Her Immortal Love
Her Immortal Love
A Romantic Novel of Timeless Love
by
Diana Castle
Table of Contents
Chapter One
“C’mon, Lydia, loosen up already. You haven’t danced once. You gotta trust yourself at some point.”
Lydia March looked across the table at her best friend, Saffron Kidde. Short, red hair framed Saffron’s long, square-jawed face. Her green eyes flared with barely disguised annoyance.
Lydia fidgeted with the silver clasp on her black beaded purse. Trust herself? That was easier said than done.
“I’m sorry, Saff,” she said. “It’s been awhile since I’ve gone out. I'm still a little nervous.”
It was Saturday night and the campus bar was packed. People swarmed through the club, negotiating the crowded tables to get to the bartenders, the bathroom or the packed dance floor.
Lydia would have preferred being at home wolfing down handfuls of dark chocolate and getting hot and bothered reading one of her erotic romance novels, but Saffron had been trying for months to get her to go out. Tonight she had stubbornly refused to take no for an answer, even threatening to drag Lydia out by her heels if necessary.
Saffron’s eyes softened. “No, I'm the one who should be sorry.” She patted Lydia’s hand. “I keep forgetting. You were a kept woman for nearly twenty years.”
Lydia shook her head, her auburn, shoulder-length hair swinging across her shoulders. “Not a kept woman. Just a wife.”
Saffron leaned across the small table. “Look, hon, I’ve got a couple of really stiff drinks in me so I’m going to give it to you straight
.
Get over it.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “What?”
“It’s been almost a year since your divorce. Douglas is remarried and I say good riddance to bad rubbish. That part of your life is over. It’s time to start living for yourself. And to do that you gotta learn to let go and trust yourself.”
Lydia touched her throat. Let go? Trust herself? By hanging out at a campus bar with people half her age? Coming to the bar had been Saffron’s idea. In her friend's expert opinion, the last thing Lydia needed was to date another man like her ex,
What Lydia needed was someone new.
Exciting.
Virile.
Like a younger man.
Lydia had recently turned thirty-nine. Saffron was forty-two and she had started dating younger men the day she turned forty. As she’d told Lydia countless times, she wished she had started sooner.
“I just want you to be happy, hon,” Saffron went on, her head bobbing in time to the throbbing music blasting from the oversized speakers.
Lydia grasped her friend’s hand and squeezed it. “I know. And I appreciate it.”
“You damn well better appreciate it. I mean, come on, would you rather be here surrounded by hot, available younger men or at your mother’s playing bridge with the Weird Sisters?”
Saffron had dubbed her mother and her bridge playing friends the Weird Sisters after the three witches from
Macbeth
, which, apparently, was the one and only Shakespeare play Saffron had ever seen. When Lydia pointed out that her mother’s bridge club consisted of four women not three, Saffron only shrugged.
“Wanna dance?”
A dark-haired young man, who looked barely old enough to be in the bar, had slid in next to Saffron.
Saffron gave him a dazzling smile. “Love to.” She glanced at Lydia. “You don’t mind, do you, hon?”
Lydia shook her head. She had no idea why Saffron kept asking her. She certainly hadn’t minded the half dozen times her friend had gone off to shake her behind.
Saffron and the young man made their way to the dance floor. A hard-hitting, pulse-pounding, head-splitting song roared through the speakers. The two began moving their bodies to the beat.
A blush warmed Lydia’s cheeks. Dancing certainly had changed since the last time she'd gone out. It looked more as if people were having sex than dancing.
Young women gyrated their slim hips, rotated their tight butts and shook their perky breasts. Most of them, despite the fact it was early fall, wore skimpy, barely-there outfits. Sweat glistened on their smooth skin and their hair swung wildly. Some even had their eyes closed and their heads thrown back as if they were having orgasms while they danced.
As for the young men, although their dancing wasn’t quite as erotic as the women's, their bodies moved with the same wild abandon. As Lydia watched them, she couldn’t help imagining all of them naked and sweaty, their tight, muscular bodies on top of her.
Inside of her.
Thrusting as hard and savagely as they danced.
She clenched her hands, her throat tightening. This was ridiculous. She wasn't some twenty-something with firm breasts and a tight behind who could crook her finger and have a horde of young men lusting after her. She was an almost forty-something with breasts that, although still firm, were beginning to sag and a behind, which she worked hard doing squats and lunges to keep tight, was beginning to spread.
She sighed. Why had she let Saffron talk her into coming here?
“Hey.”
Lydia swung around on her chair. A young man with short blond hair and pale blue eyes stood next to her. He looked to be in his early twenties. He smelled faintly of peppermint and beer.
“Hello,” she said. Then, recalling Saffron's suggestion that she loosen up, she gave him a wide smile.
He didn't return her smile. Instead he stared at her breasts. “Here by yourself?”
Lydia shook her head. “I’m with a friend.”
She pointed towards the dance floor where Saffron was rubbing her behind into her partner’s groin, her hands waving in the air, her eyes blissfully closed. Under her tight, white t-shirt the nipples of her flat breasts were clearly visible. Her blue jeans were just as tight as her shirt, but Saffron was thin enough to get away with it.
Lydia would never have dared wear such an outfit. She was in good shape but her breasts were too big and her bottom too round. Her ex-husband had never liked her wearing blue jeans anyway. He had considered them tacky.
The young man glanced at Saffron. “Your friend’s hot.”
“She’d be happy to hear you say that.”
He moved closer, his eyes brazenly raking her body, as if he were trying to tear her clothes off just by looking at her. “You’re not so bad yourself. Wanna dance?”
