And then he stood and extinguished the lamp, which was standing on the table beside the bed. She could hear him removing his lower garments. It was disappointing. She wanted to watch. And she wanted them to be able to watch each other as they loved. But even through his clothes it was evident that his legs were somewhat deformed, and that the muscles were not as developed as those on the upper part of his body. It was understandable that, unlike her, he did mind being seen naked.
“I only hope—” he began as he lay down beside her.
But somehow in the darkness she found his mouth with her hand and covered it.
“Ben,” she said, turning onto her side. “I did not know you before you were injured. The man you were then does not exist for me. Only the man you are now. And this is the man with whom I have chosen to have an affair. It does not matter if you do not have great prowess. I do not have any expertise either. I have known one other man, and that for only a brief time almost seven years ago when I was seventeen.”
“I cannot move nimbly,” he said, “even when I am lying down. Only in the water, it seems. Perhaps we ought to be doing this there.”
She raised herself on one elbow and pushed at his shoulder until he was lying on his back.
“Ah,” she said, lowering her mouth to his, “but I can move nimbly.”
“Heaven help me.” She heard him laugh softly as he reached out to hold her by the hips.
She moved over him until she lay on top of him, her legs on either side of his lest she give him pain. And she breathed in the warmth and the slightly musky smell of him mingled with the salty smell of the sea, though he had washed after coming up from the beach. Her br**sts pressed against the warm, hard muscles of his chest. She set her mouth to his and opened to the pressure of his tongue.
She straddled him at the hips, raising herself onto her knees so that she could move her hands over him and feel all the magnificence of his physique. And so that she would feel his hands on her—on her br**sts, up over her shoulders, down her back, over her hips and along her outer thighs to her knees, up to cup her bottom. She lowered her head to kiss his chest, to lick his ni**les and nip them between her teeth, and with her hands she felt the narrowness of his waist and hips, the warmth between his thighs, the hard thickness of his arousal.
She took it in her hands and both felt and heard him inhale slowly. She caressed him with her palms and with her fingertips while he grew harder.
She lifted herself higher onto her knees, spread them wider, held him against the most tender part of herself, and lowered herself onto him as his hands came to her hips again and clasped them firmly.
For a moment, when she was deeply penetrated, she tightened inner muscles and held still, her head bent forward, her eyes tightly closed. There was surely no lovelier feeling in the world. Ah, there could not possibly be. And he was Ben. He was her lover.
It was a word she spoke consciously in her mind, savoring it.
He was her lover.
Better than husband. Ah, far better. There was freedom in being a lover. Pleasure freely given and freely received.
His hands lifted her slightly by the hips, and suddenly he was in command, moving in her, withdrawing and thrusting with firm, deep strokes that had her reaching for his chest with her fingertips to steady herself and tipping back her head so that she could feel. He was working fast and hard but with a steady rhythm that invited a slight turning of her hips to circle his thrusts and a contracting and relaxing of inner muscles to gather him deeper and release him. And she braced her knees and rode while his hips flexed and relaxed against her inner thighs and his breathing became labored and his chest and her hands on it became hot and slick with sweat, and always, unrelentingly, he demanded entrance to … where?
Where else was there to go? He was already deeper than deep.
But then something opened up anyway, something deep within, something soft, near painful, beyond words to describe, and he came in hard and deep and thrusting and she closed around him and spilled out all the inner wonder of that unknown place and whispered his name.
He came two, three, four more times into that soft, lovely place, thrusting his demand and then finding his own place. She felt heat, heard him sigh, felt him gradually relax, and went down into his waiting arms until she was lying along his body again, her legs straight beside his own. They were still joined.
Was it impotence he had feared? Perhaps she had feared it too—for his sake. She almost laughed with delight.
A few moments later she felt the bedcovers come up over her back and shoulders. His arms held them in place, and they lay still and relaxed in each other’s arms for several minutes.
“We forgot something,” he said at last, his voice soft against her ear.
“Mm?” She was more than half asleep.
“I spilled my seed in you,” he said.
“Mm.” She was awake now. The fingers of one of his hands were playing through her hair.
“We will have to make … arrangements before I leave,” he said.
She opened her eyes to stare at the lighter square of the window.
“I must see to it that you have somewhere to write,” he said, “if I need to come back.”
She had thought of it but had deliberately ignored the thought, which was extremely foolish and irresponsible of her.
“I did not conceive during my marriage,” she said.
“Which does not mean you are barren,” he told her.
Did this mean their affair was over? Almost before it had begun? Would they not risk it again?