They talked about a variety of other subjects during dinner, and he was in better spirits by the end of the meal. He enjoyed her company, and thought there was something mysterious about her. And when he was charming and fun to be with, she liked him, and when he was angry and jealous, she wanted to run away from him. There was a bitter layer of envy under his skin. But also times when he was very seductive. She was confused about her feelings for him, and whether she wanted to be friends with him or something more. One thing was certain, she could never confess to him about her work. She would have loved to take someone into her confidence about the books she wrote, but she knew it would never be him.
Their friendship continued erratically, and sometimes she liked going out with him, but when she started her book a few weeks later, she no longer had as much time for him, or the girls from the office who invited her out too. She spent a lot of time on the phone with Bert in Boston, to talk about the book and get direction from him. He was like the conductor and she was the orchestra, playing all the instruments as he directed her. She had enormous respect for him, and trusted what he told her to do. He loved the subtleties of her new plot, with the psychological element she’d added. Her writing was maturing, and the book was going to be better than anything she had written when she finished. She didn’t go out with Ivan for several weeks while she worked on it. He questioned her about her absence when she had dinner at the pub near the office with him again.
“Are you seeing someone else?” he asked her, looking suspicious. She thought about telling him she was ghostwriting again, but she didn’t dare. Who would she say she was doing it for here? She knew no one in England, except him, her boss, and the girls at work. And she hadn’t had time to make other friends, now that she had started writing again. He saw the Smith Corona on her desk, but she had put all the pages of the manuscript away in a locked drawer.
“No, I’m not,” she said innocently. Except the characters in her book, who were fully alive to her.
He acted like a boyfriend at times, and a friend at others. And she was both attracted to him, and afraid of him and his competitive, jealous nature once you scratched the surface. He didn’t seem like the right man to her. She didn’t think Ivan was it. But he was sexy, and he kissed her one night when they came back to her place after dinner, and the kiss was searing. He’d drunk most of a bottle of wine by himself, and she responded to the kiss with more fervor than she wanted to. He ran hot and cold and criticized her so much that sometimes he turned her off totally. But when he kissed her, she felt as though her whole body was on fire. He knew all the right things to do to arouse her, and she was an innocent in his expert hands. He used sex as a means to get women to do what he wanted, and it always worked for him. She had thought she could invite him to come in, but she realized she’d been mistaken.
“No,” she said softly, but without conviction, when he unzipped her jeans, as they sat on the couch together. “I shouldn’t…I don’t want to.” He laughed at what she said, and slipped his hand into the small lacy underwear she was wearing, and she was startled by the tidal wave of sensations he created. It was more powerful than anything she had imagined until then. She had written about sex, but never done it.
“Which is it?” he whispered between kisses, as one expert hand started working her breast. He was coming at her from all directions, her mouth, her nipple, and between her legs, and she could hardly breathe. “You shouldn’t…or you don’t want to? And why shouldn’t you, Alex?” She couldn’t remember the right answer to the question. She had had a few glasses of wine herself, and shouldn’t have done that either, she knew, if she wanted to keep a clear head. But she could no longer remember why that mattered…why did she need a clear head with all the incredible things he was doing to her, and then he slowly peeled off her jeans, and all she knew was that she wanted him to, and it all seemed right. Suddenly she wanted him as she never had before. “I want you, Alex…I need you,” he said passionately, and she needed him too. He spread her legs wide and entered her, ripped off her blouse, and bent to kiss her nipples as she moaned. His hands were everywhere and his mouth, and she was murmuring his name as he moved rhythmically, and then suddenly she gave a sharp cry of pain as he thrust deeper and he paid no attention to it. She dug her nails into his back and was torn between wanting him to stop and wanting it to go on forever, and he gave a loud shuddering cry and so did she. It had been pain and pleasure all at once, and he looked down at her in surprise, as he lay on top of her and realized what had happened.
“Were you a virgin?”
She nodded, as two tears rolled down her cheeks. She had wanted the first time to be with someone she loved passionately, not because desire had overwhelmed her after too much wine. She was ashamed of what she’d done, but she had wanted him so much. He rolled slowly off her and went to get towels to get the blood off her legs, and then he held her tight against him. She wanted him to say he loved her, but he didn’t, and she didn’t love him either. She wasn’t even sure she liked him sometimes, but she had loved what he had done to her, some of the time at least. And she clung to him, feeling lost and confused and guilty, but when he touched her, all she wanted was for him to do it again.
Chapter 12
Their relationship was confusing to Alex. Sometimes Ivan acted as though he hated her, other times as though he loved her, and she wasn’t sure what she felt for him either. She hated his caustic words and resentment, and the chip on his shoulder about anyone who had more than he did or had achieved something he thought should be his. And at other times, he was gentle and loving, and he brought her to heights in bed that bonded her to him in ways that frightened her too. It was not the relationship she had dreamed of or imagined, and yet at times she thought they were best friends.