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He swallowed—hard—and he was hard all over, his body wound tighter than a spring.
‘I was... You were just...’ In the soft milky moonlight he saw her cheeks flush pink and he took a step deeper into the room despite every bone in his body telling him it was wrong.
‘Yes?’ The word came out thick and gravelled. He cleared his throat, watching her intently.
‘I thought I was dreaming.’
His body fired. Desires he’d already been battling surged inside him. ‘Was it a good dream?’ he asked, taking the rest of the steps necessary to bring him level with the bed. His own side yawned empty and cold. Duty and responsibility were on his side of the bed, but temptation lay here, and he was oh, so tempted.
‘I...’ She frowned and lifted a hand to the strap of her top. His eyes followed the action and at the sight of the outline of her nipples, straining hard against the fabric of her shirt, he suppressed a groan.
There was the right thing to do, and there was what they both wanted and needed.
Ignoring common sense, he caught her hand on her shoulder, holding it low, and then, his eyes locked onto hers, loaded with challenge, he oh-so-slowly traced his fingertips over her flesh, easing the strap lower, not higher. Her skin lifted with fine goosebumps and her breath stalled in her throat. Her eyes were pleading and he watched her, challenge in every line of his face.
‘What did you dream?’ he asked, his other hand reaching for the strap that still sat on her shoulder. He didn’t push it downwards though. He simply looped his fingers beneath it, his eyes on her face, waiting, still, frozen in time, impatient to know what she was going to say.
‘I dreamed... I was... It was years ago,’ she said huskily, her beautiful face clouded with uncertainty.
‘And do you dream of me often?’
Her slender throat moved visibly as she swallowed and her eyes swept shut, perhaps in an attempt to block him from seeing her thoughts in that expressive face of hers. ‘No,’ she whispered.
‘Liar.’ His laugh was without humour. ‘I think you dream of me frequently. Perhaps every night, even.’
At her harsh intake of breath he bent lower and, knowing he should stop this madness, he crushed his lips to hers, swallowing the little moan she made, tasting her sweetness, and memories and feelings rushed back at him because she tasted, she felt exactly as she had done then and his whole body rejoiced at that familiarity and rightness.
Her mouth was parted and he slipped his tongue inside, duelling with hers, reminding her of this need, and she whimpered into the kiss before her hands lifted and her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, just as she had then. Her body lifted, her breasts crushed to his chest and he swore in his own language as impatience threatened to burst him wide open.
‘Tell me you dreamed of this,’ he demanded, his fingers pushing the straps down now, so her breasts were free of the flimsy garment, and he cupped them greedily in his palms, feeling their weight, their generous roundness tightening his body so his arousal strained against his pants and his whole body ached for her in a way that defied sense and reason.
* * *
She had! Oh, she’d dreamed of this again and again and in the groggy half-awake state she was in it was almost impossible to believe this wasn’t just a dream. But his hands on her were real—everything about this was real. She arched her back hungrily and pulled him with her hands, pulling him down on top of her, ignoring the voice in her head that was shouting at her to see reason and make this stop.
It was the witching hour and she was bewitched. He was strong, and big, and though she pulled him he came at his own pace, slowly easing his body weight on top of hers then rolling his hips so his arousal pressed to her womanhood. A sharp dagger of need perforated her senses. It was achingly, perfectly familiar. She needed him.
‘Please,’ she whimpered, knowing she was stranded on this wave of desire, that she was stranded on an island of sexual craving from which there was no other relief.
He rolled his hips again and his body, so hard and heavy, pressed to her feminine core, stoking her pulse, her needs, her wants. Pleasure was a cloud carrying her away, but reality was gravity, dragging her back to earth.
It had all been so easy for him that weekend three years ago. He’d looked at her and wanted her and she’d fallen into bed with him, despite having intended to save her virginity for the man she was going to marry. She’d had no defences for someone like him, no experience with men at all, really.
And now? She was falling for it again, letting desire make a mockery of all her good intentions.
Was she really going to be this woman? A woman who let passion control her actions and dictate her life. Was she really going to fall into the habit of sleeping with someone she desired even when love wasn’t a part of the equation?
‘We can’t do this.’ She shook her head, pulling away from his kiss, and now his body on hers felt like a crushing weight from which she needed to be free. She pressed her palms to his chest and felt the brief impression of his fast-racing heart before she shoved him bodily off herself and rolled out of bed.
‘I can’t,’ she repeated, though he hadn’t said a single word. He was simply watching her with the same intensity with which he’d been kissing her a moment earlier.
‘I’m not going to do that.’ She pulled her straps back into place, her fingers shaking so much she had to curve them into fists and hold them by her side.
He was still watching her, saying nothing, just staring, and though she was now fully dressed she felt more naked and exposed than ever before. She’d put a stop to whatever had been about to happen—but the inevitably of their coming together was still heavy in the room.
He watched her for a long time, as if seeing all the pieces of her soul. ‘How come you were still a virgin, Frankie?’
The question pricked something in the region of her heart. She knew her expectations were out of step with most people’s reality, but they were her feelings, her resolves. ‘I...just was.’
