Strange Women, The by Miriam Gardner

down his glass and held out his arms. His arms were crushingly strong and his mouth vigorous. Then he held her at arm's length, and she heard his roughened breathing.
    "Girl, all day long I watch women taking their clothes on and off, and it doesn't do a damn thing to me. You take down your hair—" he pulled out a pin, sending the copper weight of it tumbling—"and unbutton your blouse button and I could knock you over the head and rape you."
    She leaned forward deliberately and kissed him. She said clearly, "Don't bother knocking me over the head."
    The sun in the bedroom came in bright and clear green through the leaves outside the window. Vic stood in the sunlight, unaffectedly flexing his arms as he cast aside his clothes. He was unashamed of his strong bronzed nakedness, vigorous and virile; his hot eyes made her a little shy, and when she hesitated, he sprang at her, laughing, pretending a Tarzan growl, and she felt her brief panties tear away; she laughed breathlessly and sank under his weight. Though she was taller than he, she felt fragile in his muscular arms.
    It was as wholesome as sunlight—that fierce mating in the glow of day, Vic's hearty strength bearing down on her until she gasped and cried out with the delight of it; then stronger and stronger, the rhythm of elemental need beating up in them both, until a toppling crest of violence swept away all awareness of time or place, daylight or dark. She heard herself cry out without shame or reserve.
    Afterward, lying cool and relaxed in the strong circle of his arms, she had felt the rough touch of his mouth and heard him say softly, "So there's a hell of a lot of woman going to waste under that marble front. I thought so. We won't let it go to waste—will we, girl?"
    They hadn't. Nora knew now—sitting in the deserted hospital cafeteria—that if things had gone on much longer, she and Vic would have drifted into marriage; not love—it never entered her mind, to connect romantic passion with Vic Demorino—but still, a good marriage, born of shared work, compatible interests, and the high flare of intense sexual attraction.
    And then a thin, insolent man on crutches, with the flaming eyes of a caged falcon, had crossed words like swords; she had seen Vic, briefly, at his dictatorial worst, and Kit's high-tension-wire of veiled sensuality had made Vic's hearty lust seem schoolboyish. Vic had not taken her marriage seriously at first, then had been outraged, almost pitying. She had not tried to make him understand...
    She realized, with a start, that she was due at her office in ten minutes. She could just about make it.
    She sent Ramona home when the last patient had gone, but lingered herself; and she did not pretend surprise when Vic came in.
    "Still here, Nora?"
    "Come in, Vic. I saw Mrs. Kerraday for you. She's convinced she's going to have twins or a two-headed freak, and wants an X-ray."
    "Anyone who says twins to me for at least six weeks gets murdered," he groaned. "Kerraday, Kerraday—let me think—oh, her. If she's pregnant with twins, they only have one heart between 'em."
    He sank wearily in the padded chair. "I could go to sleep right here. They wheeled another one upstairs just as I finished up with Pizzetti—emergency Caesarean. Premature twins. Two pounds, odd, apiece. I thought we'd lose one of them, but they're still breathing." He chuckled, his eyes blinking open. "Hey, you know what? That leaves me with no patient expecting to deliver for—" he considered briefly, then rapped his knuckles on the wooden desk-top, "two weeks. Give me a lift home, Nora? My car's in the shop."
    He settled into the car cushions a few minutes later. "God, I am tired. Consider the invitation this afternoon withdrawn. I need sleep —and alone, thanks. Kinsey or somebody ought to write a report on the sex life of the overworked obstetrician."
    She laughed. "Do you really think it would even fill up a pamphlet?"
    She braked at his apartment house, and he