Chapter Eleven
THE KNOCK AT HER DOOR
announced a freshly showered and shaved Brian dressed in tight tan jeans, an open-collared shirt of pale tan-blue-white plaid, and a lightweight sport coat the color of an almond shell. She took one look and felt her mouth watering.
“Wow,” she breathed.
He smiled guilelessly, looking down at himself and said, “Oh yeah?” Then he closed the door, eased his hips back against it, crossed his arms and grinned. “Come over here and say that, Brubaker.”
She felt herself blushing, but swung away teasingly. “I’m not one of your groupies, Scanlon.”
She was securing the latch of a trim gold bracelet when his strong hands closed over her wrists, dragging them around his neck. His eyes, ardent and determined, blazed into hers. “God, there are times when I wish you were.” His mouth was warm, open and moist as it marauded hers. He swirled his tongue around her freshly applied lipstick, then delved brashly inside to stroke her teeth until they opened at his command. His tongue probed rhythmically in and out of her mouth, suggesting what was on his mind. He tasted of freshly brushed teeth and smelled like chrysanthemums and sage—not flowery, but spicy clean. He pulled back suddenly, leaving no question about the price he was paying for control. His stormy eyes sought and held hers. Then the storm cleared, he relaxed. His thumbs, still at her wrists, stroked lightly. Now it was his turn to declare breathily, “Wow.”
Theresa’s heart proved what a healthy, red-blooded twenty-five-year-old virgin she was. She was certain he could see it lifting the bodice of her blouse. She whispered thickly, “Let’s go see what Charlie’s up to.”
At the Fargo Theater they were treated to a sensational performance by a local member of the American Theater Organ Society on an immense and wondrous pipe organ that rose out of the floor on a pneumatic lift. They sat in the balcony, because it was a dying species they’d have few more chances to experience. Theresa learned how readily Brian laughed at slapstick. While the organist tickled out an accompaniment, Charlie Chaplin duckwalked down a city street in his oversize shoes and baggy pants, went three times around a revolving door, then spent arduous moments whirling the dials of an imposing-looking vault. Brian snickered, slunk low in his seat. The vault door swung open and the lovable Charlie disappeared inside to return with his precious deposit: a scrub pail, mop and janitor’s uniform. Brian rolled his head backward and hooted with full throat while Theresa’s heart warmed more to the man beside her than to the one on the screen.
The organ created a musical echo of Charlie’s misfortunes in leaving flowers for the black-eyed Edna Purviance, only to have the damsel believe they were a gift from the bank clerk named Charlie. When skulduggery started, the organ rumbled dramatically, creating vibrations through the theater seats. Beside her, Brian slumped low in his seat, trembling melodramatically, tossing his popcorn in the air when the heroine was tied and gagged, stamping and cheering when Chaplin came to her rescue, boo-hooing when the poor unfortunate bank custodian was left awakening from a dream, petting the rags of his floor mop instead of the waves of the damsel’s head.
When the film ended and they returned to the street, Brian performed a superb imitation of Chaplin, knees crooked outward, shoulders rolling with his peculiar gait while he scratched his head with stiff fingers and made a vain attempt to open the door of the wrong car. He gave a Chaplinesque flap of the hands, looked around, dismayed, sad-eyed.
How easy it was for Theresa to gasp and clasp her hands before her, distraught at misfortune. She ran jerkily to her car, flung the door open, then stood on the pavement with eyes rolled heavenward in invitation.
Charlie Scanlon duckwalked to her, shyly studied his feet, swept into a clumsy bow, then waved her inside. She interlaced her fingers, simpered, then got in.
Brian made a swipe at the open door, missed, spun in a circle, missed again, spun another circle and finally connected with the difficult door and managed to slam it.
When he climbed in beside her and squeezed the invisible bulb of a horn and made a flatulent-sounding “T-o-o-t” out the side of his mouth, they wilted with laughter. In time they grew too weak to continue. Then they looked at each other in silent discovery.
They ate an Italian supper at a place chosen at random, reminiscing about old movies, but always thinking about the end of the evening ahead. Would it bring
good night
or
good morning?
Laughter was gone when they walked slowly, slowly down the hall to their doors. They stopped dead center between 106 and 108.
“Can I come in?” he asked quietly at last.
She met his searching eyes, feeling the awesome tugs of carnality and denial warping her heart. She remembered her mother’s words, the bridal gown in the window. She touched his chest lightly. “Will you understand how hard it is for me that I have to answer no?”
