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Her hands, instinctively raised to brace themselves against his chest and push him away, were instead trapped helplessly between them, and she could feel the tingling, pervasive warmth of his body against her spread palms, the steady throb of his heartbeat sending her own pulses jangling in a response as scaring as it was unwelcome.
Because she needed to resist him and the treacherous, almost languid wave of heat uncurling deep inside her, and the threat of its unleashed power. And knew she should do it now, as his kiss deepened in intensity and became an urgent demand.
Which was something she had to fight, she recognised, in some dazed corner of her mind, while she still had the will to do so.
Only it was all too late, because he, to her shame, was releasing her first. Putting her firmly away from him. And, as he did so, she realised the car had stopped, and that Charlie was already coming round to open the passenger door for her.
She stumbled out, drawing deep breaths of the cool night air, her sole intention to put the Vicarage’s solid front door between herself and her persecutor.
Except he was walking beside her, his hand inflexibly on her arm.
As they reached the porch, he said softly, ‘A word of advice, my sweet. When you eventually decide to surrender your virginity, choose a man who’s at least sober enough to appreciate you.’
She tore herself free and faced him, eyes blazing, nearly choking on the words. ‘You utter bastard. How dare you speak to me like that? Don’t you ever bloody touch me—come near me again.’
He tutted reprovingly. ‘What language. I hope for your sake that none of the morality brigade are listening.’
She spun on her heel, fumbling in her bag for her key, sensing rather than hearing the departure of the car down the drive. Trying desperately to calm herself before facing her father.
As she closed the door behind her, she called, ‘Hi, I’m home.’ But there was no reply and once again there were no lights showing.
It seemed that she had the house to herself. And with that realisation, the tight rein on her emotions snapped, and she burst uncontrollably and noisily into a flood of tears.
CHAPTER SIX
TAVY SPENT A restless, miserable night, and responded reluctantly to the sound of the alarm the following morning.
Clutching a handful of damp tissues, she’d stared into the darkness trying to make sense of Patrick’s extraordinary behaviour, and failing miserably.
But the chief barrier between herself and sleep was her body’s unexpected and unwelcome response to Jago Marsh’s mouth moving on hers. The warm, heavy throb across her nerve-endings, the stammer of her pulses, and, most shamingly, the swift carnal scald of need between her thighs—all sensations returning to torment her.
Reminding her that—just for a moment—she had not wanted him to stop...
She’d been caught off guard—that was all, she told herself defensively. And she would make damned sure that it never happened again.
When she got to the school, Mrs Wilding was waiting impatiently. ‘Oh, there you are, Octavia,’ she said as if Tavy was ten minutes late instead of five minutes early. ‘I want you to sort out the library this morning. Make sure all the books are catalogued, and shelved properly. List any that need to be replaced and repair any that are slightly worn.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I shall be going out.’
Tavy could remember carrying out the self-same operation, fully and thoroughly, at the end of the previous term, but knew better than to say so, merely replying, ‘Yes, Mrs Wilding.’
As she’d suspected, the library was in its usual neat order, and there was nothing to add to the list of replacements from the last check. Although she could do something brave and daring like creating a parallel list of books, and suggest that the library should be treated to a mass buying programme.
Some hopes, she thought with self-derision as she returned to her cubbyhole. Mrs Wilding liked the idea of a library because it sent a positive literacy message to the parents, but did not regard it as an investment.
She reprinted the original list, then sat staring at the computer screen, wondering how to occupy herself. Apart from the cheerful sound of Radio Two emanating faintly from Matron’s room, the place was silent.
Her hand moved slowly, almost in spite of itself, clicking the mouse to take her online, then keying in ‘Descent’.
She drew a breath, noting that the entries about them seemed endless. She scrolled down the page and Jago smiled out at her, sitting on a step, a can of beer in his hand, next to a fair-haired guy with a thin, serious face, both of them stripped to the waist and wearing jeans.
