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She wished she had a camera when the first thundering chords of the electric guitar vibrated around the lounge. David winced, shock, dismay and finally comprehension streaking across his dark features. Clare was openly laughing at him when he rose slowly to his feet.
'This is your husband?'
The vocals started and Clare turned the volume down slightly as she nodded, her eyes limpid blue. 'What's the matter, don't you like it?' She was fairly sure of his answer, and was therefore stunned when he tilted his head and listened for a moment to the strong, husky voice doing the vocals and the clever, catchy rhythm that threaded behind it, beginning to click his fingers and move to the beat.
'It's good. I like it.' And as if that entirely settled the matter he moved towards her, still in rhythm, shoulders and hips gliding sinuously in time. 'Dance with me.'
'We can't,' said Clare automatically, dragging her eyes away from the intriguing tilt of his pelvis.
'Why not? There's nobody to see us.' He danced around like the Pied Piper, forcing her to turn to keep him safely in sight. 'Doesn't the music make you want to move? That's the hallmark of good rock, it makes you want to illustrate the beat. Come on, Clare,' he invited mockingly, 'you know it's irresistible…'
And it was. She was already swaying without realising it. 'This is ridiculous,' she whispered as she let him loosely clasp her wrist and draw her across the lounge to the empty space in front of the big windows. He was a marvellous mover and she couldn't help but respond, her own love of dancing overtaking her, challenging her to better him. Soon they were embarking on an absorbing interaction that banished her self-consciousness. She wasn't even aware that one track had melted into another, until David's hands were at her waist and she realised that they had reached the slow number, the last one on that side. They had been dancing for twenty minutes. When she tried to ease out of his grip he wouldn't let her. He held her wary eyes with his, drawing her into their dark fascination, beckoning her with the tantalising brush of his body.
'We move well together, don't we?' he murmured smokily, his hands on her waist turning her so that her hip moved against his, one of his thighs briefly pressing between her legs. He turned her again before she could protest the intimacy…if she had wanted to. They danced in silence a few moments longer, then the eyes which held her captive dropped to her mouth. Clare became exquisitely conscious of his body, the arousal that he teased her with every time he moved against her. Yet perversely she didn't feel threatened. Yes, he was aroused and not trying to hide it, but explicit in the dark admiration of his eyes, was the promise of seduction, not rape. His body, though taut with desire, was relaxed, asking rather than demanding.
'David…' she began shakily, trying to find the strength of will to deny the unspoken question.
'Do you like the taste of my name in your mouth?' he whispered, eyes dark slits as he watched her lips move.
She wanted to taste more than his name, and he knew it. Clare shivered, pressing herself inadvertently against him, and he gave a soft groan.
'Yes, darling… move like that… again… Clare…' One hand was now binding her waist, the other sliding up into her thick, clean hair. 'Mmm, you smell so good…' He continued his erotic dance as he kissed her, enjoying the faint quiver of her mouth before it opened obediently to the gentle thrust of his tongue, accepting the inevitable. She filled his senses, her warm, womanly curves fitting to him, making him arch to relieve the ache that was threatening to explode. It wasn't enough. He broke the kiss slowly and with the greatest of reluctance, his fingers tightening in her hair as he looked down at her upturned face, flushed with the heat of mutual desire. Her eyes were the colour of a stormy sky, her mouth as lush and ripe as the rest of her, faintly swollen by his quest for the pleasure within. Had he bitten her in his delirium? He lifted his hand from her waist to trace the over-full bow.
'You have a lovely mouth.' It seemed natural to let his hand sink down again, over the delicate arch of her jaw, down her soft, warm throat to the creamy, freckled triangle of skin above the modest embrace of her robe. Clare's eyes fluttered closed, shutting out the hunger that hardened the aggressive angles of his face. She mustn't see…she mustn't let him see, know, how much she wanted to appease that very male hunger.
He knew what she was doing. 'Don't hide from me, Clare. You don't have to hide yourself from me.' He kissed her again, and from somewhere Clare found the sense to stiffen the arms she had braced against the hard wall of his chest. Even so, her tongue curled treacherously around his as she dragged her mouth away, as if she couldn't bear to let go of the sinful delight of the symbolic possession.
'No, please…' She couldn't seem to breathe very well, the roomy robe seemed too tight. 'David…'
'It's all right, it's all right, Clare,' he soothed her trembling with tender kisses along her averted jawline, his fingers abandoning their tormenting of that tender triangle of skin as they moved instead to the tie of her robe. 'It's all right. I'm going to go. I just want to see what you're hiding. I won't hurt or frighten you…'
He wouldn't, but Clare frightened herself. She wanted him to see her body, even though she was afraid he would find it disappointing. She looked at his face, dark and intent, as he slowly unwrapped her robe, deliberately prolonging the agonising
moment of anticipation.
His hand clenched on the soft lapel of the robe as he stared at the lavender drift of pure silk which faithfully loved every dip and curve of her body from breast to knee. The lace bodice cupped her breasts with exquisite restraint, the transparencies in the pattern providing tantalising glimpses of creamy flesh bearing its own random pattern of freckles. The tight points were modestly covered, but that only made them all the more obvious.
Clare waited for him to touch her, to slide the silk against her heated skin, her abandonment complete as she saw not disappointment but the flattery of raw desire in his silent appreciation.
He sighed, the hard body seeming to arch slightly towards her yearningly before he shook his shaggy head and firmly rewrapped her robe, tying it more tightly than was necessary.
Clare went pale, then hot with shame. She had practically melted into his arms, and he didn't want her. He had been just flirting. Probably he was amused that she was so easy, after all! She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let her.
'Clare, do you know what the time is?'
'What?'
'Tamara's movie will be over. And if I know her, she's not going to sit quietly in our room until I come back. She's going to come looking for me.'
'Oh?' Clare's eyes shot everywhere but to his face, and he gave her a little, sharp shake.
'Clare, I'd love nothing better than to make love to you in that lavender piece of nothing, but even now you're having trouble looking me in the eye. Imagine how it would be tomorrow morning, if I stayed and did what we both want. I came here to talk, not to seduce you. The seduction comes later.'
'Oh, really? You mean you have a schedule you have to stick to?' said Clare, infuriated enough by his arrogance to glare directly at him.
'No. But I think you do. I don't think that you're the kind of woman to sleep with a man on the first date.'
'This wasn't a date!'
