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‘I’ve been thinking about this all day,’ she heard Oliver saying thickly as he drew her towards him, his hands stroking the fragile bones of her shoulders, and then moving up to slide into her hair and tilt her head, so that she couldn’t have avoided the descent of his head even if she had wanted to.
He tasted of champagne, she recognised absently, as his mouth met hers—not as it had done before, in an explorative, gentle kiss, but open and moist, so that her heart leapt in heady response to the tension within him, and her body rejoiced in the sheer pleasure of knowing she aroused his desire.
While he kissed her, his hands shaped the back of her head, then her back itself, right down to her waist and beyond until they were cupping her bottom and pulling her into his body.
Now her earlier fantasy took on the shape of reality. It was true that her top and his shirt were between them, but she could still feel the rapid thud of his heart against her body, and her stomach clenched on the sensation of her breasts pushing against his chest, wanting a more intimate contact with his flesh.
As he kissed her, odd, tormented mental images flashed through her brain, and when he slid his mouth from hers to her throat she said huskily, ‘This morning…I didn’t…’
The champagne still clouded her mind, still relaxed her inhibitions and cautions.
‘I did,’ Oliver told her groaningly, his mouth against her ear, sending fierce shivers of pleasure over her skin. ‘I looked at you in that damned pyjama top and the last thing I wanted to do was to leave you and go to London.’
The new Charlotte, the one she had never known existed before, the one who seemed recklessly to court ever-increasing danger, whispered coaxingly, ‘What did you want to do?’
At the sound of the words a mild shock ran through her, but there was also a sense of accomplishment, of pleasure almost in what she had done as she felt Oliver’s body tense for a moment before he whispered rawly, ‘I wanted to take you back upstairs to bed, and unfasten those damned buttons, one by one, like this…’
Like what? She was lost in the dreamy warmth of delight conjured up by his words, and it was several seconds before she realised that he actually was unfastening the buttons on her top, and that his lean dark hand really was lying against the exposed upper curve of her breast, that his gaze had actually found the small dark mole just hidden under the edge of her bra, and that his mouth had left her ear and was now nibbling its way along her throat, and down over her collarbone to the place where he had pushed aside the fine cotton of her bra, so that his tongue could touch that small dark dot of flesh.
Why should such a light, delicate physical contact release such a flood of heat inside her? she wondered muzzily. Why should the pressure of his hand against her breast make her want to moan and tear away the cloth barriers between it and the bareness of her skin? Why should it make her want to turn to him and press her mouth against his throat, her body against his, to…?
‘And then I’d have done this,’ she heard Oliver saying silkily against her skin, his voice so soft and gentle it seemed to lap over her in warm waves, making her sink deeper and deeper into the delicious sea of sensuality in which she was floating.
She felt his hands removing her bra and sighed voluptuously in pleasure as they touched her skin; she felt his mouth moving against her breast and moved eagerly to speed it on its journey to the summit of her nipple. The sensation of his mouth bathing the aching pulse of her flesh in moist heat made her spine arch and a soft moan of pleasure leave her throat.
After that, for a long time, the only sounds disturbing the peace of the evening were the soft ones of pleasure Charlotte smothered against Oliver’s skin as mindlessly she gave in to the urgings of her body and put into practice the fantasies she had indulged in earlier. The sensation of Oliver’s hands and mouth against her own flesh, as he slowly revealed inch after inch of her body between whispered words of such promise that her body melted, was slowly driving her out of control. There was no one in the whole world but Oliver…nothing in the universe but the intimacy they were sharing.
She heard him groan when her hands stroked the flat plane of his belly, felt the sound reverberate against her mouth as she caressed his throat, and then cried out in aching pleasure herself when his hand touched her intimately and her body opened out to him, so femininely enticing and arousing that he whispered things against her skin which turned her mindless with delight. A delight that was doubled when she realised that he shared her need, her desire. It was surely impossible that she could arouse him to this pitch of intensity, this fierce, pulsing desire that he told her raggedly he no longer had the power to check. This could not be reality.
Once he hesitated, almost as though he was asking her…what? For permission to possess her? Hadn’t she already given that permission without words…with the sensual pleading of her flesh when it so wantonly invited his touch?
Soon they would be lovers. Lovers… She shivered in expectant anticipation, wanting him, aching for him, knowing recklessly that whatever might follow she would always have this…always have the knowledge that he had desired her.
Deep down inside her a small voice struggled to be heard, to warn her that something was wrong, that this physical intimacy was too much, too soon, that there were things which should have been said, but it was drowned out, deafened by the fierce sensation of need that pierced her when Oliver drew her down on the rug beneath him, covering her body with his, fitting himself against her as her body, more knowing than she had dreamed, moved to accommodate the weight and heat of him.
Her heart was racing frantically, all her senses concentrating on the pleasure that lured her on.
The brief cessation of his hands and mouth caressing her skin, drugging her senses with delight upon delight, promise upon promise, confused her, so that when his hands shaped her face and she looked into his eyes she felt a momentary schism within her, a sudden stabbing realisation of what she was doing, but then she felt Oliver’s mouth move against her own and heard him saying rawly, ‘My God, I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s too late now to stop.’
The pressure of his lips on hers hardened, quickening her pulses, his tongue plunging fiercely into the moist sweetness of her mouth, the movements of his body against hers relentlessly driving them both to a pitch of such intense desire that she cried out in tormented frustration as she waited impatiently for the first thrust of his body within her own, welcoming it with such voluptuous pleasure that he cried out in turn, abandoning himself to the enticement of her, taking them both so far beyond the boundaries of earthly reality that Charlotte felt briefly she had become immortal, capable of touching the stars in their heavens, capable of reaching to every part of the universe, and most of all capable of giving this man who was holding her, and whom she was holding in turn, such pleasure and fulfilment that the rest of their lives would become as irreversibly entwined as their bodies.
The pleasure, once so sharp and piercing, so unbelievably immense, died slowly, floating her back down to earth, to the realisation that she was lying naked in Oliver’s arms, on a rug under the s
hade of one of her own apple trees…that odd blossoms had drifted down from the tree and now lay against Oliver’s skin.
She touched them gently, too deliciously inert to even think of moving, her body so unbelievably relaxed and lazy that she wanted to stretch like a cat with the pleasure of being inside her own skin.
The thought made her smile. Oliver reached out and touched her mouth with his fingertip.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked her softly.
She flushed defensively, distracted by the subtle sensation of pleasure evoked by the teasing movement of his finger, and then said honestly, ‘It never occurred to me. Did you mind…that I hadn’t…?’
‘Had another lover.’ He shook his head, but already she could sense a constraint in him that was communicating itself to her.
Like Eve in the garden of Eden, she was abruptly conscious of her nudity, of what she had done and why, but the euphoria of the pleasure they had shared still warmed her veins, and it was easy to dismiss the vague doubts crowding the edge of her mind like the shadows stealing over the garden when she bit softly at the tormenting finger and watched desire banish the constraint from Oliver’s eyes, saw and felt the immediate response of his body to her own as she moved softly against him.
This time, it was different; this time he took her deeper into an intimacy she had never suspected she would experience, never mind enjoy.
