Love Lies Page 15

  Further conversation was cut short by Dr. Opitz’s arrival on the scene. “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence!”

  “Actually,” Ashley said, peering up at Dr. Opitz from Victor’s lap, “I’m hyphenating my name.” Beneath her, Victor made an odd sound, obviously trying not to laugh. “So it’s Ashley Lorentz-Lawrence.”

  Dr. Opitz blinked, then continued without missing a beat. “Anyway, I just had a cancellation, so I’ll pull you two in now, and then I’m outta here.” Dr. Opitz mimed a racquetball swing. “Time to show those idiot men what a real player looks like. Come on back, you two.”

  “You are evil incarnate,” Victor informed his wife as they walked to the examination suites. “Truly a wicked creature.”

  “I was just curious about your new friend,” Ashley protested. “I didn’t—hey!” Victor had picked her up, kissed her neck, and then set her down. “What was that for?”

  His black eyes twinkled at her. “For being jealous.”

  “I was not—”

  “Ashley, if you’ll slip into this gown, Victor and I will wait outside.” Dr. Opitz gestured toward the exam table, on which was a neatly folded gown. She shut the door and turned to Victor. “Will you be attending all the pre-natal exams, Mr. Lawrence?”

  “All I can, yes.”

  “Very well. Do I meet with your approval?”

  He looked at her warily. She was almost as tall as he was, which was, frankly, a little intimidating. And with her cool, blonde good looks, she reminded him of Crystal. Even more intimidating. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’ve been checked out pretty thoroughly in the last week or so. People have been checking my references all the way back to medical school. I assumed it was you, since Ashley’s my newest patient.”

  “Oh.” Victor had the grace to look embarrassed. “I was just…I’m sure you’re a good doctor, but Ashley’s very important to me, and this is our first child.”

  “I understand, Mr. Lawrence, and I’m not angry. I just wanted to make sure I meet with your approval.”

  “You do,” he assured her. “And now I have a favor to ask.” She raised her eyebrows at him and he continued meekly. “Could you not mention this to my wife? She’ll be furious if she finds out I was checking up on her OB.”

  Well, well, Dr. Opitz thought, watching the large man practically shuffle his feet. Guess we know who wears the pants in that family. And she’s such a tiny thing, too. “No problem,” she said, grinning. “Let’s go in.”

  It was a routine pre-natal, and Sharon Opitz had done hundreds—no, thousands—of them. But she never tired of them. And she had never seen two people more excited or happy about becoming parents. The husband had a hundred questions, and Ashley listened hard to every spoken word. The woman was in excellent health, but Sharon was a little worried at the size of her pelvis. Her patient was a pretty thing, with those big blue eyes and that amazing hair, but petite and delicately formed, with narrow hips. The husband was a big guy; delivering their baby might prove tricky. She decided to wait and see before mentioning some possible concerns.

  Interestingly, when she took out her big tube of lubricant to smear it on Ashley’s belly, the woman tensed up, and Victor looked away. Odd. Sharon mentally shrugged and smeared the lubricant on Ashley’s belly, then flicked on the fetal monitor.

  “Okay, let’s see if we can find a heartbeat today,” she said brightly, and the words dispelled the sudden tension in the room.

  “Isn’t it a little early?” Victor asked.

  “You’ve been doing some reading,” she said approvingly. “And we’re right on the borderline. I think we’ll get lucky today.” She placed the small mike against Ashley’s abdomen and swirled it around.

  Ashley started giggling. “Stop, that tickles.”

  “Sorry,” Dr. Opitz said. “I’ll stop as soon as I find the little rascal.”

  “Hurry!” she begged through giggles.

  “My God, can you hear that? He’s huge!” Victor said, eyes wide.

  Ashley laughed harder. “That’s my heartbeat, moron.”

  “Oh.”

  Suddenly the booming thud-thud-thud of Ashley’s heartbeat faded, to be replaced by the delicate whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of a fetal heartbeat. Ashley stopped laughing, eyes wide. Victor had his head down, listening intently. Dr. Opitz let them listen for a few more seconds, then shut off the monitor.

