Текст книги "Sensational"
Автор книги: Janet Nissenson
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
He did cry a little, however, when he came – his body bucking from the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of coming inside her for long, endless seconds. Unable to control his reactions any longer, to hide the sorrow he felt at knowing this was his good-bye to her, Ben buried his face against the side of her neck, hoping against hope that she would mistake his tears for perspiration, would think his body was trembling all over merely from the force of his climax and not from his silent weeping.
And when he sensed Lauren’s concern, felt her slender fingers caressing his damp cheek or rubbing soothing circles over his back, he didn’t allow her the opportunity to question him or think about it any longer. Instead, he kissed her again, his hands cupping her breasts, squeezing her ass, caressing her thighs until she was groaning with pleasure and his cock responded faithfully.
He kept at her for hours, as though in just one night he’d be able to make up for the lonely lifetime without her that awaited him. He kissed her until her lips were bruised and swollen, sucked her nipples until they were red and sore, and whisker burn covered every inch of her torso. And when she reluctantly admitted she was too sore to fuck again, he replaced his cock with his lips and tongue, not in the least concerned with the fact that she was still wet and sticky from the multiple times he’d come inside of her tonight. His balls ached from the numerous orgasms he’d enjoyed, his back scored in too many places to count from her fingernails, and his throat was raspy and raw from the cries of pleasure she’d coaxed from him.
And when Lauren finally succumbed to exhaustion, falling into a deep, soundless sleep, he held her in his arms for a long time, unwilling to let her go. In the end, it took every ounce of control he could summon up to gently ease himself out of the bed where he’d shared far more than just his body with her over the past ten days.
As silently as possible, he dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing when he’d first arrived here a week and a half ago. He had never actually gotten around to unpacking, living instead out of his saddlebags as he always did. His fingers hesitated as he picked up the expensive Nikon camera Lauren had insisted he keep, at a loss as to what to do with it. If he kept it, then he’d feel like even more of a freeloader than he already did. But if he left it here, it would seem as though he was rejecting her gift – in much the same way, he thought grimly, that he was rejecting Lauren herself.
Furiously blinking back tears, Ben picked up the camera and focused it on Lauren’s prone body. He couldn’t help smiling as he watched her sprawled out carelessly, her small body nonetheless taking up more than half the bed in the way she always slept. Keeping the flash off, not daring to wake her, he snapped half a dozen shots to add to his already sizeable collection of Lauren photos – a good many of them showing her in various stages of undress, and even in the nude as she was now.
He put the camera away reluctantly, storing it with the utmost care among his things, and then gazed down at her one final time. When it had been time to leave Ohio to go to college, Ben had thought nothing of bidding his parents, half-siblings, and friends farewell, not giving any of them much of a second thought. And there had been no regrets, no overly sentimental feelings when he’d graduated from college and said farewell to his friends there. Ben had few real friends, no permanent ties, and he’d never once felt the urge to overstay his welcome anywhere or with anyone.
But as he stared down at the woman he knew would be his one and only, no matter who else might pass through his life in the years to come, Ben’s heart broke into a thousand tiny pieces. He blew her a kiss, not trusting himself to touch her again, for fear he’d tell all of his good intentions to go fuck off before crawling back into bed with her.
“Good-by, sweetheart,” he whispered brokenly. “Be brilliant for me. Shine brighter than the brightest star. And know that I’m doing this because I love you too damned much to stay and ruin your life.”
He made it as far south as Lucia, the tiny coastal outpost where Lauren had brought him to explore just a few days ago, before he had to pull off to the side of the road. It was only then that he allowed the tears to fall freely and without restraint.
***
She’d always had a bit of a sixth sense about things, and thus she knew something was different – wrong – the moment she woke. The other side of the bed was empty, though she could still smell his scent on the sheets, mingled with the unmistakable odors of sex. Lauren winced as she pushed herself to a sitting position, feeling sore and tender in too many places to count. A quick check of her body revealed several patches of red, rashy razor burn, a handful of love bites, some rapidly darkening bruises. Last night’s wild, out of control sex marathon with Ben had been far more physically demanding – and punishing – than any of the sporting events she’d participated in over the years.
