Lucy Gordon - For His Little Girl

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 charge the gate?''

"Woman, where is your heart of romance?"

"Let's be romantic another time. Tonight I'm feeling very, very basic."

"In that case," he said, settling swiftly between her thighs, "let's charge the gate together."

And they did, taking it fast and furious, so that they ended up breathless and full of glory.

"I think," Pippa said between gasps, "that we demolished the gate that time."

Which made them both laugh so hard that they lost their sense of decorum for the second time that night and clasped each other in a state of fierce delight in which subtlety played no part. Even so, there was still tenderness. Luke entered her in the way she loved the most, slowly but strongly, pro-longing the moment to the full so that she felt the hardness of him filling her up, completing her. And when she met his eyes she found a smile there. Not the laughter of before, when he'd been clowning, but a glow that told her they were at one. She smiled back, full of a joy that went beyond physical pleasure, and knowing that there was only him in all the world.

Pippa always remembered that night, because at some point sex became lovemaking. At least, that's what happened for her. How or when it changed, or why it happened just then, was a mystery. But what had been a joyous game with a prize every time, became deeper, more poignant. The prize was still there, as sweet as ever, but suddenly there was a price to be paid. This wasn't just the man who brought her sexual delight. He was the man who laid his head against her breast and fell asleep, as though he trusted her totally, so that she melted with tenderness and a mysterious pleasurable ache.

They had never spoken of love. It was all part of being in a modern relationship, with no strings. You each lived your own life and passed on. But suddenly love was there, awkward, inconvenient, getting in the way of your plans, and unwanted, since he was a man who wouldn't be tied down, and love equaled strings. Right?

But he was asleep now, so she could whisper, "Sorry, darling. I went back on the deal. I wish I could tell you, but you'd be scared stiff. Never mind. My problem, not yours. It's all a laugh, isn't it? Oh Luke, Luke !"

Among other things Pippa adored Luke for his sweet temper. The only time she could recall seeing him disgruntled was when she was dressing to go out one Saturday, without inviting him, or even telling him where she was going.

"The first Saturday we've both had off for ages and you vanish," he grumbled. " And you're dressing up, as if it's somewhere special." He looked suspiciously at the clinging jersey dress in a brilliant cerise, that only she could have carried off. "It's not like you to keep secrets."

"It's only a little secret."

"So what's the big deal about telling me?" He scowled suddenly. "Who is he?"

"His name's Frank, and he's my uncle, and I'm going to his wedding."

"Great!" he sulked. "I'm not good enough to meet your family!"

"Don't be silly, darling. I just thought it would bore you. A wedding, solid family gathering, men in formal suits, women in hats. I know that sort of thing gives you nightmares.''

"I'd rather put up with it than not see you all day."

"Luke, are you sure? You know what'll happen if we go together-"

"People will simper and ask when you're going to make an honest man of me. Don't worry, we'll tell them you're keeping me as a pet. Will your father and Clarice be there?"

"No, they moved away a few months ago."