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‘Because you’re trying to make your breathing sound regular and shallow and people don’t really breathe like that when they’re asleep.’
‘I suppose you’re an expert on women’s breathing habits in bed?’
‘I do have some experience.’
‘I’ll bet you do.’
And then his hand slid around her waist and Sophie froze.
‘Just relax,’ he said softly, as he cupped her breast with his other hand. ‘Lie back and think of Isolaverde.’
And unexpectedly, Sophie started to giggle. ‘You’re...oh!’ His thumb grazed across her nipple and she swallowed. ‘You’re outrageous.’
‘So they tell me. Now, isn’t that better?’ he said as his hand slid down over her belly, and then down further still. ‘Why are you wearing knickers in bed? They’re going to have to come off.’
‘Rafe,’ she said thickly.
‘Shh. What did I just tell you?’
‘I...d-don’t remember.’
‘Then try.’
He slithered the panties down over her thighs and, with his foot, kicked them away from her ankles. But he left the T-shirt on as his fingers returned to burrow in the tangle of hair at her groin before slipping down to find her molten heat. Now the only sound in the room was the increasing rise of her unsteady breathing. He didn’t say a single word, just continued to touch her with a lightness and delicacy which was sending her out of her mind.
‘Rafe,’ she said again, only now an urgent desperation was making her voice crack.
‘What?’
‘I...oh!’ Her nails dug into his shoulders. ‘Oh, oh, oh!’
Her hips arching upwards, her body jerked with helpless spasms as he lowered his head to kiss her. She felt the honeyed rush of heat as reality splintered into countless unbearably bright pieces and then dissolved into a dreamy daze. Afterwards she lay there, sucking ragged breaths of air back into her lungs. She felt lazy. Luxurious. Heavy and wonderful—but as her eyelids began to grow weighty, some nagging notion of inequality made her stir. Peeling her lips away from where they were glued to his bare shoulder, she touched her fingertips to the rough rasp of growth at his jaw.
‘You must show me how to...’ She hesitated, too shy to say the words. Or maybe it was because she didn’t know how to say the words, and maybe he guessed that.
‘Pleasure me?’
She licked her dry lips. ‘Yes.’
‘Go to sleep, Sophie.’ He sounded almost kind as he brushed away the lock of hair which had fallen over her cheek and dropped the briefest of kisses onto her nose. ‘Just go to sleep.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN RAFE WOKE next morning it took him a minute to work out where he was—a habitual dilemma for someone who travelled the globe as frequently as he did. But u
sually he liked that sense of uncertainty. Transitory was his default setting. Most people were fearful of change but he wasn’t one of them. It was the only thing he’d ever known.
He hadn’t been lying when he’d dismissed Sophie’s sympathetic words after he’d told her what a gold-digger his mother had been. It didn’t hurt. How could something hurt if you had nothing to compare it with? Just as it didn’t hurt that he’d always been pushed aside whenever the latest love interest had appeared in his glamorous parent’s life. Why he’d spent school holidays in vast and empty hotel rooms, while his mother went out on the town. He’d learned to order room service and put himself to bed when there were no more cartoons on TV. He had learned to play the cards he’d been dealt and he’d done it by building a wall around his heart. At first the foundations had been rocky, because what did a small boy know about emotional protection and self-reliance, when it went against the natural order of things? But the more you did something, the better at it you got—and these days nothing touched him. His mouth hardened. Nothing.
He glanced around the bedroom, realising he was in his brother’s Cotswold home. Only then did he acknowledge the warm and sated feeling which came after a night of particularly good sex. He turned his head to find Sophie’s side of the bed empty.
Lazily he stretched, his body hardening as he listened for sounds of running water or any suggestion she might be tidying her hair in preparation for an early morning kiss, but there was nothing. He bashed one of the pillows with his fist and comfortably rearranged his head on it, thinking maybe it was better this way. Better than her snuggling up close trying to do that thing women always did after a night like that—stroking their finger in a slow circle over his belly and wondering what made him tick.
Because they had reached for each other in the darkness before dawn—caught in that strange half-world between waking and sleeping. Two naked bodies, doing what came naturally. He stared up at the ceiling—at the fractured light and shadows cast by the antique chandelier. Only it hadn’t felt like that. Her skin had been silky-soft and her body as warm as soft candle wax you could mould with your fingers. She’d felt so tight when he entered her.
Briefly, he closed his eyes. Almost as tight as the first time. And she’d started saying things in Greek as she came. Soft things. Things he didn’t understand but which instinctively made him wary—because when a woman starting talking in that tone of voice it usually meant trouble. He hoped her inexperience didn’t mean she’d started to misinterpret the impact of a powerful series of orgasms. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to make it clear that it was a waste of time for her to develop feelings for him.
Pushing back the rumpled bedcovers, he got out of bed and walked over to the window, blinking a little at the starkness of the tableau outside. He spent so little time in England these days that he’d forgotten how beautiful the countryside could look in thick snow. For a moment he stood, transfixed by a landscape which was almost unrecognisable—the long drive and other familiar landmarks obliterated by a thick blanket of white. It must have been coming down all night long—and it was still snowing, great flakes of the stuff hurtling down from the sky. It was the kind of white-out you usually only found in a ski resort and Rafe’s eyes narrowed as he took in the heavy clouds overhead. It wasn’t the best day for a christening, not by any stretch of the imagination.