As she forced herself out of bed on surprisingly shaky legs, the first thing she noticed was the absence of Ben’s bags. Since his first day here she’d nagged at him to unpack, showing him the space she’d cleared for his things in the closet and dresser. But Ben had always demurred, saying it was no big deal and that he didn’t have all that much stuff.
At the time she’d shrugged it off, but now – as she padded around the cabin stark naked, searching for any sign of her lover – she began to realize that Ben had never intended to put down any sort of roots, or make any kind of commitment to her.
Lauren grabbed some clothes out of the dresser, barely noticing what items she took, and dressed quickly, anxious to see for herself if Ben was well and truly gone. The rest of the cabin was as quiet and empty as the bedroom, and by the time she hit the driveway she was running. She didn’t flinch even once as her bare feet made contact with the gravel, didn’t slow down even though she was jogging uphill.
And when she saw that his motorcycle was gone, she dropped to her knees right there, welcoming the pain from the gravel digging into her skin. For long minutes she just sat there on her haunches, staring at the empty space where the bike was usually parked.
He was gone. From the cabin, from Big Sur, from her bed, her life. He’d snuck out like a thief in the night, without leaving a note or an explanation, or even telling her good-bye.
But then Lauren realized that he had told her farewell, that his desperate, devouring lovemaking last night had been Ben’s way of bidding her adieu. What he hadn’t been able to express in words, he’d done with his lips and hands and body.
As she continued to sit there in the middle of the driveway, too frozen to move, her shock gradually began to morph into disbelief, and then into a slow, burning anger.
She surged to her feet, her eyes snapping as the curses began to flow freely from her lips. “Bastard. Prick. Conniving, cold-hearted sonovabitch. Scummy, no-good liar. Putano. Pendejo. Fils de pute. Salaud. If he was here right now I’d kick his ass over the cliff, dislocate all of his fingers, slice off his balls. Just for starters.”
Lauren stormed back down the driveway into the cabin, slamming the front door so hard that all three of the dogs looked up in alarm. In the kitchen she took great pleasure in making as much noise as possible while starting a pot of coffee and popping a bagel into the toaster.
She ate and drank without tasting a thing before storming back into the bedroom to find some shoes. She glared darkly at the mussed bed, suddenly finding the lingering scents of sweat and sex offensive, and promptly stripped the sheets off the mattress.
She took the dogs for their usual morning jaunt, ignoring the fact that the three of them kept looking around anxiously for Ben. “Traitors,” she hissed at them crossly. “And stop looking so sad. He isn’t here any longer. The big jerk just up and left this morning without having the guts to even say good-bye. Or leave his fucking email address.”
And then the stream of curses began anew, each one more colorful than the last, switching rapidly between English, Spanish, and French, three languages in which she was fluent, and knew all the dirty words.
Back at the cabin, she spit on the driveway where his motorcycle had been parked, thinking savagely that she should have slashed the tires of the beat-up bike. And then inspiration hit her as she quickly fed the dogs, gulped down another mug of heavily creamed and sugared coffee, and munched on one of the leftover brownies. With her ADHD, caffeine and sugar were two stimulants she had been warned to avoid but that she also had an admitted addiction to.
Five minutes later she was behind the wheel of her truck and tearing south along Highway One. She’d glimpsed Ben’s proposed itinerary once, knew that his next stop was at Hearst Castle. Lauren wasn’t sure exactly how long ago he’d left Big Sur, but she figured she could be in San Simeon well before lunchtime if she hustled.
But she only made it ten miles out of town before pulling over to the side of the road. While it was extremely tempting to go find that lying, manipulative bastard and give him a piece of her mind – not to mention her fists – her pride was suddenly rearing its ugly head. Did she really want to go chasing after a man who clearly didn’t want her, who hadn’t even cared enough to leave a goddamned note? Where was her sense of self-worth, for God’s sake, to go haring after a man who’d dumped her without so much as a backwards glance?
“Fuck him,” she swore vividly. “If he doesn’t appreciate me, what we could have had, then fuck Ben fucking Rafferty to hell. I’ve got better things to do with my time than think about a loser like him for even one more minute.”
