Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,75

hell, the bitch. "Forget about Hank," he said.

"Yes, " she said, "let's forget about him." And their tongues were touching once again.

Gillian moved back and smiled. The peanut butter jars were empty, and Gillian and Willoughby stared at each other. Gillian's expression was omniscient; Willoughby looked confused.

"Yes," she said.

"No," he said. "No."

"Don't look so sad, Willy. You'll love it."

"It's crazy," he said. "The whole idea is crazy."

"It's a perfectly marvelous idea."

"I can't. I just can't."

"You can, you can."

The martinis sloshed about inside Willoughby's head. He couldn't understand what was happening. No woman had ever attracted him before. Yet he couldn't lie to himself. Gillian Blake had a certain… well, a certain excitement. Only he loved Hank. Still, there had been the hairdresser. And Hank. With that stupid Vince. The bitch!

Gillian reached out and took his hand. Her fingers played with the hairs on the back of his wrist. Then she was tugging gently at him.

"Come on, Willy," she said. "When in Rome, do as the groupers do. Or something. Let's take a walk."

Double damn Hank, Willoughby thought. "Yes," he said. "Let's. I mean, why the hell not?" But he knew nothing would happen. Not with a woman. He simply couldn't.

They walked alongside the dunes, Willoughby sometimes hesitating, and then moving on. Gillian kept pace – not leading, not following. They came to a hollow in the dunes just beyond the cluster of houses, and they stopped.

"This really is nonsensical, Gillian," Willoughby said.

"You don't really believe that, do you, Willoughby?" She snuggled against him.

"Yes, I do. Look, Gillian, I'm a homosexual because I want to be. Women make me sick."

"But I don't make you sick, do I, Willoughby?" she said, and she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his.

"No," he said. "I guess you don't. But I couldn't. I just couldn't."

"Sure you could." Now she was nibbling on his ear.

"No."

"Yes." Now she was kissing him with her tongue.

"Ummm," she murmured. "You do that very well." Willoughby was beginning to feel good. "It's my specialty," he said.

"What's Hank's specialty?"

"Can you guess?" said Willoughby.

Her hand was inside his trousers now, and Willoughby sat as if he was riveted to the sand. An incredible thing was happening. Something that had never happened before in his entire life. He was experiencing a physical reaction to a woman! A physical reaction!

Now Gillian was at him with her mouth – with her soft lips and her skilled tongue. Willoughby lay back with closed eyes. He was being transported out of himself. Christ, but she was good. She was better than Hank! Oh my God! Oh! Oh! Oh my God!

Gillian sat up. "Well," she said. "Do you still think Hank has a corner on the market?"

"Gillian," he said. "Oh, Gillian."

"I know," she said, and they reached for each other and found pleasure in gentle caresses.

They spent perhaps an hour touching each other, exploring each other; Willoughby making new discoveries all the time. Why, a woman's body was interesting! They were both naked now; lying in the cool sand near the breaking sea. Gillian cupped her breasts with her hands and offered them to him. The nipples were firm and erect. Willoughby stared at the proud breasts blossoming in the shadows. Breasts, he thought, breasts. There was something he should do. Breasts. He fastened his eyes on them, and then, with primeval instinct, he leaned forward. He sucked.

A little while later, Gillian gently pushed him away. Her hands were on him again, eliciting stiffness. He tried to push her mouth down to him.

"No," she said. "This time we do it my way."

"But I can't. I never have."

"Come to Gilly," she crooned, caressing him.

"I want to," he said. "I want to." And it was as if the confession gave him strength. He mounted her as she fell back on the sand.

Slowly, gently. Slowly, gently. Slowly, nicely. Oh lovely, lovely. Then faster, quicker, faster, needful. Willoughby was lost in immense, billowy softness and riotous colors and roaring winds; he was the sand and the sea and the star-pierced sky. Faster, faster, faster. Oh, oh, oh…… ahhhhhhh. From far off he heard a faint cry that turned into a moan; it was Gillian, and then Willoughby realized he had been moaning, too. Afterward, they smoked and talked.

"Was I really good?" he asked.

"One of the all-time greats," she said.

"I'll be a son of a bitch," said Willoughby. He got up and strode to the water. He felt manful as hell. He urinated. Then he dipped his hands into the cold surf.

He reached