. In New York, I felt like I was dreaming all the time because I'd got to where I'd always thought I wanted to be, and that scared me, too, and I wanted to put David out of my mind, but I didn't want that to be the reason for— Oh, God, I don't even know what I'm
saying!"

She was crying, and she heard his sigh before he pulled her up close against him and held her with his face against her hair until, amazingly, she began to derive a kind of comfort from die warmth of his body and the feel of his arms holding her.

He let her cry until her sobs had subsided into ragged breathing, and then, almost inevitably, he made love to her again. This time he was very slow and very tender. Touching her and kissing her, but not going inside her yet, not for a very long time.

He was infinitely patient this time, waiting until she had forgotten everything but the way he made her body feel and react—forgetting who he was, and forgetting even David—forgetting herself in feeling that turned to wanting—wanting him inside her, squirming under his hands, gasping at the sensations his tongue and teeth on her nipples evoked. She was moving, opening, wanting, needing—until at last he was
there,
in deep, and she locked her legs behind his back, holding him there, coming up to meet every thrust of his body into hers.

Eve's head fell back, and she felt his mouth come crushing down on hers, and now there was only
this,
only feeling and the release she needed him to give her —now, now, now! She held him with her nails digging into his flesh, she made stifled female noises in the back of her throat, and then at last she was aware of the heat pulsing through her body, centering in her loins—the uncontrollable arching and thrashing of herself under him before the final floating back to reality, not even knowing if
he
had come or not, not really caring now, but feeling the indescribable peace inside her after the fire and the fierceness.

No words—there was no need for any words between them this time, nothing to say. But it was as if, in some strange way, what had just happened between them had sealed the bargain between them and Eve felt herself bound to him already—possessed and taken, afraid and yet not afraid.

He had moved so that their bodies still lay alongside each other with their legs still intertwined, and his quickened breathing was warm against her temple. There was almost—she could almost feel—and then he withdrew from her, rolling away to the side of the bed, and the ephemeral almost-thought went away and she wondered if he would always draw away afterward, and if, in time, it would begin to matter to her that he did.