  “Sounds great,” she told them.

  “Wonderful,” Ashley murmured. “She sounds wonderful.” Victor just nodded, too overcome to speak.

  “Well.” Dr. Opitz smiled at them and handed Ashley a paper towel. “I’ll leave you to get dressed.”

  Ashley blotted lubricant from her stomach and sat up. Her face was glowing. “Did you hear that? Did you hear the baby? Wasn’t it wonderful? Oh, Vic, we’re going to be parents! Oh, I wish she could be born tomorrow! How are we going to be able to wait until August? We have to get ready! We have to plan!” In her exuberance, she stood up and threw her arms around her husband.

  Victor closed his eyes and forced himself not to tighten his grip, not to pick her up and pull her against him and kiss her until she was dizzy with it. Ashley had come to him, had put her arms around him because she wanted to touch him, and he wouldn’t ruin it by asking for more than she wanted to give at that moment.

  She pulled back and looked up at him, her blue eyes dancing. “You said ‘he’. When you thought my heartbeat was the baby’s, you said ‘he’s huge’. Do you want a boy?”

  He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger and smiled at her. “I don’t care what you have, as long as it’s healthy. But it’d be nice if it was a girl who looked just like you.”

  “Isn’t that funny? I hope it’s a girl who looks like me, too. Boys, yuck. Especially boys who look like you,” she added slyly.

  He mock-growled and squeezed her until she squeaked.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  All the good feelings she’d had toward Victor vanished when she saw him take the lubricant out of the drawer. In a flash she remembered why she was here, why she was pregnant, and that if she hadn’t married him he would have taken the baby away from her. How could she have forgotten?

  Because you’re a sniveling ninny, that’s how, she told herself grimly, trudging toward the bed.

  “I have a great idea, sweetheart,” he said, reaching for her. She glared at his outstretched hand like it was a dead rat and he let it drop. “Let’s make love without extra help.” He tossed the tube on the floor and smiled at her hopefully.

  “It’ll hurt,” she said flatly, climbing in beside him.

  “Not if you let me—”

  “I won’t.”

  “Oh.” Victor wasn’t sure he was up to another session of coming inside Ashley’s lush body while she lay rigid beneath him, eyes closed, silently enduring. Unfortunately, she was so beautiful and felt so good, he wasn’t sure he was up to not making love.

  Ha! Making love. It was a damned clinical coupling, as far from making love as a child’s wagon was from a Mercedes.

  Where do you get off being impatient, he scolded himself? It’s your fault she doesn’t like having sex with you. Just be patient. Keep at it. Eventually she’ll loosen up, as long as you keep proving to her that you can stay in control and won’t hurt her. Please God.

  “Damn!” Ashley said, just as he bent to pick the tube up off the carpet.

  “What?”

  “I forgot to ask Dr. Opitz when we could—I mean, when we have to stop having sex.”

  “You know perfectly well it’s safe to have sex well into the ninth month.”

  She scowled. “It might hurt the baby.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  She was silent for a moment, doubtless plotting, then burst out, “Why did you have to read so many books on pregnancy?”

  “Because they were all out of books on knitting.”

  That earned him a ghost of a grin. Of course, she stiffened up as soon as he touch
ed her, but when she asked softly, he said of course she could keep her nightgown on. He gently pulled the hem up, inch by inch, until her dark woman’s triangle was exposed, framed between her creamy, sleekly muscled thighs. He bit back a moan as he stroked the soft, smooth skin, as his palm brushed across her downy softness.

  He glanced up and saw she was staring at the ceiling, hands in fists at her sides. For a moment his eyes welled with tears and he had to fight not to sob like a child. He had done this, taken a lively, passionate, vibrant woman and turned her into a mannequin who did not glory in lovemaking, but only endured it. One dark night, and their lives had changed forever. He wondered if he would ever be able to turn the clock back for her, if she would ever trust him again, ever welcome him to her bed with open arms and an eager smile.

