The Insiders

"Oh, stop it! You don't know what you're asking me to do, David! I met Brant Newcomb once at a party, and—" She bit her lip quickly, knowing how David reacted to her mentioning the names of other men she'd met at parties. He thought she'd been to bed with all of them.

And now, predictably, she felt him release her and take a step backward.

"You know him? And all this time you didn't even mention it? Why, Eve? Was he one of the guys?"

"David, please! No, he wasn't. I—I was introduced to him and I didn't like him, and that was all. Please don't keep tearing me down just because I did a lot of stupid, foolish things to get back at you. I love you, David!"

There, she had said it again—it was as if she couldn't stop herself from saying that to him, from betraying herself. But at least it had made him soften, and when he held her close to him again, she trembled inside with relief.

Without shame, without pride, she let his arms enfold her, melt her inside their warm, charmed circle. Her knees became familiarly weak as he pressed her against him, his mouth so sweet, so tender on hers that she knew she would give him anything, do anything at all for him, just to have him go on kissing her this way, as if his tongue would scoop out her very soul. Her hands clung to him for balance, and her thighs, with their own kind of radar, parted slightly as he started to swell against them. He moved his mouth to her ear.

"God, Eve! I want you. Whenever you're this close to me, I can't help it You're still my girl, aren't you? All mine, only mine. Say it, baby. I want you to say it!"

This was David the way she loved him most—part satyr, part little boy needing reassurance.

"I'm your girl, David. You know that already. I love you so much, I hurt sometimes because of it!"

He held her even more closely.

"I'll never hurt you again, sweetheart, never! I know I've been a brute and a rat sometimes, but that's only because you have the power to make me so damned jealous! And that's it, Eve. That's what keeps me coming back to you, wanting you. It's your strength, your love for me, the way we understand each other's thoughts and needs without words."

His hands moved over her body, and she shivered, closing her eyes. Why did she have to be such a fool for this man? And what was there so special about him that he alone, of all the men she'd ever known could turn her into a cringing, crawling slave? Her fingers tangled in his crisp-feeling dark hair, traced the firm fine of his jaw. He was her guy, and he needed her!

"Listen, Eve," he was saying seriously, "no matter what I do or say, promise you'll stick with me. I need you so much, and you know it, too, with that ESP of yours. Stick with me, luv, and in the end we'll make it, you and I."

It was the closest he had ever come to committing himself to her, and Eve felt a surge of hope and happiness go through her. He loved her—her instincts had been right all along! He'd marry her someday—of course he would! He was just the type of man who was cautious about marriage, and why not? Wasn't she glad some other woman hadn't snapped him up before?

David felt her melt against him and could almost hear the pounding of her heart against his chest. He hadn't lied about wanting her, nor even about needing her, because he did. Damn the fire that burned between them, that kept him after her like a dog after a particular bitch. No one, not even Gloria, was as exciting to him physically as Eve was—and she loved him, she'd do almost anything for him. It was exciting enough just to look at the lovely woman in his arms and to know that a million guys must lust for her when they saw her on the television screen, but she was his.

"Shut the door, baby. Lock it."

His voice sounded harsh as he shoved her away from him, his fingers fumbling for his belt. Eve understood his harshness and felt that she could not stand another moment without Dave's hands on her. Desire rose and stirred in her like a storm.

Not taking her eyes from him, she backed to the door and slammed it shut, locking it with shaking fingers. He was undressed already, waiting for her. God, how much she wanted him, how much she loved him!

She got on her knees in front of him and started to caress him in the way she knew turned him on the most. It was marvelous to feel the way he responded to her, to hear his groan of pleasure.

This was the first time he'd ever shown his need for her in this house, and this was one time that neither of them should be thinking about sex, but she didn't want to think right now—not about Francie nor about the party she had to attend tonight. She wouldn't let David think, either.

He fell backward onto the bed, pulling her up and over him, his hands urgent on her body.

"Get your damned clothes off, Eve! I want your warm, bare flesh against mine!"

It was like the early days of their love, when the urgency was always there and they had felt, both of them, that it was too good between them to last.

She shivered with delight and excitement as she felt his fingers fumble, helping her undress. Everything was flung aside and onto the floor, even her brand-new de la Renta dress, bought to impress him.

He made love to her for what seemed like hours. The world seemed to be compressed into their bodies and the narrow circumference of the bed they lay upon. And the only sounds in the world were their soft love-words, their ragged breathing.

David made her reach orgasm over and over again, with her vagina contracting each time in spasms that excited him beyond measure.

"Oh, Eve! Oh, sweetheart, you're so wonderful!" he said almost savagely when he allowed himself to climax at last. He kissed her, kept kissing her, while she moaned under the possessiveness and fierceness of his mouth.

He lay inside her and over her for a long time afterward, and she thought that somehow his taking her this way on Francie's bed sealed his possession of her, his need for her. He loves me, he really does, she thought. And the thought of that would make everything else turn out okay.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BRANT NEWCOMB. Cold, icy-blue eyes burning like frost under glinting gold hair. Michelangelo's Eros—cruel, decadent, corrupt.