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She stood, silent and motionless, helplessly trapped by the long hard length of his thighs. Aware of the warmth o f him through her thin dress. Still unable to meet his gaze.
Behind her ribcage she could feel the frantic flutter of her heart like a caged bird throwing itself against its bars.
He said softly, 'Darling, look at me.'
Her lashes felt weighted over her unhappy eyes, but she made herself obey.
'Nick—please,' she whispered. 'Not here—not like this...'
His voice roughened. 'What the hell do you think I want?'
'I—I don't know.'
'You talk about gratitude,' he said slowly, 'but you don't show it. Is one kiss really so much to ask— from a wife to her husband?'
He released her hands, touching her shoulders instead. Letting his fingers slide down her back to her hips and rest there.
'At our wedding you kissed me,' he told her quietly. 'All these months I've remembered the sweetness of your mouth. Kiss me again, Cally, just as you did that morning. And don't pretend you've forgotten.'
Forget? She wanted to cry aloud, as agony wrenched her. How could she possibly forget, when every detail of It at day had been tormenting her—scarring her mind— ever since? Especially that moment when their lips had met to seal their vows.
Her innocence, she thought, offered freely and gladly to his passion. A girl anticipating with eagerness and trust the moment when the glorious alchemy of sex would transform her into a woman.
But only for a few brief hours—and then the dream had died.
He said harshly, 'Then I'll just have to take what little there is.'
His mouth was hard and sudden on hers, imposing a bleak sensuality that found her totally unprepared. She died to struggle, but there was no evading the ruthless mastery with which he parted her lips, his tongue flickering like a flame against hers.
He turned her slightly, so that she was supported by his arm while one hand closed on the swell of her breast, his fingers stroking her nipple with almost casual expertise and, in spite of the barriers of cloth and her instant shocked recoil, bringing it to aching, irresistible life.
She tried to say no, but the word was stifled in her throat— lost against the pressure of his lips.
His kiss deepened relentlessly, exploring the inner contours of her mouth with the intensity of a connoisseur. Drained and dizzy, she could hardly breathe. She couldn't think any more, or muster any kind of emotional defence against the plundering lips, or the long, slow sweep of his hand down every curve and plane of her body.
And realised in some drowning corner of her mind that he would know that all too well.
That the battle was over, and he'd won...
At last he raised his head and looked down at her as she lay slumped and panting against him. The grey eyes were almost silver, heavy with desire, as, without haste, his fingers penetrated the jagged rip in her skirt, tearing it even further. As they caressed the silken flesh of her thigh, then softly teased their way along the lace edge of her underwear.
The breath caught painfully in her throat as Cally, tantalised to the edge of endurance, felt the sudden unequivocal surge of her body's response. The searing, incalculable need she had believed she'd overcome.
Deep inside her, a fist seemed to clench painfully, releasing the first scalding rush of passion. Demanding that the hunger he'd awoken should be appeased. And soon.
Imploringly, her lips tried to shape his name, and her hand went up to grip the front of his shirt, to draw him down to her again—to her waiting, trembling mouth. And then—and then to the molten eager heat of her first surrender.
But instead, his slow, intimate incitement was deliberately stilled, then withdrawn. And Cally found herself being rifted back on her feet and carefully steadied as Nick looked down at her flushed, strained face and shook his head slowly.
'Much as it grieves me, my sweet, I have to let you go.'
He didn't sound grief-stricken, she thought suddenly. In fact, his voice was cool and even. Almost containing a note of faint
She stared at him in confused disbelief as a small agony of shame began to uncurl inside her, commingled with anger, the spell which had enslaved her broken at last. And, if she was honest, only just in time.
Oh, God, she thought in shocked horror. What have I done? I couldn't have made it any easier for him if I'd tried.
He's totally sure of me now—and of himself...
But I should have stopped him—pushed him away, not waited for him to do it. What was I thinking of?
Except that she hadn't been thinking at all. Her reaction had been completely physical, born from the long months of deliberate starvation.
Nick, she realised, was glancing at his watch.