  His hand tightened around the tube and suddenly he couldn’t bear it; he flung the lubricant across the room. She sat up, startled, even more so when he pulled her nightgown down, covering her. “Forget it,” he told her abruptly. “I’m not in the mood.”

  He wanted to weep at the relief on her face.

  “I would like to hold you, though,” he said, and she readily agreed. Anything, he thought bitterly, to avoid my lovemaking. I could have asked her to stand on her head in the corner and she would have said yes.

  For her part, Ashley was more than a little confused, and thought about asking him if he felt all right. He was snuggled up behind her now, his forearm beneath her breasts, the tops of his thighs against the backs of hers. She could feel his hardness, a hot throbbing beneath her bottom, and she wondered why he hadn’t taken her when he so obviously wanted to. Because he knows you hate it, she answered herself. He’s not up to another session with the Ice Maiden, that’s all. Who could blame him?

  She should have been delighted, crowing with happiness. Instead she felt almost tearful. Why couldn’t her pride let her forget the past? Why couldn’t she be the wife he so badly needed?

  Because even if you had been able to put what happened behind you, how could you forget how he blackmailed you into getting married? All that stuff about never wanting to hurt you, it was all bullshit. As soon as things weren’t going his way, he hurt you, all right.

  The words were true, she knew they were the truth as he had told her, but they didn’t ring true. He had shown in a hundred different ways how he cared about her. Almost like he was trying to prove something to her. Almost like he’d wanted to marry her so he could set about making her life as easy as possible. Letting her pick out the house. Agreeing to have Jean move in. Thirty thousand dollars for spending money.

  Could it be…might he have been bluffing about taking the baby away? Those words, that threat, didn’t jibe with the picture of the man she was living with.

  Troubled, but feeling as though she was on the verge of something very important, Ashley drifted off to sleep. She tired easily these days, and usually slept hard, but tonight was different. It felt as if she were drifting along, floating in a warm sea, and the water lapping at her bare skin felt wonderful. She shifted, the better to offer more of her flesh to the waves. What an excellent dream, her unconscious self observed happily, but she gave up the rest of herself to the sensations.

  After a while the water felt like hands running up and down her legs, tickling her inner thighs until she willingly parted them, rubbing so gently across her stomach, stroking the tender skin beneath her breasts. Then she felt warm wetness on one nipple. Then the waves were lapping there, but only at one breast. How odd. She squirmed, her limbs feeling thick and heavy. She was tangled in something, something that interfered with her pleasure-taking, and she thrashed about to be rid of it.

  The waves murmured comfortingly and she was still; the warm wetness left her breast and trailed down her stomach, and down lower still, until she could feel the warmth directly between her legs, lapping at her sensitive folds. Except she was pulling away from the water, or the water was leaving her. She was being jettisoned out of this lovely dream, she could feel the sheets around her, knew she was in a bed, her bed, not in some erotic ocean, but for a wonder, the marvelous sensations weren’t fading, they remained sweetly constant.

  She opened her eyes and knew several things at once: that her legs were wantonly spread and Victor was kissing and licking between them. That his hands were on her inner thighs, his thumbs spreading her open for him, that she ought to scream and kick and fight. That she couldn’t bear for any of the sensations to stop. The conflicting emotions were expressed by her strangled gasp, and she felt Victor’s grip tighten, ever so slightly.

  “Shhhh, sweetheart, it’s all right,” he murmured, then blew lightly on her swollen women’s flesh. “Let me finish, okay?”

  “You—you—” Her breath was coming in hitching gasps; she tried to sit up, only to have Victor gently tug her thighs until she was flat on her back again. Before she could muster the strength for more resistance, she felt two sensations at the same time: his tongue, flicking quickly across her clitoris, and his finger, thrusting inside her at the same moment. She was more than ready for him; his finger was met with no resistance at all. Her hips jerked in response and she moaned at her body’s betrayal.

  His finger was twisting and stroking, now joined by another. His mouth was busy, so busy, licking and kissing and sucking and even biting, very, very gently. Her clit throbbed and she squirmed, ready to rip through the bedspread. She could sense the change in him immediately, knew what he knew: now that she was awake, there was no more need for gentle stealth.