His hands hung loosely at his sides. He sucked in a huge gulp of air, dropped his head down as his eyes closed, then braced both hands tiredly on his hips and studied the toes of his brown boots.
She felt childish and unworthy. Tears began to burn her eyelids.
He saw and pulled her close, resting his chin against her hair. Though his body rested only lightly against hers, she was close enough to know that her nearness and this compulsion they both controlled so closely had aroused him. “I’m sorry, sweets,” he whispered. “You’re right and I’m wrong. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Kiss me, Brian,” she begged.
He took her head in both hands and tipped her face up for a deep, hungering kiss. But the pressure of his hands on her jaw and ears told of where he wanted those hands to be. And she clung to his wrists—the safest place—feeling beneath one thumb the surging rhythm of his pulse. They drew apart, troubled eyes clinging.
“Good night,” he said raggedly.
“Good night,” came her unsure reply.
Neither of them slept well, they confessed over breakfast. The day lolled before them; its hours would be too short, no matter how they were spent. Yet when considered in the light of their denial, those same hours seemed infinite. They browsed through West Acres Shopping Center, ate lunch in a McDonald’s because their stomachs demanded filling, but neither of them cared the least about food. They roamed the green hills of Island Park and sat in its gazebo watching a group of children playing softball across the expanse of green grass. They had supper in the motel dining room, and afterward wandered into the casino where new laws allowed gambling with a two-dollar limit. But while Brian sat at a table playing blackjack, a man with sleek black hair, wearing an expensive silk suit, sidled up to Theresa, gave her a blatant visual assessment, slipped his hands to her hips and whispered in her ear, “You alone, baby?”
It happened so fast Theresa hadn’t time to react until the cloying scent of his after-shave seemed to plug her nostrils, and his wandering hands registered their insult.
Suddenly Brian interceded. “Get your hands off her, buddy,” he growled, jerking the man’s arm, spinning him away from Theresa, whose stunned eyes were wide and alarmed.
The man’s eyes narrowed dangerously, then eased as lascivious speculation crossed his features. He pulled free of Brian’s hand, shrugged his shoulder to right the expensive suit jacket, and his eyes roved once over Theresa’s breasts. “Can’t say I blame you, fella. If those were mine for the night, I wouldn’t be too quick to share ’em either.”
Theresa saw the muscles bunch in Brian’s jaw. His fists clenched.
“Don’t, Brian!” She stepped between the two men, facing Brian, gripping his arm in an effort to turn him away. “He’s not worth it,” she pleaded. His arm remained steeled. “Please!” she whispered.
But Brian’s livid face scarcely registered if he’d heard. He moved with mechanical deliberation, reaching down without looking to grasp Theresa’s hand and remove it from his jacket. Then slowly, menacingly he clutched the man’s lapels, lifting until his toes scarcely touched the carpet.
“You will apologize to the lady right now,” Brian ground out, “or your teeth will be biting your own ass, from the inside out.” Brian’s voice was chilling as he held the stranger aloft, nose to nose.
“Okay, okay. Sorry, lady, I didn’t know—”
Brian jerked him up another inch. Stitches popped on the expensive jacket. “You call that an apology, sucker? See if you can’t do better.”
The man’s eyes were bugging. Sweat erupted on his sheeny forehead and beneath his lizard-like nose. “I ... I’m really sorry, m ... miss. I’d like to b ... buy you both a drink if you’d let me.”
Brian slammed him back down to the floor, released his lapels distastefully while shoving the unpalatable intruder back until he stumbled against a table. “Pour your goddamn drinks in your pants, buddy. Maybe it’ll cool you off.” He turned. “Let’s get out of here, Theresa.” His fingers were like brands as he led her by an arm to the casino door, then out into the carpeted hall. She felt his hand trembling on her elbow and had to run to keep up with him. Wordlessly he turned down the hall to their rooms and was fishing in his trousers pocket for the key even before they reached their destination. When he leaned to insert the key into 108, there was no question of where he expected her to go. The door swung back and he found her hand, leading her inside. There followed a solid thud, then they were ensconced in a world of unbroken black. His arms closed convulsively around her, his body pressed close, sheltering, rocking her as he spoke gruffly against her hair. “I’m sorry, sweets, God, I’m so sorry.”