She turned the truck around and headed back into town where she hung around for an hour or so – grabbing another cup of coffee which would only make her hyperactivity that much worse; buying half a dozen items at the general store that she really didn’t need; popping in to say hello to some longtime friends of her parents who owned a local art gallery.
When she arrived back at the cabin, she threw herself into tidying the place up – putting clean sheets on the bed and starting a load of laundry; scrubbing the bathroom from top to bottom; restoring some sort of order to the admittedly messy loft space.
For dinner she made one of her favorite comfort food creations – mac and cheese with cut-up hot dogs – and ate until her stomach hurt. She took the dogs for their usual evening walk, blocking out the image of Ben strolling along leisurely by her side.
Back at the cabin she slipped into the hot tub sans clothing, as was her norm when she was alone – or with a gorgeous, chiseled hunk with dark blond hair and three day stubble. Ben was the only man she’d ever invited to stay here at the cabin, and she forced herself not to recall how many times over the past ten days they had kissed and cuddled and even had sex right here in the hot tub.
Lauren sat out on the deck for a long time after her soak, swaddled up in a well-worn flannel bathrobe that was riddled with holes and stains but that she loved beyond reason and always kept here at the cabin. She drank a beer, quickly switched to tequila, then sought out a bottle of single malt Scotch. Her normally cast iron stomach began to rebel at mixing alcohol, and she irritably slammed the shot glass down.
The first tear trickled down her cheek and plopped onto her lap before she was even aware that she was crying. And then the tears fell freely, the sobs wracking her slender body almost violently. It was only the feel of a cold, wet nose poking against her cheek that finally caused her brokenhearted weeping to slow down. Gracie, the lone female of the pack, had jumped up onto the settee, whimpering in distress at her mistress’s cries. Lauren cuddled the dog close, burying her face in Gracie’s soft coat, and drawing comfort from the warm, furry body.
And even though she normally banned the dogs from the bedroom, much less her bed, that night she urged all three of them to cuddle with her, unwilling to be alone for fear she’d never stop crying otherwise.
***
By the time her parents arrived home a few days after Ben’s departure, Lauren had forced her wayward emotions back beneath the surface. Robert and Natalie never suspected for a minute that during their absence their daughter had fallen deeply in love for the first time in her young life, only to have her heart and her spirit irrevocably broken. To them, she was the same carefree, outspoken Lauren she’d always been, the one who asked about their trip, updated them on the goings-on at the gallery, and discussed her class schedule for the upcoming fall semester.
Julia arrived in town for a visit towards the middle of August, and she, too, never noticed anything amiss with her twin. The girls made a quick trip north to Palo Alto to hang out with their best friend Angela for a couple of days, and it was just like old times back in high school.
And by the time early September rolled around, and with it the need to pack up her things and head back to L.A., Lauren had managed to convince herself that she was well and truly over that bastard Ben Rafferty. She shrugged off the ten days they’d spent together as nothing more than a fun, frivolous summer fling, and now she was more than ready to move on. Maybe she’d finally agree to go out with the hot, tattooed guitar player who lived across the street from her rental, the one she’d previously shunned because one of her roommates had dubbed him Manwhore of the Year. Or maybe she’d ask that cute sales clerk at R.E.I. to have coffee so they could continue their discussion on rock climbing.
Whatever she did – whoever she might date or flirt with or even fuck in the future – there were two things of which Lauren was absolutely certain. One was that never again would she put herself in a position to have her heart and her spirit crushed like Ben had managed to do this past summer. And the second was that she would never – ever – cry over a man again.
Chapter Five
Eighteen Months Later – Mozambique
“Is the fact that you’re out here all alone mean that you didn’t get lucky last night after all?”
Lauren glanced up from the French newspaper she’d been poring over while sipping coffee and eating a bowl of fresh fruit and yogurt. “Depends on your definition of lucky,” she drawled. “If you’re asking if I shagged the jerk then the answer is a very unfortunate yes. But the word lucky doesn’t figure into the conversation for even a second. I would use the phrases “gravely disappointed” and “psychotically pissed off” instead.”
The three other members of her production crew quickly took seats at the patio table where she’d set up camp nearly half an hour ago. Each one of the men looked half-asleep, more than a little hungover, but also extremely intrigued by the reply she’d just given to Chris’s question.
