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There was a silence, then he said, ‘When I said we should forget this afternoon, it was a nonsense. We can’t, of course.’ He put out a hand and pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. His fingers caressed her lobe, and found the sensitive area underneath. In spite of herself, her throat arched in shocked response.
But if she’d feared he would see that as a signal to throw her on to the rug and jump on her, she couldn’t have been more wrong. The stroking hand moved to the nape of her neck, sending small, delicious shivers rippling over her scalp. She was almost purring by the time his fingers found the metal tab of the zip at the back of her dress, and began to propel it downwards.
The lazy brush of his fingers down her spine was another undreamed of delight. Her shoulders moved voluptuously, relishing each tiny sensation, even while some appalled voice in her brain was crying out that she couldn’t be allowing this—she couldn’t…
He had undipped the hook of her bra, and as he pushed her dress off her shoulders, the underwent with it, baring her to the waist. Her small breasts felt oddly swollen, the nipples erect, already eager for the touch of his hands—his lips.
His fingers shaped the soft, scented mounds, tugging gently at the tumescent peaks until a small moan shuddered out of her.
He lifted her then, so that she was lying across his thighs, in his arms, her cheek pressed against the soft kid of the casual jacket he was wearing. His hand slid up the cord in her neck and traced her jawline before cupping her face, turning it upwards for his kiss.
His lips barely touched hers, teasing her with a contact that was hardly more than a breath. His tongue flickered sensually along her lower lip, and she gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder in silent entreaty.
His fingers were warm on her knee under the demure black skirt, and she trembled as they slid upwards, over the stockinged smoothness, to the bare flesh of her thigh. Some hazy memory reminded her he’d once said he liked stockings, and he smiled into her eyes as if he’d remembered it, too.
Then, as his hand reclaimed her intimately, he bent his head, and his mouth possessed hers, deeply and passionately, preventing any protest she might have made.
Her body had tautened instinctively, because this was where it had all gone wrong before, yet she already knew that this time was different. Under the sensual sureness of his touch, she was melting, prey to needs she hadn’t known existed until that moment.
His fingers stroked her, circled on her, leading her inexorably down some unknown path. She ached with something more than pain, her breasts almost violently tender, a faint film of sweat bedewing her forehead.
Her senses seemed to have a separate existence. Under his dictation, they swelled to a crescendo of feeling, then subsided over and over again, each time taking, her fractionally nearer some mysterious summit of sensation.
Deep, deep within her, she felt something unfurling, like a flower opening its petals to the sun, so tenuous at first, she hardly dared acknowledge its existence, in case it escaped her.
As if he guessed, Malory’s caress deepened, took on a more rhythmic intensity, and his mouth closed almost fiercely on her breast.
She heard a voice she hardly recognised as her own sob, ‘Oh, God—please—please,’ as the rhythm inside her suddenly became a frenzy, her body convulsing in an endless series of sharp, soaring pulsations, at the height of which she thought she would faint—or die.
The downward spiral back to sanity was slow, almost dreamy. She pressed her damp face into the breast of Malory’s shirt, feeling totally spent, de-liciously, wantonly lethargic.
All she wanted in this world was for Malory to lift her into his arms, and carry her upstairs to his bed. That deep primal throbbing still seemed to echo through her blood and bones, hinting at more pleasure to come. When, eventually, he moved, her nails curled into his shoulders like a kitten’s.
The shock of finding herself deposited back on the sofa woke her sharply from her dream. His hands were brisk, almost businesslike as he ordered her dishevelled clothing, pulling her dress into place and reclosing the zip.
Then he got to his feet. He said quietly, and evenly, ‘Now that—that—is what all the fuss is about. Goodnight, Amanda.’
He gave her a brief smile, then walked to the door, and went out, leaving her to stare after him in anguished disbelief.
‘You’re almost a stranger these days.’ Mrs Conroy’s voice was plaintive, and Amanda smothered a sigh.
You’re welcome to come to Aylesford Green at any time,‘ she said, trying to speak gently. ’You know you’ve been invited over and over again.‘
Mrs Conroy gave her a sad smile. ‘You can be so insensitive sometimes, Amanda, dear. Something you inherited from your father, no doubt. Don’t you realise how painful it is for me to see you living in that house with that man?’