“Brian, it’s all right.” But she was still shaken and vulnerable and, now that it was over, felt like crying. But his protection eradicated the sudden need for tears. His arms had strength she’d never suspected. They clamped her so hard her back hurt as he bent it in a bow.
“God, I wanted to kill him!” Brian’s fingers dug into her flesh, just below and behind her armpits, and she winced, lifting her hands instinctively to press against his chest.
“Brian, it doesn’t matter ... please, you’re hurting me.”
The pressure fell away. He jerked as if shot. “I’m sorry ... I’m sorry ... sorry ...” The voice was pained in the darkness, then his hands were gentle on her, finding her face in the inkiness, fingertips caressing her temples, then sliding into her hair as his mouth sought hers. “Theresa ... Theresa ...” he muttered, then circled her again with his arms. “I’d never hurt you, but I want you, you know that. God, I’m no better than him,” Brian finished miserably, then took her mouth with an abandon that sent tongues of fire licking down her stomach. His hands left her back and roamed up her sides, pressing hard, too hard, as if it were compulsion he was trying to fight. She clung, unwilling to stop him yet, blessing the darkness.
His caress trailed down over her small waist, took measure of her hipbones, then traveled with uniform pressure down her buttocks, cupping them, pulling her up and inward against his tormented body. Along her sides his warm hands moved, compressing the swelling sides of her breasts until all else ceased to matter but that she know more of the treasured warmth of his palms upon them.
In the dense blackness she felt herself swept off the floor. Her arms instinctively encircled Brian’s neck. In four steps he reached the bed and set her upon it, then joined her.
“Brian, we should stop ... ” she whispered against his mouth.
His tongue drove deep once more, then he softly nipped her lips. “We’ll stop whenever you say.” His kiss made dissent impossible, and then so did his touch. He covered her breasts with both wide palms, pressing down hard and flat and firm, for she lay with her torso precisely aligned with his. He found her hand in the dark, clamped his fingers over the back of it, carried it to his mouth and bit the outer edge, then turned its palm against her own breast. “Feel,” he whispered fiercely, rolling aside. The nipple was distended. Even through her bra and summer sweater she could feel it. “Let me touch it too.” Again he kissed her hand, then placed it on his ribs. “Let me teach you how good it can feel.”
She could see nothing in the infinite darkness, but as she was devoid of sight, her other senses sharpened. His spicy smell, his brandy taste, the slight tremor in his voice were all magnified in their appeal. But above all, her body seemed finely honed to the sense of touch. His breath was like the whisk of a feather upon her face, the dampness his kiss had left felt cool on her lips, the hard contours of his masculinity took on nearly visible form, the seeking conviction of his hands moving toward the clasp of her bra was felt as if from another supremely sensitive dimension.
She whimpered softly, lifting a shoulder. The clasp parted and her breasts were free. But Brian’s elbows remained at her sides, bracing him above her. Across her face he took soft, teasing nips with his teeth: chin, cheek, nostril, lip, jaw, even eyebrow—bone and all. The bites grew more evocative, tightening the coil of tension in her stomach. His hands splayed over her bare back. “Theresa ... so soft,” he murmured, knowing the full length and width of that vulnerably soft skin, then kneading it gently. “So innocent.” In one smooth motion his hands skimmed her circumference while his hips pinned hers securely. Sweater and bra were eased up by his hands. Then the objects of her long despair became those of her awakening sexuality as they were enveloped in his palms—skin on skin, warm on warm, man on woman.
It was so good, so right, and made her yearn for the forbidden.
The callused fingers that knew a guitar’s strings so intimately now plucked upon her, as one might surround and pluck the fragile seeds of a dandelion from its stalk, the span of his fingertips widening, narrowing, drawing upward, encouraging her nipples to follow and reach when his touch disappeared. And they did. Repeatedly her shoulders strained to follow, as if to say, please don’t leave me yet.
His hips lay still upon hers, but his flesh was at its fullest, thick and solid between their bodies. At the moment she scarcely gave it a thought, so taken was she by the sweet swellings of these first caresses on her breasts. He turned his head aside and gently rubbed his hair across the naked nipples. “Ohh ... ” she sang softly, in delight, entwining her fingers in the hair at the crest of his skull, guiding his head, experiencing the silken texture upon her aroused flesh. A turn of that head, and now it was his cheek where his hair had been. Her hands neither commanded nor discouraged, but rested idly in his hair while she waited ... waited....