For His Little Girl. Lucy Gordon
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way. Know something? The only woman I ever lived with was you.”
She’d moved into the guest house with Luke. “Ma” Dawson, upon whom his charm had a powerful effect, had found them a room just big enough for two, just down the corridor from the kitchen. She was a kindly soul but a dreadful cook, something that she blamed vaguely on “me rheumatics,” without ever explaining the connection. Pippa took over the cooking for three evenings, in addition to the two Luke had already been doing, and Ma gave them a heavy discount on the rent.
Pippa loved the happy-go-lucky atmosphere of the house. It stood a couple of blocks away from a big teaching hospital, and most of the residents were medical students. They lived on the edge of poverty, kept incredible hours without collapsing, studied a lot, ate and drank a lot and laughed a lot.
There were magic nights sitting up until the early hours discussing “Life” with a capital L with Angus and Michael and Liz and Sarah and George and anyone else who dropped in. She added her mite to the talk, snuggled in the curve of Luke’s arm, relishing the warmth of his lean body, half hearing half sensing the beat of his heart.
He would sit there contentedly with her, but he said little. He was too busy living life to talk about it, and he hated analyzing abstractions. In fact, he hated abstractions.
Life reached Luke through his senses, through the taste of food, the smell of ingredients, what he felt against his skin and in his loins. To him the world was physical, tangible, and where it wasn’t, he shrugged.
When he was bored with these talks he would nibble softly on her ear. Then they would slip away together, and the rest of the night would be even more magic.
She seemed to be floating through life in a blissful haze of newly discovered pleasure, so that everything that happened was sensual and lovely. This was true even of things that weren’t directly connected with Luke, but a hundred times more true about things that were. She couldn’t be in the same room with him without growing excited and impatient. When he was cooking she watched his hands. They were artist’s hands, powerful and muscular, yet sensitive, too, and the mere sight of them could thrill her body, which carried the memories of their intimate touch.
At work she wore the sedate, respectable uniform of a chambermaid, but it told a lie. Beneath it she wasn’t respectable at all. It made her laugh sometimes to think how shocked people would be if they knew her head was filled with thoughts of Luke, who wanted her as uncontrollably as she wanted him—Luke, in bed with her, naked and aroused. In thought she dwelt on every inch of him: how long and slim his flanks were; how firm his behind; how unexpectedly strong his hands; how big and hard he was inside her; how badly she wanted him there.
Once, at home, the urgency grew more than she could stand, and as soon as he closed the oven door, she fastened her lips on his in the fiercest kiss she’d ever given him—avid, devouring, voracious, gloriously shameless, both giving and demanding. With one hand she cupped his head, while with the other, began undressing him. After the first shock he’d responded avidly, drawing her swiftly out of the kitchen and along the corridor to their room. They barely had time to shut the door before they were pulling off each other’s clothes, almost competing to see who could strip whom the fastest. She could never remember who’d won, but they were both naked before they hit the bed.
She pulled him over her with strong, determined movements. She wasn’t fooling. She wanted Luke on the most basic, primitive level and no nonsense about it. Romance and candlelight were lovely in their place, but right now she would go crazy if she couldn’t feel him inside her, completing her, filling her to satiation point.
At last she had her way. He was there, thrusting vigorously in the way she loved. She drove back against him, drawing him deep into her, knowing this excited him to madness. She loved his strength, the fierce power in his loins, his tirelessness. To match it she offered her craving for him that could never be satisfied for long, her delight in pleasing him as much as he pleased her.
Later she tormented herself with questions. Had she spoiled things by being too forward, too eager, too always ready? Should she have held off, teased him, made him wonder about her? That might have been subtle and clever, but it would also have been a kind of deception that her passionately honest nature couldn’t have managed. She was young and bursting with health. To enjoy sex with your lover seemed natural, like discovering the secret of life itself, or being given a Christmas present every day. And each day the present was a little different, a little better. But had her own gifts to him grown better? Or had he gradually become bored with her? She would always wonder. Or perhaps wondering was just a word for knowing the truth but not admitting it.
But there were other memories to set beside these, glorious nights when she’d lain naked in his arms while he worshipped her body by moonlight. And other nights when he acted like a clown, spicing passion with wit, making her laugh even while her body was in a fever. Once he’d said, “I’m trying to work out which part of you I like best. It’s a tough decision because you have the most perfect breasts of any woman in the world.”
As he spoke he was tracing a finger over the swell of her right breast, lingering over the nipple, teasing it until the excitement stormed along her nerves and it was all she could do to say, “You’d know, would you? About all the others?”
“Mmm—” he seemed to consider this “—maybe not all the others.”
“But a good few?” she asked, torn between joking and jealousy.
“Enough to know that you’re the best. Now hush, I’m concentrating.”
She laughed and fell silent, enjoying herself as he treated the other breast to similar caresses until both nipples were proudly peaked. By now they were familiar with each other’s bodies, and knew the touches that best pleased. He knew how she loved to be kissed all over, very, very slowly, deferring the ultimate moment of pleasure so that it would be all the more exquisite. She was excited by the thrill it gave him when she ran her fingers lightly over his chest, and down to where he was leaping up to her.
Although she enjoyed his admiration it soon brought her to such a pitch of excitement that she grew impatient and tried to incite him with her own caresses. But he suddenly went into clowning mode, and prevented her firmly and with dignity.
“Madam, please stop that,” he said solemnly. “I’ve been reading a book about foreplay, and I want to practice.”
“Was it useful—this book?” she asked, falling in with his game.
“Extremely,” he informed her, poker-faced. “Now observe this next bit carefully, because afterward I’m going to ask you questions. And, hush! How can I create a romantic mood if you’re giggling?”
He was lazily drifting his fingers along the insides of her thighs, reaching the top, lingering for a shattering moment, before drifting away again. She gasped and dug her fingers into his shoulders as her arousal grew more intense.
“Did the book explain—the significance of that gesture?” she murmured in his ear.
“It’s supposed to put you in the mood.”
“But if I told you I was already in the mood?”
He became prim. “Then I would say you were a very forward young woman, and I’d be shocked. And the book didn’t warn me that you’d do that.”
“I’m sorry!”
“I forgive you, but I’ve lost the place now. I’ll check the index.”
“You let go of me and you’re dead.”
“You’re not being helpful at all,” he complained. “I’m trying to learn the nuances. A man is supposed to be subtle, not just go at it like a bull at a gate. The manual promised that this would make you appreciate me more.”
“I could hardly appreciate you more than I already do,” she said, fingering the part of him she appreciated most at that moment and trying to guide it toward her. “Luke,” she pleaded, “couldn’t you skip the subtleties and just