“So where is Loverboy this morning?” inquired Stefan cheerily. “Did you wear him out?”
Lauren snorted in derision. “Hardly. After one go-round with Two Pump Chump, I was trying to figure out exactly how much I’d had to drink last night. Because I gotta tell you guys – there is no other excuse aside from being stinking drunk for me to have tapped that. As for where he is this morning, my guess would be at the closest medical clinic.”
Karl’s face held a pained expression. “What did you do this time, Lauren?” he asked in exasperation.
She shrugged nonchalantly and reached for her second croissant of the morning. “Nothing he didn’t deserve. And believe me, when you hear what that fucker was trying to get away with, you’ll all agree he got off easy.”
Chris smirked as he helped himself to coffee from the carafe that had been left on the table. “You sent the guy to the hospital just because he turned out to be a minuteman?”
Lauren refilled her own cup once Chris was done and began to dump cream and sugar – a great deal of it – into the strong African brew. “Minuteman? You’re being generous, Chris,” she replied caustically. “I’d say more like thirty seconds, if that. But, no, that isn’t why he’s probably seeking medical attention right about now. That would be due to the fact that the lying scumbag was trying to steal photos off my laptop. Turns out the bastard works for the travel bureau of one of those third-rate news agencies, didn’t have the budget to go on the dive we took yesterday, and thought he’d help himself to one of my photos for his article.”
Karl emitted a low whistle. “That’s fucked up, kiddo. How’d you figure it out?”
She slathered more butter on her croissant. “Caught him red-handed. I had a weird feeling about him from the minute we walked inside my room – the way he kept looking around, some of the questions he asked. So after the most pathetic excuse for a shag you could ever imagine, I pretended to fall asleep. He barely waited five minutes before he booted up my computer and plugged in his flash drive.”
“Ah, shit.” Chris shook his head. “How bad did you mess him up? Are we going to have to scrub blood off the floor or anything?”
“Nah.” Lauren waved a hand in dismissal. “I mean, I was so pissed I didn’t trust myself with a knife. Especially when the little prick – and you can take that description figuratively and literally – started whining that he was only going to copy one photo. Like that made it okay.”
Stefan regarded her with a guarded expression. “So what exactly did you do to him?”
She grinned evilly. “I told him that copying just one photo was a wise decision, since that meant I only had to dislocate one of his fingers. But then I remembered how he’d shot his load off before I’d even gotten warmed up, so I jerked a second finger out of joint as payback.”
All three men stared at her in mingled shock, amusement, and honest to God fear.
“Jesus,” muttered Karl. “You are terrifying, kiddo. Fucking terrifying. So what did Quickdraw McGraw do then?”
“Screamed like a teenaged girl at a rock concert,” replied Lauren matter-of-factly. “And while he was wailing away I grabbed his little flash drive and flushed it down the toilet. Then I got the knife out and slashed holes in all his clothes. He had some nice stuff, too – Ralph Lauren shirt, Diesel jeans, Magli boots.”
Stefan shook his flaxen head in disbelief. “You even slashed his boots? I remember admiring those Magli’s last night in the bar, too. He must have been pretty pissed off.”
Lauren winked at her crew members. “He was too busy chasing after his stuff. After I shredded them I tossed everything off the balcony.”
“Isn’t your room on the third floor?” inquired Karl.
“Yup.” She eyed the basket of croissants longingly, wondering if taking a third would officially classify her as a glutton. “Lucky for him it was late and no one else saw him running around bare-assed naked. Or wearing see-through clothes.”
Chris was laughing uncontrollably by now, clutching his stomach. “Christ, I can just picture him running around the lawn picking up his boxers and boots. And didn’t it rain most of the night?”
“Like cats and dogs. Though Minuteman looked more like a drowned rat by the time he ran off,” clarified Lauren. “Serves the cocksucker right. He’s damned lucky he got off that easy.”
Karl ran a hand through his nearly shoulder length dirty blond hair. As the oldest of the crew, he tried – usually unsuccessfully – to keep the others in line when they were on assignment. And ever since Lauren had joined the team six months ago, he’d more than had his hands full trying rather futilely to do just that.
