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"Suppose they do? I'll cover you with my body; we'll fuck the traditional way."
His hands eased her brief, side-laced panties downward. His tongue traced the outline of her navel and traveled lower, then lower still, and she heard her own sigh of defeat and desire.
"Don't," she started to say.
"Yes, I must."
Eve stopped trying to fight the sensuality of her own body and gave herself up to his hands and lips and tongue, her mouth tasting him in turn—the slightly salty sea-sweat taste—tasting herself on his mouth at last when he eased himself very slowly and very gently inside her, going deeper and deeper inside her.
Eve closed her eyes against the sun and let herself go to feeling, being man-ridden and man-fucked, filled and then emptied, only to be filled again. She went suddenly wild under him as her desire rose and grew almost unbearable; no sooner was it sated than it seemed to rise again. And now what was happening between them was a contest, a battle of wills and staying power that went on and on with neither of them wanting to be the first to give in.
They began to experiment, moving easily from one position to another as if they were already used to each other. Their skins became wet and slippery with sweat, the heat of the sun being absorbed and then given off by their bodies. They lost identity and became male and female, fucking and being fucked, taking turns.
When it was finally over and they were spent, the sun had moved. The shadows seemed longer and darker, and the breeze had returned to rock the boat and chill their bodies. Eve felt as if every ounce of strength and will had been drained out of her. She lay flat on the deck, exhausted and literally unable to move, even after Brant had got to his feet and left her.
He came back with a warmly damp towel and began to sponge her body slowly, touching her gently between her breasts and legs, down her belly and up her arms.
It suddenly seemed so incongruous that this man, this tender stranger, was the same Brant Newcomb who had welcomed her to his party with icy, impersonal eyes only a month before.
"Here, you look as if you could use another drink. I've brought you a beer."
He had to lift her and prop her up against the side of the cabin so she could drink, holding the bottle with both hands. He leaned back beside her, nothing but a towel covering his nudity, and tossed both halves of her bikini between her legs, laughing shortly.
"I could fuck you all over again, just from looking at you now."
"But I don't think I could take it."
"I'd make you."
She looked at him almost fearfully.
"I know you could. But—"
"But I won't. I'll try to learn to take you only when you're ready. I'm not used to that, but I'll try."
She touched him lightly, leaving her hand on his bar e, warm thigh.
"I'll try, too. But you'll have to be—I mean, be kind, won't you, please? Or at least, be patient with me. I don't like being hurt, Brant. Nor do I like inflicting pain."
"Yes, I know that. I won't hurt you—I've already promised you that."
She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against his shoulder for the first time, and the boat rocked gently beneath them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
STELLA WAS GOING to many George Coxe. She told David first—they had been off-and-on lovers for some time now, and she had grown used to confiding in him. But this afternoon he seemed preoccupied, and his only reaction was to congratulate her somewhat absent-mindedly.
Stella supposed he had things on his mind—she had really felt for him when he'd told her bitterly that his teenaged sister had eloped and run off somewhere with a guy she hardly knew. Poor David, she had thought. But what could you do with lads these days? As she'd told David, if Frances was almost eighteen, then she was certainly old enough to know what she was doing —or at least to take care of herself.
"I certainly hope so!" he'd said, and she'd sensed all the pent-up frustration he was trying to hide. David was really sweet and kind, and he deserved better—he really shouldn't blame himself, and she'd told him so.
Maybe because they'd become so much closer after that, she'd hoped for more of a reaction to her news about George. But Stella was pragmatic enough to shrug it off and think to herself: Why? Just because David had been the only man she'd actually made it with didn't mean that either of them was emotionally involved. David had his own problems, poor baby. That bitch
Eve ... Even Marti had been closemouthed as to what had really happened, and David wasn't the talking kind; still, from what he'd implied. . . . She wondered what was really going on between David and Mr. Bernstein's niece. The girl had a crush on him, that was obvious; and Gloria was mad, which gave Stella a secret pleasure, because that was something Gloria couldn't do a damn thing about!
Stella glanced toward the telephone. One of the lines was busy—David had kept it tied up for most of the day.
She couldn't help wondering if David had done anything after she'd told him that Eve was expected back from New York and Marti wouldn't be at the airport to meet her. He'd taken the afterno
