his quiet compliment. How vain she was, to know such a fierce
thrill at his words, and to know, too, that they had been judged well
matched by outsiders: her cool femininity in delicate contrast to his
forceful masculinity.
'Thank you,' she said, gravely, sternly demure.
He looked down her, a bright and graceful fall. They stood in relative
privacy between the passenger side of the Mercedes and the car
parked next to it. The light from a nearby street-lamp burned white
along the edge of his bent tawny head; the rest of his face was in
translucent shadow.
'I like your blouse.'
An irony: despite the intimacy of his regard, she had room to be
grateful that he wasn't looking at her face, which felt as if it were
glowing neon-red. Her throat needed to be cleared before she could
speak. 'I like it too.'
He asked throatily, tightly, 'Is it as soft and as silken as it looks?'
Her legs went wobbling. She said, shaken and alarmed, 'I don't think
-'
He brought a hand up inside her open suit jacket and slid the fingers
around the slim curve of her ribs, just under her breast, and at the
light caressing pressure her pulse went wild.
'Mmm,' he sighed, with deceptively sleepy pleasure. 'It is. Cool and
whispery thin, and moulding itself to the body underneath it. That's
how a woman should always dress, in silk and lace, and—well,
maybe a touch of leather.'
His hand moved to the small of her back, and he pulled her to him,
and with slow, sensuous deliberation he began to lower his head.
Her composure, so hard won at the beginning, so grimly maintained
throughout the evening, was now a quivering bowl of jelly. It
trembled strengthlessly at the pit of her stomach, at the back of her
knees, in the base of her throat, and the softened curve of her mouth.
'Matthew,' she managed to gasp. 'Stop it.'
His lips hovered, a bare inch from hers. 'I'm sorry, I don't understand,'
he murmured with oh, such false innocence, as he lifted molten eyes.
'That isn't the message your body was telling me on the beach.'
Her hands rested on his forearms, tightened convulsively on him. Her
lips had gone dry; she licked them and whispered, 'It's what I'm
telling you now.'
With her body bowing back against the strength of his arm, her eyes
dilated to immense black pools; she looked young, dazed and
blinded. He took his time in examining her face, the arced lines of
her collarbones as they disappeared in shadowed mystery into the
neck of her blouse. Then he shook his head a little, and said softly,
'No, you're not.'
Her eyelids fell under an unsustainable weight as he kissed her, a
featherlight, moulded, exploratory caress, and the same searing
judder of sensation that always happened when he touched her
crackled down the length of her body. She made some slight sound,
reactive, incoherent, and his whisper of expelled breath answered.
Gentleness, civilisation's veneer, was discarded for the game it was.
He took her fully into his arms, hard against the length of him, and
slanted his opened mouth over hers.
The dark, secret invasion was impossible to resist. Her lips parted on
a sigh. He touched her inside, drew her out, and danced with her
tongue. She whirled mindlessly in a downward spiral, head to one
side and sinking fast to his shoulder, moulded breast to hard-muscled
breast, the arc of hip to hip, thigh to thigh.
She felt it as if it shook her own foundations, the uncontrollable
tremor that raced over him like fever. He cupped the back of her
head, then dug with delicate urgency into the French twist until the
pins scattered away and her hair spilled over her shoulders and he
sank greedy fingers into the midnight rain.
If he had not been holding her so very tightly, she would have slid
down to the ground. As it was, she clung to him, her arms wound
around his neck by some mysterious force while common sense flew
away on fickle wings and he drove with hard, escalating passion into
her unplumbed
thrill at his words, and to know, too, that they had been judged well
matched by outsiders: her cool femininity in delicate contrast to his
forceful masculinity.
'Thank you,' she said, gravely, sternly demure.
He looked down her, a bright and graceful fall. They stood in relative
privacy between the passenger side of the Mercedes and the car
parked next to it. The light from a nearby street-lamp burned white
along the edge of his bent tawny head; the rest of his face was in
translucent shadow.
'I like your blouse.'
An irony: despite the intimacy of his regard, she had room to be
grateful that he wasn't looking at her face, which felt as if it were
glowing neon-red. Her throat needed to be cleared before she could
speak. 'I like it too.'
He asked throatily, tightly, 'Is it as soft and as silken as it looks?'
Her legs went wobbling. She said, shaken and alarmed, 'I don't think
-'
He brought a hand up inside her open suit jacket and slid the fingers
around the slim curve of her ribs, just under her breast, and at the
light caressing pressure her pulse went wild.
'Mmm,' he sighed, with deceptively sleepy pleasure. 'It is. Cool and
whispery thin, and moulding itself to the body underneath it. That's
how a woman should always dress, in silk and lace, and—well,
maybe a touch of leather.'
His hand moved to the small of her back, and he pulled her to him,
and with slow, sensuous deliberation he began to lower his head.
Her composure, so hard won at the beginning, so grimly maintained
throughout the evening, was now a quivering bowl of jelly. It
trembled strengthlessly at the pit of her stomach, at the back of her
knees, in the base of her throat, and the softened curve of her mouth.
'Matthew,' she managed to gasp. 'Stop it.'
His lips hovered, a bare inch from hers. 'I'm sorry, I don't understand,'
he murmured with oh, such false innocence, as he lifted molten eyes.
'That isn't the message your body was telling me on the beach.'
Her hands rested on his forearms, tightened convulsively on him. Her
lips had gone dry; she licked them and whispered, 'It's what I'm
telling you now.'
With her body bowing back against the strength of his arm, her eyes
dilated to immense black pools; she looked young, dazed and
blinded. He took his time in examining her face, the arced lines of
her collarbones as they disappeared in shadowed mystery into the
neck of her blouse. Then he shook his head a little, and said softly,
'No, you're not.'
Her eyelids fell under an unsustainable weight as he kissed her, a
featherlight, moulded, exploratory caress, and the same searing
judder of sensation that always happened when he touched her
crackled down the length of her body. She made some slight sound,
reactive, incoherent, and his whisper of expelled breath answered.
Gentleness, civilisation's veneer, was discarded for the game it was.
He took her fully into his arms, hard against the length of him, and
slanted his opened mouth over hers.
The dark, secret invasion was impossible to resist. Her lips parted on
a sigh. He touched her inside, drew her out, and danced with her
tongue. She whirled mindlessly in a downward spiral, head to one
side and sinking fast to his shoulder, moulded breast to hard-muscled
breast, the arc of hip to hip, thigh to thigh.
She felt it as if it shook her own foundations, the uncontrollable
tremor that raced over him like fever. He cupped the back of her
head, then dug with delicate urgency into the French twist until the
pins scattered away and her hair spilled over her shoulders and he
sank greedy fingers into the midnight rain.
If he had not been holding her so very tightly, she would have slid
down to the ground. As it was, she clung to him, her arms wound
around his neck by some mysterious force while common sense flew
away on fickle wings and he drove with hard, escalating passion into
her unplumbed
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