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How often had she longed during her pregnancy for this intimacy between them, this shared joy in the child she had conceived? How often had she wanted this tenderness from him then?
‘All these years, and I still can’t believe it.’
His hand touched her thigh, stroking its silky inner skin; his mouth moved lower over her stomach and its tenderness was gone, replaced by a male urgency that made her clench her stomach muscles and try to push him away, panicked by the intimacy of what he was doing, knowing that once she allowed herself to experience the pleasure of that intimacy it would tear away her final shreds of self-control.
But already his mouth was caressing her inner thigh; already his hands were turning her, lifting her; already her body was trembling with expectation, with need, with the memory of the pleasure he could give her.
She tried to stop him, driven by an instinct for self-preservation, but Lewis wouldn’t let her, instead holding her, caressing her until she was mindless with need, no longer trying to push him away, but moving eagerly against him, letting him give her the pleasure her body now so desperately craved, unable to stop him from knowing just how wantonly responsive she was to him as the ripples of sensation gathered and grew and then exploded in shock waves of release that should have left her satiated and exhausted but which instead seemed only to fuel her need to have him inside her, fulfilling some atavistic drive for a completion which she could only vaguely comprehend.
It was as though she had hungered, starved for so long for this one man that now there was no cessation of her need for him.
While he held her, and stroked her skin with soothing gentle hands, she lay against him, letting her flesh absorb the reality of him. Her lips touched his chest; it was damp with sweat. She lapped delicately at his dampness, tasting its salty tang, and against her palm his heart suddenly exploded into a frantic race.
‘Lacey, don’t,’ he warned her huskily. His hands slid into her tousled hair as he held her slightly away from him and looked down at her. She could see the desire in his eyes, feel it in his body. He might not love her any more, but physically he wanted her. Where was her pride? she asked herself as she looked back at him. Where was her self-respect? Why was she letting this happen when she knew that he could only be motivated by a combination of pity and masculine lust, while she…?
Well, if desire was all he could feel for her, then let it at least be a desire which matched her own; a desire which would break through his self-control…as he had broken through hers; a desire which would make him cry out her name and cling to her, as lost to reality as she had been herself.
Ignoring his words, she bent her head and recommenced her sensual journey.
She could feel his tension as her tongue started to caress the flat hardness of his stomach. His hands gripped her arms; she could almost feel the blood hammering through his veins. He wanted her to stop…not to take her intimacy any further, but she couldn’t.
It wasn’t just for him that she was doing this, she recognised shockingly; it was for herself as well. She wanted this intimacy with him…
That knowledge shocked her, shamed her that she could allow herself to be so carried away by her love and desire for him.
She started to pull back from him, thinking it was what he wanted, but immediately he held her against him, inviting the intimacy he had seemed to reject earlier, whispering her name over and over again, his hands tangling in her hair, his body shuddering with need as he whispered to her how much he wanted the soft touch of her lips against his skin, the warmth of her mouth caressing him intimately. Her response was immediate, passionate, underlining her love, joy flooding through her at his response to her.
When he finally stopped her, telling her how much he wanted her, how much he needed her, how much he had missed her, she responded to him eagerly, yearning for his possession, welcoming its powerful, surging thrust, wrapping herself around his body so that he groaned out loud, filling her ears with his words of need and praise just as he filled her body physically with his body.
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Later, sated and sleepy, she allowed him to draw her down beside him and curl her into his arms, her senses fulfilled and at peace.
She was on the verge of sleep when she remembered that there was something she had to say to him, some important point she had to make, some protective defence she had to erect against him. She struggled to grasp what it was, and when she had, opened her eyes to look fully into his and said firmly, ‘This doesn’t mean anything, you know. It’s just…it’s just sex, that’s all. Just sex.’
She shivered forlornly as she closed her eyes. What had happened between them should never have been allowed to happen. She ought to have had more self-control, more self-respect, but it had happened, and what she had to do now was to make sure that he never guessed that not only was he her only lover but he was the only lover she had ever and would ever want.
As she finally fell asleep, Lewis looked down into her face, his eyes shadowed with sadness.
Only sex. Was that really all it had meant to her? And yet, if so, could he really blame her? He had left her alone to bear his child…he had hurt her…denied her. It did no good now reminding himself that he had acted out of love…that he…that he had what? Made a tragic mistake. Would she believe him if he told her that now? Would he have believed her had their positions been reversed?
He remembered the way she had touched him…loved him…and he winced.
All these years and there had never been anyone else for her. It made him feel humble, and yet at the same time it made him feel…what? Very male…very proud. He grimaced to himself, a little shocked that he could feel such machismo at his age when he should be well past that kind of youthful conceit.
Soon they would have to talk…he would have to explain. Lacey stirred in his arms, nestling closer to him. He looked down at her, drawing her closer to him. When he had looked at her earlier and seen the desire…the need in her eyes, a taut frisson of sensation had raced through his body. She was so beautiful, so desirable, it seemed unbelievable that she hadn’t turned to someone else. It couldn’t have been for the lack of an opportunity to do so.
He had seen with his own eyes how other men reacted to her. Ian Hanson for instance.
A fine thrill of anguish pierced him, an urgent need to hold on to her and never let her go. If only she could forgive him…understand. His hand slid to her stomach and he remembered how earlier she had sensed…had known what was running through his mind…had known that he was thinking of the past, of all that he had denied himself in denying both her and his child. He still wasn’t totally over the shock of discovering that he was a father, after all the years of self-denial and fear, after telling himself that he could never take the risk of passing on his own deficiency to a child—not for himself but for that child. And then to discover Jessica.
He moved Lacey gently in his arms and bent his head, tenderly kissing the smooth softness of her stomach. The evening sunlight touched her skin, highlighting the dark areolae of her nipples, still faintly swollen and erect. As Lewis touched first one and then the other with grave delicacy, she stirred slightly in her sleep.
Just sex, she had called it. That might have been all it was to her, but to him…it had been so much more, so very, very much more.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WRAPPED in a delicious, warm lethargy, Lacey came slowly awake. She was conscious of an unfamiliar weight across her waist, an unfamiliar presence in her bed. She opened her eyes and stared in confusion at Lewis.