  She began to feel intense warmth in the pit of her stomach, it was as if his mouth and fingers were banking coals deep within her. She wanted him in that moment, more than she had ever wanted anything or anyone, and hated herself for it.

  “No, Victor,” she groaned, “don’t.” But even as she said this, she hooked her legs behind his neck and urged him closer. She had to have more of his mouth on her, his tongue. Had to.

  What are you doing, you stupid, stupid bitch?

  She groaned again, feeling torn in two. Somehow she mustered the will to inch backward and he stopped at once, his mouth and fingers left her, her body throbbed with need and she bit back a frustrated sob. He was beside her at once, lifting her into his embrace and kissing her deeply; she tasted herself on him and cried out into his mouth.

  She found herself leaning against the headboard, and then he was pulling her nightgown over her head, catching the weight of her breasts in his hands as they bounced free. Then he was leaning down and kissing first one nipple, then the other, then easing her breasts together and tonguing the valley between them while his thumbs rubbed slowly, sweetly across her stiffened nipples. Her head rolled back on her shoulders and she stared at the ceiling. Her arms stole out and crept around his neck.

  “Don’t,” she moaned, too conscious of his body, so near hers, of its length and hardness, the easy power in the muscles, the warmth of his hands.

  “Hurts?” he asked, his word muffled by her flesh. He pulled a nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, then gentled his touch and lapped delicately, like a cat. Her hips jerked again and she swallowed a groan.

  “P-please. Victor. Don’t.” Her body proved her a liar; she clutched at his hair with both hands and arched her back until she was curved against his body.

  “Don’t stop? Don’t leave you like this? Don’t come inside you?” He raised his head and in the dark, his eyes gleamed. “Don’t make you want me?”

  “I d-don’t. Want you.”

  He touched her between her legs, slid a finger deeply inside her. “You do,” he whispered, stroking, stroking. She shuddered against him and sucked in a ragged breath. “You do want me. And you hate it. It’s a lot easier to play the martyr if you feel forced, isn’t it?”

  “Please,” she said, and her eyes welled with tears.

  He softened at once. “We’ll stop right now, if that’s what you want. Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

  She shook her head, then nodded, and
then the tears spilled down her face, making her confusion, her helplessness in the face of her physical needs, clear. He kissed her tears away while his thumb found the sensitive nub between her legs. He stroked the impudent bud with exquisite gentleness, occasionally pausing to rub a small circle around the area; Ashley could actually feel herself straining toward him. The now-familiar warmth uncoiled in her stomach just as his mouth covered hers, his tongue swept inside her demandingly. She gasped into his mouth just as explosive heat raced down her limbs, as she found her release and came so hard she actually felt her uterus contract.

  Without a word, Victor broke the kiss, eased her on her back and came down over her, catching his weight on his elbows. He looked at her, wanting her so badly she could feel him shaking, but waiting for her assent. She nodded quickly, giving herself up to her deepest needs, ignoring her pride’s silent shriek of dismay.

  She could feel his long hot hardness ease inside her and she moaned and pulled him to her. His tongue thrust past her teeth just as he seated himself firmly within her, and she was coming again even before he pulled back for the first stroke. He shuddered against her and she murmured into his mouth, “Do that again.” His groan was very loud, and then there was nothing but his long, sweet strokes. His mouth on hers, his hands in her hair, and each time she again found her release he shuddered above her, as if he could feel it. As his own release approached, he began to clutch at her and tell her things in a hoarse voice—he loved her, he wanted her, she felt terrific, oh, Jesus, she was so…she…he had to have her again, he was…was…

  He stiffened and then slowly relaxed atop her, but she could feel his furious heartbeat against her breasts. He eased out of her and rolled to his side, then pulled her toward him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.

  “No,” she said lazily, “I’m in agony.” She yawned. “You used me so roughly, I’m ready to cry over it.”

  He kissed her throat, then tenderly traced one of her eyebrows with the tip of his finger. “You were wonderful. So responsive and passionate. I didn’t dream it—I hoped if you relaxed you would like it, but I never thought it could be so…”