depths.
His heart beat like a sledge-hammer against her breasts. His breath
was coming in long-distance-runner gasps; gradually he eased the
ferocity of the tempo into something more bearable, swooping with
shallower intent on the bruised peach of her mouth. If it was meant to
soothe and restore, it did the exact opposite. Plunged into the
dazzling, uncloaked sexuality of the former kiss, then offered this,
was like denying a condemned man his last meal, and she trembled
with a violent gnawing hunger she'd never before experienced, nor
knew how to assuage.
At last he turned his head away with a sharp, muffled sound, and
pressed her face not gently—not that—into his neck. They stood thus
for some minutes, in reverberative silence too tense for words, while
he stroked her hair and back.
Sian was suffering from deep, uncomprehending shock. She felt as if
she had lived all her life with blinkers on, like some kind of ironic
joke: I see, said the blind man, as he picked up his hammer and saw.
Or that the world of colours and textures that she loved so much had
suddenly sprouted a fourth dimension. There was no room in her for
the concept that had just exploded all around her, and inside her, with
the force of nuclear fusion. She couldn't recover because she didn't
know where she had been.
Then Matthew stirred, and sighed into her hair, and said hoarsely,
'That's what you were saying to me.'
She shook her head dumbly. She didn't know what she was doing.
One hand threaded in her hair clenched into a powerful fist. 'You lack
proof?'
Even his growl was an invasion; it permeated her body. She breathed
hard once, in distress, and would have shaken her head again. She
could not. She was trapped, by his hands and by the truth.
'Matthew,' she whispered, violently unsteady, 'you push me too far.'
His head reared back, the ferocious male gaze narrowed, that tight
evocative mouth twisted. 'I, push you?' he breathed, a visual" and
audible statement of incredulity. 'Woman, you don't know what
you're talking about. Look at you—every aspect about you is a
provocation. Your mouth, your skin, those high, firm breasts, and
curving hips were made for ravishment, and you lock it all away in a
safe pretence and a polite distance, and a stubborn belief for the
future you know will shrivel everything generous and giving inside
you.'
'Shut up!' Her lovely face twisted. His hold at the back of her head,
on her senses and crumbling convictions was making her crazy with
pain and desire. She raised her hands to strike at him; she, who had
never before done or wished to do violence to another human being
in her life. Her fingers curled around the intransigent poles of his
wrists, an ineffective shackle, an impossible protest as she strained to
gain her freedom.
If anything he became even more reckless, a rampant wildfire that
drove her, fleeing, before its devouring heat. 'I will not!' he snarled.
Then, strangely, he opened his fingers and spread her raven hair
along the palms. 'Oh, look,' said Matthew, 'I've messed up your
lovely hairstyle. Somehow you don't look so cool and
unapproachable any more, darling. Why, if anyone sees you this way,
they'll think you've been kissed.'
She shook all over. It must be fury. It must. Her lips trembled as she
struggled to hold it in, but the laughter stole like a thief from her
anyway.
He froze, listening to her laugh, looking at her over- bright, tear-
glazed eyes. A toss up, between one or the other, and laughter had
won. The thrumming tension in his body eased. He said ruefully, 'I've
been abominable, haven't I?'
'Now and then,' she admitted. Her hair slipped, silken and elusive,
from his fingers, and he stroked the sides of her face. She could have
pulled away, for she was no longer held prisoner. She didn't. 'But
perhaps I've goaded you.'
Matthew ran his thumbs over the crushed softness of her lips, and
said, 'Now and then. Your hairpins flew
His heart beat like a sledge-hammer against her breasts. His breath
was coming in long-distance-runner gasps; gradually he eased the
ferocity of the tempo into something more bearable, swooping with
shallower intent on the bruised peach of her mouth. If it was meant to
soothe and restore, it did the exact opposite. Plunged into the
dazzling, uncloaked sexuality of the former kiss, then offered this,
was like denying a condemned man his last meal, and she trembled
with a violent gnawing hunger she'd never before experienced, nor
knew how to assuage.
At last he turned his head away with a sharp, muffled sound, and
pressed her face not gently—not that—into his neck. They stood thus
for some minutes, in reverberative silence too tense for words, while
he stroked her hair and back.
Sian was suffering from deep, uncomprehending shock. She felt as if
she had lived all her life with blinkers on, like some kind of ironic
joke: I see, said the blind man, as he picked up his hammer and saw.
Or that the world of colours and textures that she loved so much had
suddenly sprouted a fourth dimension. There was no room in her for
the concept that had just exploded all around her, and inside her, with
the force of nuclear fusion. She couldn't recover because she didn't
know where she had been.
Then Matthew stirred, and sighed into her hair, and said hoarsely,
'That's what you were saying to me.'
She shook her head dumbly. She didn't know what she was doing.
One hand threaded in her hair clenched into a powerful fist. 'You lack
proof?'
Even his growl was an invasion; it permeated her body. She breathed
hard once, in distress, and would have shaken her head again. She
could not. She was trapped, by his hands and by the truth.
'Matthew,' she whispered, violently unsteady, 'you push me too far.'
His head reared back, the ferocious male gaze narrowed, that tight
evocative mouth twisted. 'I, push you?' he breathed, a visual" and
audible statement of incredulity. 'Woman, you don't know what
you're talking about. Look at you—every aspect about you is a
provocation. Your mouth, your skin, those high, firm breasts, and
curving hips were made for ravishment, and you lock it all away in a
safe pretence and a polite distance, and a stubborn belief for the
future you know will shrivel everything generous and giving inside
you.'
'Shut up!' Her lovely face twisted. His hold at the back of her head,
on her senses and crumbling convictions was making her crazy with
pain and desire. She raised her hands to strike at him; she, who had
never before done or wished to do violence to another human being
in her life. Her fingers curled around the intransigent poles of his
wrists, an ineffective shackle, an impossible protest as she strained to
gain her freedom.
If anything he became even more reckless, a rampant wildfire that
drove her, fleeing, before its devouring heat. 'I will not!' he snarled.
Then, strangely, he opened his fingers and spread her raven hair
along the palms. 'Oh, look,' said Matthew, 'I've messed up your
lovely hairstyle. Somehow you don't look so cool and
unapproachable any more, darling. Why, if anyone sees you this way,
they'll think you've been kissed.'
She shook all over. It must be fury. It must. Her lips trembled as she
struggled to hold it in, but the laughter stole like a thief from her
anyway.
He froze, listening to her laugh, looking at her over- bright, tear-
glazed eyes. A toss up, between one or the other, and laughter had
won. The thrumming tension in his body eased. He said ruefully, 'I've
been abominable, haven't I?'
'Now and then,' she admitted. Her hair slipped, silken and elusive,
from his fingers, and he stroked the sides of her face. She could have
pulled away, for she was no longer held prisoner. She didn't. 'But
perhaps I've goaded you.'
Matthew ran his thumbs over the crushed softness of her lips, and
said, 'Now and then. Your hairpins flew
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