He pointed a finger at her. “You’d better hope he doesn’t press charges, kiddo. Or file a complaint with the magazine. I’m guessing he already knows who we work for.”
“Yeah, right,” scoffed Lauren. “Because every guy I know – including you, Karla, Christina, and Stefanie – would be so anxious to admit some girl half your size dislocated your fingers and tossed your clothes off the balcony.”
Lauren had christened each of them with the feminine versions of their names within the first month of her joining the crew. It had been towards the end of an assignment, and only Lauren hadn’t been tired or cranky or eager to get home. She’d joked then that they were all acting like a bunch of high school girls, and from that point on she teased them with their nicknames whenever they got a little whiny.
The three men exchanged a glance before Karl nodded sheepishly. “I see your point. And hopefully Quickdraw will think twice about trying to poach someone else’s work again.”
“And I’ll tell you right now what else is never going to happen again,” declared Lauren. She glared darkly at Chris. “You are never again going to dare me to do anything that involves boinking some dude. You know I’ve got a problem, Chris,” she whined. “When someone dares me to do something I can’t back down, no matter what. So in the future dare me to do stuff like eat bugs or do a handstand on a six-inch wide ledge. But no – more – guys. Got it?”
Chris heaved a sigh of resignation. “Fine. But only because I don’t want a dislocated finger of my own.”
Karl chuckled. “Now that we’ve heard all the juicy details of Her Majesty’s adventures last night, let’s talk about today’s adventure, hmm?”
Lauren grinned at Karl’s use of the nickname Chris had come up with during her first assignment in Guadeloupe. They’d run into some difficulty with their hotel reservations, and she had shoved Stefan aside as he’d tried to resolve the problem in his usual calm, diplomatic manner. Instead, Lauren had let loose on the hapless desk clerk with a stream of rapid fire French. Within five minutes they had been handed room keys, and Chris had dubbed Lauren “The Queen of Confrontation.”
She’d looked at him quizzically. “Huh?”
“You know, like from Seinfeld,” he’d explained. “They used to called Julia Louis Dreyfuss’s character that because she always got in peoples’ faces and said what was on her mind. But you’re way ballsier than she ever was.”
So the nickname had stuck, and had gradually evolved into the abbreviated “Her Majesty”. And Lauren continued to make sure she remained worthy of such a title, never backing down from a confrontation or allowing anyone to intimidate her. The rest of the crew always seemed more than a little in awe of her, and in barely six months’ time Lauren had become the unspoken leader of the group.
Landing the job as a photographer with National Geographic Travel right after college had been so far beyond what Lauren could have hoped to achieve at this point in her life that at times she still couldn’t believe it. She’d entered a photography contest sponsored by the magazine during the fall semester of her senior year at UCLA, never expecting to win.
But win she had, and landed this job with the magazine’s travel affiliate that had been part of the prize. At the age of twenty two, she was traveling to all of the places she’d always dreamed of seeing, and taking photos of the tourist attractions and activities each location offered, like yesterday’s amazing dive off the Bazaruto Archipelago.
As the very junior member of her crew, Lauren had been fully prepared to have to prove herself to the three other members, to slowly gain their respect and earn her stripes. But she’d been pleasantly surprised at how easily and how quickly the three male members of the crew had accepted her and made her feel like one of them.
Karl, who wrote all of the articles and photo captions, was in his early thirties, tall and rangy with his long, dirty blond hair, and a full beard and mustache. He favored ripped jeans, funky T-shirts, and cowboy boots, and nearly always traveled with his guitar in tow. When he wasn’t on assignment, or attending planning meetings in New York, he lived with his longtime girlfriend in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
Chris, the videographer, was in his late twenties and lived fulltime in Manhattan. Lauren had dubbed him – to his face – “a hipster doofus”. No matter the weather or climate he nearly always wore a knit cap of some type, his oddly mismatched clothes hanging loosely on his skinny frame. And, as Lauren teased him about on a regular basis, he couldn’t hold his liquor worth shit, and had the most appalling taste in women she’d ever seen.
Stefan was the crew’s producer, the person who worked with the magazine staff to make travel arrangements, obtain any necessary travel visas, procured film permits when required, and acted as liaison with the local tourist bureaus and adventure outfitters. He hailed from Sweden, spoke half a dozen languages, and thought everything Lauren said and did was both hilarious and rather shocking. She, in turn, loved to shake up the rather prim, reserved Swede as often as possible.
