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But he couldn’t look her in the eye and lie. Instead, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.
Her lips parted and he deepened the kiss, losing himself in the softness of her mouth and the silken feel of her hair. This wasn’t a lie. His desire for her was real and honest. And wasn’t that what they had agreed?
Here in bed he could give himself to her unconditionally. Here, with Dora, he could forget he was a Lao, forget the expectations and pretence his name demanded. He was just a man. And this was just sex.
Breaking the kiss, he shifted away from her. Slowly, gently, his eyes watching her for any signs that she wanted him to stop, he reached round and unzipped her dress. He slid it down over her body, his breath catching as he saw that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Cupping her breasts in his hands, he felt her skin quiver. The nipples were already standing proud and taut, and his eyes still on hers, her ran his thumbs over them, his pulse accelerating as she breathed out unsteadily.
‘You have no idea how much I need you right now,’ he said softly.
‘I need you too,’ she whispered and, taking his hand, pressed it against the damp heat between her thighs.
This time they took it slowly. This time they were two people who could take their time. Now nothing was forbidden.
His skin was humming with need, his blood pounding in his groin like the waves crashing against the cliffs that edged his estate.
Pushing her back gently against the bed, he drew her panties down her legs. She was naked now, and he gazed down at her dry-mouthed, a pulse beating in his throat, his eyes roaming hungrily over her breasts and stomach and down to the triangle of dark blonde curls.
Her eyes were dark and glazed and, leaning forward, he kissed her softly. ‘You’re so beautiful, Dora.’ He brushed his lips over hers, feeling them part, and then he slid down the bed and put his hands between her thighs, spreading them apart.
She lifted her hips a little, helping him, and, lowering his head, he put his tongue on her. Her body tensed, arching upwards, and her fingers tightened in his hair as he flattened his tongue against her core, feeling her pulse beat against him, her soft moan making his body shake with a passion he had never felt before.
Satisfying his lovers had always mattered to him, but this was different. Dora’s pleasure was not just important to him—it was entwined with his.
‘Now. Please. I need you now.’
She was pushing against him, her hands grabbing at his shoulders, guiding him up the bed as though he was blind.
He resisted for a moment, and then he let himself be led, leaning over her, licking her breast, her shoulder, kissing her neck, her collarbone, his mouth seeking hers as he pushed into her.
Her legs locked over his thighs, anchoring him against her, and he began to move slowly, curbing his need to fill her body with the heat and hunger that was stretching his body to its limits, not wanting it to end.
She was panting now, her breath hot and urgent. He felt her arch beneath him, and then her hands were clutching his shoulders and her muscles were clenching around him with such force that he couldn’t hold back another second. Groaning, he thrust inside her a final time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHARLIE FELT HIS muscles coil sharply, like a snake. Dancing to the left, he ducked his head, breathing in sharply as Mario’s glove caught him on the chest. He was getting tired now, eating punches, and he changed direction, trying to relax his core, circling around to his trainer’s left side, his right glove close to his face.
And then, just like that, it was over.
He bumped fists with Mario and, breathing out, pulled off his gloves and slipped out his mouthguard.
Working out was part of his daily routine, and to avoid him getting bored with the usual mix of HIIT Mario had introduced boxing into their sessions. Mostly they just trained together, working with the pads or the bag, but this morning Charlie had wanted to spar, hoping that the impact of Mario’s blows would somehow displace the pain in his chest—Dora’s pain.
Stepping under the rainfall shower, he closed his eyes, his skin tensing as cold water hit his body like hundreds of freezing needles. Turning slowly beneath the powerful spray, he tilted his face upwards.
He had woken early to find his arm around Dora’s waist, her soft body spooning his, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other palm flat against the sheet. In sleep she looked younger—absurdly young.
His mouth twisted. Much too young to be entering into a marriage of convenience. She deserved better. She needed TLC.
Yes, he could make her life comfortable. Give her security, an allowance, nice dresses. But he hadn’t signed on for her secrets and her pain.
And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about what she had told him. Or the way she had told him—as if it was spilling out of her. A part of him wanted to tell her that he understood her pain only too clearly, but the more she told him, the less he could tell her.
He didn’t want to add to her pain with his. Even though he had told her that he wanted to be honest, he couldn’t burden her with that.
Smoothing the water from his face, he breathed out. Her distress after the party had been so real, so sharp, he could still feel the puncture wounds around his heart.
And pressing up against his heart, filling the space like a dark cloud, was guilt.
