O+F Part 47

"That's the idea. Want some tea?" Oliver nodded while his eyes lingered on the quilt. He went into the kitchen and watched Suzanne make tea.

She was wearing faded white jeans and a long mustard colored sweatshirt that clung to her curves. So compact and modest. Where did that superb quilt come from?

"It's so good to see you," she said, putting his tea in front of him.

He looked at her intently. "G.o.d, you're beautiful!"

She sat down, considering. "My teeth are too big. I look like a bulldog." She raised her eyes to his. "I guess I'm all right from the neck down."

"You're so--_connected, _" he said. "Your face is like your body. Your hand is like your face."

"I'm feeling bad about this," Suzanne said. She got up suddenly and knelt by his chair. "Oliver . . ." He pushed back from the table. She buried her face in his lap, and he stroked her hair as she rocked her head back and forth.

"What?" he asked.

"Help me."

"Of course, of course I will."

"I've been so bad," she said. "I keep thinking of your little girl."

She rose on her knees. Her face was lost and pleading. She reached down and undid her jeans. She pushed her jeans and underwear down over her hips and put her hands on his legs. She swallowed. "I know it's crazy."

Her voice trembled. "Would you spank me, Oliver? Please?" He didn't say anything, and she placed herself across his lap. He felt foolish. He raised his hand and slapped her lightly. "Harder," she said. "Please."

He slapped her harder and felt her sigh. She lifted and waited for the next blow. Soon she was whimpering and breathing harder, crying out when he struck. As he spanked her, the cries became more intense. He began to want them; he felt as though they were his--or theirs. When she collapsed, weeping, he stopped and lifted her from his knees. He stood and carried her to the bedroom. He lowered her to the bed and lay next to her, caressing her slowly.

Her face became calm. "So good to me," she said without opening her eyes. He took off his clothes and hovered over her. Her mouth was partly open, expectant. He couldn't think any more. He plunged down and into her. She quivered and took him, let him f.u.c.k her as hard as he wanted, arched under his bite, and held him while he made her his.

"Are you all right?" Oliver asked, ten minutes later.

"Does the Pope wear funny hats?"

"Suzanne?"

She rolled against him, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s soft on his upper arm. "Yes?"

"G.o.d, Suzanne. That was different." She put her hand on his chest and rubbed slow circles, the way she'd done when he'd had a headache. "I've been on the receiving end--a while back. But I never dished it out like that."

"How did it feel?"

"Kind of strange, at first. Then it felt good."

"I knew we were in trouble," she said. "What happened?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"To that relationship, when you were--receiving."

"Oh," he said. "I changed. Yi! What time is it?"

"Getting on for three."

"Baby, I've got to run. I hate to." He was already dressing.

"I know," she said.

He was gaining speed. Deweys was his only hope. He had to get there and get Suzanne to the back of his mind before he could go home. The quilt stopped him.

"Suzanne." She came naked into the living room. "This quilt is special." He thought. "It's because you are . . . And I don't mean just because you're twenty-seven and gorgeous. How did you do it?"

"I follow my heart, that's all." She looked at the quilt. "It needs a lot of work."

"I've really got to go. d.a.m.n!"

She blew him a wistful kiss. "Bye, Baby."

Oliver fled. He drove fast, hoping that speed would force him into the present, that driving would require all of his attention, but images of Jacky and Suzanne kept replacing each other in front of him. Suzanne surrendered to him the way he had surrendered to Jacky. Suzanne gave herself to him totally. Her trusting eyes put him in a powerful place.

But as he swelled with strength, something else happened--a little voice whispered: _take care of her; she's yours._ He never felt that with Jacky or with Jennifer. They took care of themselves.

The quilt had shocked him. Suzanne was gifted. She was so s.e.xy, so physical, so loving--how could she not have children? She deserved a good husband and family, not a misfit for a lover, too old for her, and married besides. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. G.o.d. Oliver drove faster.

"Pint of the finest," he said to Sam. His favorite spot was empty at the end of the bar. He leaned against the wall and listened to Taj Mahal playing the blues, keeping precise and honest time. He slid the empty gla.s.s toward Sam. "Let's do that again." Women. Halfway through the second pint, he said it out loud, "Women," and let go a deep breath. Deweys at that hour was securely masculine. It was understood that women were a source of difficulty, desirable though they were.

Oliver glanced around the room. The man didn't exist, in Deweys, at that hour, who didn't have the scars to prove it.

He raised his gla.s.s to Mark who had just come in. "What are you going to do?" he said.

"About what?"

"Women."

"Ah, marriage," Mark said.

"It's not so bad," Oliver said. Better than the first time. Love the kid. But, Jennifer's working less and spending more. She wants to have another baby and be a full time momma. She wants to add on to the house."

"You just got the house."

"I know. What she wants to do makes sense, but it's a lot of money.

Most of her friends have boats. They _all_ have boats. Wouldn't it be nice to go sailing with Emma?" Oliver lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "She's even got me lined me up for a good job at a bank."

"Where the money is," Mark said.

"I mean, it's not bad. It's just . . ." Oliver shook his head negatively. "Gathering clouds," he said.

"Sounds like a stripper," Mark said. "Wasn't there a famous stripper--Tempest Storm?"

"I don't need a stripper," Oliver said, suddenly pleased with himself.

"Tempest Storm," Richard O'Grady said, shuffling to the bar, bright eyed. "Volcanic!"

"Hey, Richard. What's happening?"