But as different as all of them might be, they jelled together very, very well, and it was rare when they totally disagreed on how to approach a feature. Lauren considered all of them to be good friends as well as co-workers, and trusted that none of them would ever make a serious pass at her – Karl because of his long-term but complicated relationship with his girlfriend Tamsyn; Stefan because he was more than half-afraid of her; and Chris – well, he’d got the message loud and clear during their first assignment that Lauren was not interested. Since then the videographer had treated her solely as a co-worker, drinking buddy, and fellow adventure seeker.
Lauren loved her job, thanked her lucky stars every single day that she’d been fortunate enough to win the photography contest, and therefore been able to realize her dreams so quickly. She thrived on the challenges the job presented, loved the ability of being able to combine her chosen profession with her love of adventure and physical activity. Thus far, the assignments had called for her to go scuba diving and snorkeling, white water rafting in Class IV rapids, hang gliding, horseback riding, ascend and rappel steep cliffs on fixed ropes, and ride dune buggies in the desert.
No job was perfect, however, and there were two major downsides that she had to deal with on a regular basis. One of those was the fact that her presence was required in New York City for a couple of weeks after each assignment had been finished. The crew would spend that time putting the finishing touches on their article before handing it over to the production staff, and then they would review plans for their next assignment. Once everything had been wrapped up, Lauren would head back to Big Sur for two to three weeks until it was time to embark on the next adventure.
She was no stranger to New York, having spent quite a bit of time there over the years. Her maternal grandparents had emigrated to the city from their native Montreal when Lauren’s mother and aunt had been just eight years old. Along with her parents and sister, Lauren had visited her grandparents and Aunt Maddy every summer and spent each Thanksgiving with them as well. And while Julia had always loved New York – the museums and theaters and restaurants, not to mention all of the fashion boutiques and high-end department stores – Lauren hadn’t shared her twin’s sentiments. She found Manhattan noisy, crowded, and claustrophobic, and couldn’t wait to leave each time she finished up with an assignment, was always eager to return to her beloved cabin in wild, rugged Big Sur.
Her grandparents had died within a year of each other a couple of years back, and their brownstone on the Upper East Side had been sold. Julia lived in Manhattan now, apprenticing at an interior design firm, but her tiny apartment was barely big enough to accommodate her and her extensive wardrobe. So whenever Lauren had to be in town, she stayed with Aunt Maddy, who owned a spacious apartment conveniently located near her job as the head buyer at Bergdorf Goodman, Manhattan’s most exclusive department store. And as much as Lauren adored spending time with both her sister and their beloved aunt, it was always with a sense of relief that she boarded a flight out of New York, whether it was to return home or to head out on a new assignment.
And that was the second issue she had with an otherwise dream job – the travel arrangements. Nadine, the staff member who was responsible for making flight and hotel reservations for the crews, stuck to the budget she’d been given like a hawk. She prided herself on not just staying within budget but saving the magazine as much money as possible. That was why the crew rarely got direct flights anywhere, being forced to make connections and endure long layovers. Each time Lauren had to fly to New York from the West Coast it was on a red-eye. Checking baggage was frowned upon since it incurred extra charges. And their accommodations were often on the borderline between three stars and dicey. Lauren certainly didn’t expect to sleep on five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, or have a top of the line flat panel TV with a hundred cable channels in her room. But she drew the line at mildew on the shower walls, or air conditioning that didn’t work, and she would often nag and complain to the front desk staff until she got moved to a better room.
Yet another of Nadine’s cost-cutting tricks was to book their trips during the off season. That was why they’d traveled to Mozambique at the height of rainy season, and why the drive from the airport out to the guest lodge had been made through a torrential downpour and over nearly washed out roads. When Lauren had seen the nasty weather upon landing a few days ago, she’d overridden Nadine’s strict instructions and rented a vehicle with four wheel drive and tires that wouldn’t get them stuck in the mud. A stern lecture on staying within the budget would be awaiting her upon their return to New York, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’d pissed Nadine off and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.
