Donna Hill - Love Becomes Her

“When are you going to stop running from me?”

“I’m…running. I mean, not running.”

“Of course you are.” He held on to her hand as he came around the table and stood in front of her. “I swear I won’t hurt you. Just give me a chance. That’s all I ask, Barbara, a chance to make you happy.”

“Michael.” Her expression was one filled with doubt. “We come from two different worlds. And—”

“That’s what will make it all the more explosive when those two worlds collide.”

Before she could protest further, he kissed her. Kissed her the way she’d read about, seen on the big screen and daytime soap operas. Kissed her with a tender passion that dampened her panties and had her good sense taking a leave of absence.

She gave in. Gave in to the kiss and gave of herself. She could feel all the knots of doubt begin to loosen as he held her close, his long, hard fingers playing a concerto up and down her spine. She gave in to his warmth, letting it seep into all the places inside her that had been cold for far too long. She gave in to the feel of his erection that pushed with urgency against her pelvis, and she pushed back in the way that she remembered, that sensual before-sex dance that forced you to toss caution to the wind.

His lips moved back from hers and he looked into her eyes.

“I won’t lie to you. I want you. Bad. I can’t break it down any simpler than that. But I want you to feel the same way.” He waited a beat. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised and relieved by her own admission. She took his hand. “Come on. If we stay in here, we might hurt ourselves with the knives and forks on the table.”

Barbara felt the heat of his body as he walked behind her. She was shaking so badly she was certain she would crumble in a heap and this fantasy would come to a grinding halt.

She stopped in front of the door, hesitated for a moment. There’s still time to change your mind, an inner voice whispered.

Michael’s lips brushed the side of her neck. She moaned and grabbed the doorknob for support. Some outside force must have turned the knob because she was frozen in place. The door opened and they stepped inside.

It was like a dream the way he undressed her, piece by piece, tossing each item on the chaise longue.

Barbara wished it was dark in her bedroom. Dim enough to hide her body’s imperfections from his exploring eyes.

As she stood before him, she saw the no longer perky breasts, airtight-stomach and track runner thighs. Instead, she saw the body of a forty-nine-year old woman who had lived life, and life, as it was wont to do, took its toll.

She didn’t want to believe him when he said that she was exquisite, a woman in every sense of the word. It couldn’t be true, her mind said, even as the tenderness of his touch worked to shatter her misconceptions.

“Let me look at all of you.”

No! her body screamed, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t run and hide while his gaze held her in place.

Barbara felt like tender meat on the holiday grill, his eyes the hot coals that cooked her from the inside out until she was ready to be devoured by the hunger that his expression cried for.

She would think about food at a time like this, and giggled nervously at the image dancing in her head.

Michael reached out and touched her right breast and she felt faint. Her eyes drifted shut for an instant then shot open when his fingers began to play with her clit.

Oh…my…God. He’s not going to do that, is he? Oh…yes…he…is!

He was on his knees and his mouth replaced his fingers.

Barbara’s inner thighs trembled and even her firm behind vibrated. She grabbed his shoulders in a death grip to keep from falling on the floor.

Michael languidly rose, nipping her skin as he did.

Somehow Barbara found herself supine on her bed with every nerve ending jumping for joy.

When Michael entered that dark space that had been empty for so long she wanted to shout hallelujah. Instead, she cried out, “Michael.”

Barbara lay curled next to the warmth of Michael’s body. The wonder of what had transpired between them had her thoughts and head swimming upstream. Ann Marie was right. It was like riding a bike. She hadn’t forgotten a thing and learned some new tricks along the way. And when Michael told her again that she was beautiful—she felt it and she believed.

She’d wanted to spend the rest of the day jumping for joy, spinning around naked in her room, reveling in her newfound sexuality. But the practicality of life took root. She’d just made love to a man-child. It felt damn good, there was no doubt about it, and she wanted more and more. That was her fear. So when Michael asked to stay with her for the rest of the day and night, she said no. And then told him on his way out the line that most men give women, “I’ll call you.”

So here she was, still tingling from the afterglow, sitting in her best girlfriend’s house, whose life was in a shambles and she didn’t have the heart to spill her own tale all over Elizabeth’s perfectly polished kitchen table.

Stephanie listened to the phone ring and checked the number on the caller ID. Conrad. Her heart began to race.

Things had gone too far. Conrad was out of control. She pressed her fist to her mouth as she listened to his voice on the answering machine.

“Steph, if you’re there pick up. We need to talk. Stephanie, pick up. I know you’re home. Your car is parked out front.”

She ran to the window and peeked out from between the slats in the blinds five stories below. Conrad’s silver Lexus was in front of her door.

“Open the door or I’m using my key.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. In a stupid moment of lust she’d given him her spare key so that he could “slip between her and her sheets whenever he wanted.” She would have to get the locks changed and pronto.

She finger fluffed her short do, smoothed her lemon yellow fitted sweater top over her tight jeans and picked up the phone. “I’m here,” she murmured and felt ill.

“I’ll be right up.”

Stephanie sat in the armchair facing the door as she heard the locks release and watched the knob turn. She slid her hand down between the cushion and felt the security of cold metal brush her fingers. She’d shoot him if she had to. Simple as that.

Conrad walked in, all smiles, and when she looked at him, for a moment she forgot everything she’d promised herself to remember; that he was using her, that he’d physically hurt her, that he was never going to leave his wife and that she wasn’t getting any more promotions if she wasn’t putting out any more of her body. He’d made that clear the other night.

Instead, she thought about how he made her feel, how he’d awakened the dormant sexuality in her that had spun out of control, how he’d been the first man in her life to help her experience a real orgasm. That had never happened to her before, until she’d met Conrad. He made her do things that she’d only imagined, and she enjoyed it. And he’d become more demanding as the months progressed. As much as he’d begun to disgust her, he still thrilled her, and that was worse than anything else.

“Hey, baby.” He crossed the room, leaned down and kissed her long and slow.

“Hi,” she whispered when he stepped back.

He looked down at her. “You look tired. Long night?”

That tone was in his voice, the cajoling, demanding tone that preceded the innuendos and accusations.

“Not really.” She shrugged. “Just an evening with the girls.”

“Hmm.” He took his jacket off and tossed it on the couch. “The girls, huh? You sure about that?” His dark eyes grew hard, the line between his brow deepened.