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She’d been foolish, she knew, to do what she just had—and yet, amazingly, right now she didn’t care. Didn’t care because inside her a warmth was spreading—a warmth that seemed to wash through her, through every cell of her body. Taking her over. Her vision seemed to blur for a moment, then cleared—with a clarity she had never known before. Behind her, very close, Angelos was tending the fire, hunched down on the soft, large sheepskin rug that stretched between the sofa and the hearth, brushing his hands free of wood dust. His cashmere sweater stretched over the sculpted musculature of his back. She could see the softness of the fabric, moulding his lean, hard body. Could see, with a strange, luminous clarity, her hand reaching out, the tips of her fingers brushing, scarcely touching, the fine, soft wool.
He stilled, hands pausing in their movement, then hunkered back, twisting as he did so. She drew back her hand. He didn’t speak, only shifted so that he was, she vaguely recognised, now sitting on the rug, one knee drawn up, the other splayed. He crooked his arm around his knee and reached for his cognac. Vaguely, she felt she should get back on to the sofa, but it was comfortable here, leaning back against it. She watched him take a mouthful of his cognac, his eyes holding hers.
They were so dark—a deep, drowning dark—and she gazed into them. Everything was very clear, like crystal, and yet only he was in focus. It was strange … so strange. She went on gazing at him. In the background the music crept, slow and somnolent, weaving its net about her senses. Behind him, the fire crackled softly, its warm light glowing. The lights in the room, too, seemed softer, shadows pooling.
He sat, arm crooked, the slow, rhythmic swirling of his glass flickering in her vision, but she could not look away from him. She could feel, somewhere, that her heart had started to beat—as if till now it had never done so. But now the pulse was tangible, like a low, aching throb.
She wanted to reach out—wanted to let the tips of her fingers brush down again lightly, so lightly, on the soft, luxurious surface of the cashmere. She could feel her hand lift, and as it did, his voice stayed her.
‘Wait.’
His voice came low and deep, with an imperative note in it. Her eyes gazed into his questioningly, confused. He spoke again, in that same low, intense voice.
‘I must know—is this truly what you want?’
His eyes were playing over her face, searching. Searching for the answer he sought—wanted so much. Had waited for so long, it seemed. All evening he had felt the power of his response to her released, accepted finally, and now, in this intimate setting, he was on the point of achieving what he knew he wanted with every part of his being. Her beauty was intoxicating, haunting—his desire for her was consuming. But after all that had been between them, all the anger and strife and bitterness, it had to be right—right for her. He had made his peace with her—was this now, finally, her making peace with him?
His eyes searched hers, needing an answer.
For one long moment she simply gazed with limpid clarity, revealing everything she felt about him at that moment, everything she wanted. Then she spoke one word only. A breath, a sigh …
‘Yes …’
She could see the sudden blaze in his eyes, hear the catch of breath in his throat. Feel in her veins her own pulse beat. The air was thick. Thick, the blood in her veins. The emotion she could not name, could only feel with a shimmering intensity all through her body, was creaming through her. All she wanted was here, now … this moment.
This man …
And slowly, very slowly, her eyes still clinging to his, she did what she wanted. Reached out with the tips of her fingers to brush the rich softness of his cashmere sleeve. He sat completely still, not even swirling his depleted cognac, just holding her eyes as her fingers brushed the soft fabric. Then her fingers reached further, rounding over the contours so that her palm was curved around his sleeve. Beneath the fabric she could feel the muscled sinew of his arm. Hard against the softness of the wool. Her hand curled over it, feeling the warmth of his body seeping through into her palm.
Then slowly, very slowly, she lifted her hand away.
For a long, long moment she could only sit, legs slanted away from him, meeting his gaze. Around her
the music wove its web and the soft firelight played on the strong features of his face, flickering in the shadows of the room.
She heard him murmur something honeyed and mellifluous. Then his hand was reaching forward. The other still cupped his cognac glass, but the outstretched one was turning, so that the back of his hand was brushing slowly, so slowly, down the sleeve of her top.
She could not move, could not breathe, could only twine her eyes with his while the back of his hand stroked down her arm. Lightly. Then it lifted again. This time to her cheek.
It was light, so light, his touch. Almost not there. And yet her breath stilled in her lungs. His long, strong fingers were cupping her chin, tilting it upwards, and then his long lashes swept down over his eyes and his head was lowering.
The brush of his lips on hers was like snow drifting, as light as snowflakes melting on her lips.
He brushed them softly, so softly, and her eyelids fluttered closed, to feel the bliss of it. Because bliss it was. Bliss to have that soft, sensuous touch of his mouth on hers. He murmured something, but she did not know what it was. Then both hands were cupping her face, lifting it to him, and his mouth was opening hers …
Soft and warm and blissful—so, so blissful.
He was drawing her down, his arms coming around her to ease her across his body, cradling her as his mouth moved on hers. Pleasure filled her. Sweet, sensuous pleasure. Firing through every nerve ending, drawing her down, down, down into its seductive depths.
She was lying beside him on the warm, soft, fleecy rug, the fire hot on her back. He was kissing her still, murmuring to her, and his arms were cradling her, his hand running softly, so softly, along her spine. She was wordless and speechless and could only lie there being kissed so softly, so sensuously, so blissfully.
Whatever else existed in the world was no longer there. There was only this—this warm, velvet sensation at her mouth, his hand at her nape, sliding the restraining fastening from her hair so that it fell in a long, pale wave across the rug. He murmured again—words she could not hear but only feel, like a fine vibration through her whole body. His fingers, long, and sensitive, threaded through her hair, and the sensation on her scalp was a soft, evocative tingling. The wonderful headiness in her mind consumed her. She felt the sensual delight of his mouth moving against hers, his body strong and lean, and her hands curled over his shoulders, kneading into the aching softness of the cashmere to meet the sinewed resistance of his flesh. She wanted to feel that smoothness, that muscle and sinew, and she moved restlessly in his arms. Her hands slid down his torso to his waist, and her questing fingers found the space beneath the soft wool. Oh, it was bliss—bliss to run her hands along the hard, smooth contours, warm to her touch, to let her arms wind around him, palms splaying out across his spine, the sculpted perfection of his back.
His kiss deepened, and now she was lying on her back. She did not know how, knew only that her hands were being taken and lifted over her head. He was arched over her, his mouth still moving on hers, but now his lips lifted away and he was gazing down at her as she lay beneath him, his hands holding hers. Her narrow skirt had twisted around her limbs, so that she could not move them, but she did not want to. She wanted only to lie here in the warmth, with the strange, overpowering headiness in her senses. She lay still, gazing up at him. His eyes bored into hers, and she gazed upwards into pools of night.
His hand was at her waist, gliding upwards beneath her top, skimming, so lightly, the surface of her skin beneath her breasts. Her breath caught again, and then he was easing the material upwards, lifting it over her head, peeling it off, casting it aside. And then, his task done, his gaze returned to her.
She lay, hands caught in his, hair streaming loose over the fleece of the rug, bared to his view, his touch.