Lydia shook her head. She’d been asked to dance by a few young men, but she’d turned them all down. She just couldn’t see herself out on that dance floor. The ear-shattering song ended. Another one started. Saffron continued dancing with her boy-toy.
“Wanna fuck?’
Lydia jumped, not certain she’d heard what she thought she had. “What?”
The blond young man gave her a leer that looked out of place on his babyish face. “That’s why you’re here, ain’t it? To get some dick.”
Lydia stared at him, startled both by his use of the crude word and his allegation. Was that really why she was here? Saffron had urged her to come to the campus bar in order to get out of the house. But was there another reason she’d come? It had been over a year since she’d last had sex. That is, if you didn't count her solitary bouts of masturbating. Add in the fact that Douglas was the only man she’d been with the past nineteen years, then yes, she supposed she was not only horny but also curious about other men.
But not this one. She just wanted him to go away and leave her alone.
He leaned closer, his alcohol-fouled breath fogging her face. “I’ll fuck you good. I got myself a long, hard dick.”
His face was no longer babyish. It was hard and mean. He took hold of her arm and squeezed it, his upper lip curling. “C’mon. What are you? Some old lesbo? If you are, you’re in the wrong bar, cunt.”
“Let go of her.”
Lydia looked around. A tall, dark-haired man stood behind her. He looked to be about the same age as the man harassing her, but his classically-handsome face conveyed both strength and maturity. What struck Lydia—besides the fact he was the most attractive man she'd ever seen—was the aura of barely contained violence that radiated from him.
“Let her go. Now. Or, I swear, you’ll regret the day your mother bore you.”
His dark blue eyes blazed as he stared menacingly at the blond young man, who still had his hand gripped about Lydia’s arm. He tried to stare the dark-haired man down but soon dropped his gaze, his head bowed, his shoulders slumping.
Lydia was suddenly reminded of a wildlife show she’d once seen on television. It had been about wolves in the wild. The blond young man’s body language was exactly like that of a young wolf deferring to the alpha of the pack. He released her arm and stepped back from the table.
“Fine. You can have the old dyke.” He moved away—and rather speedily—before disappearing back into the crowd.
She gratefully turned towards her rescuer. “Thank you.”
He gave her a wide smile and, just like that, that air of violence she had sensed about him was gone. Her insides melted as he continued to smile at her.
Goodness, he was gorgeous. But young. So very young.
“No need to thank me,” he said in a low, deep voice that belied his youthful face. “He was way out of line. He had no right treating you that way or saying those things to you.”
He towered over her so she assumed he had to be over six feet tall. A blue shirt stretched across broad shoulders and a wide chest. Gently worn jeans hugged his slim hips. His black hair gleamed in the lights. And his eyes. Those dark blue eyes, framed by thick black lashes, gazed intently into her greenish-gray ones.
“Nevertheless,” she replied. “I am grateful.”
He smiled, deep dimples flashing alongside his firm but generous mouth. Lydia's heart skipped a beat. If he had been drop-dead gorgeous before, those dimples were enough to turn her into a shuddering mass of estrogen goo.
His eyes moved over her, but not in a way that made her skin crawl. She was wearing a black linen shift, and a pair of what Saffron had called “fuck-me” shoes. They were red with heels a bit higher than she was used to. She had thought it a bit dressy for a campus hotspot, but Saffron had made such a fuss about it she’d gone ahead and worn it.
She was glad she had.
He looked back into her eyes. “Are you grateful enough to let me buy you a drink?”
She nervously knitted her fingers together. He had to be at least twenty-five. If not younger. And, although he was nicer than that other young man, she could only assume he wanted the same thing from her.
A one-night fuck.
Seriously. What else could he possibly want? A girlfriend? A wife?
Hardly.
“Thank you, but I'm going to be leaving soon.” She edged her hand towards her purse.
He glanced at her hand then back at her. “That’s too bad. By the way, my name is Tristan Drake. May I inquire as to yours?”
She couldn’t help but smile at his rather quaint turn of phrase. It seemed as out of place in the campus bar as a tuxedo would have been if he’d been wearing one. And, goodness, with his handsome face and gorgeous body he would look absolutely delectable in one
“Lydia,” she replied.
She hoped he didn't think her rude for not giving him her last name but she was, by nature, a cautious person and, now that she was divorced, she was also a single woman living alone.
“Lydia. That’s lovely.” He graced her with another charming smile. “And is there nothing, lovely Lydia, that I can say or do to change your mind about that drink? Or perhaps you’d prefer to dance?”
“No, I…” Lydia grabbed her purse and pulled it towards her, her fingers tightly gripping it. “Really, thank you, for the offer but I…”
She looked around for Saffron but there was no sign of her.
“I understand,” he said.
She looked back at him. Did he understand? Could he truly know what it was like to be so scared that you would rather be alone than be hurt again?
“Don't let it trouble you,” he went on. “It's never easy to trust, is it?”
She stared at him. Now she had a feeling he truly did understand the reason behind her refusal of his offer.
“No, it’s not easy,” she admitted.
Tristan nodded. “Then, perhaps, I'll see you here again.”
Lydia was about to shake her head no. She had no intention of ever coming back to this place. But she wound up doing some kind of weird head jerk that must have looked like she was having a seizure.
“Yes. Maybe,” she finally said.
“I look forward to it.” He offered her his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lydia.”
She hesitated than took his hand. His palm was warm and smooth, his fingers long and supple. Her heart sped up at his touch and she wondered if he could feel the mad beat of her pulse.