THE moment she opened her eyes, Charlotte was aware of a heavy sense of despair. Outside her bedroom window the sun was shining, but inside her heart everything was shadowed and dulled by the pain of knowing that she loved Oliver.
Oliver… Instinctively she glanced at her bedside clock. The house was silent, so presumably he had already left. It was extraordinary that, even knowing the folly of her emotions, even knowing that she was safer when he was absent, that every second spent in his company increased the intensity of her feelings, and the danger that she might somehow betray them, she should still feel this total sense of desolation in the knowledge that he wasn’t there.
She shivered under the bedclothes, not because she was cold, but because of the feelings prickling her skin.
God knew, she didn’t want to feel like this—had never imagined she could feel like this—and, if anyone other than herself should discover what she did feel, she thought she would die from the humiliation of it.
Restlessly she pushed back the bedclothes and got up. Her father’s old rooms had their own bathroom which had been installed when he had become too ill to walk very far.
Her bathroom was a couple of doors down the corridor; knowing she had the house to herself, she didn’t hesitate to open her bedroom door and walk on to the landing wearing the faded soft cotton pyjama jacket which was her preferred nightwear. She had several of them, all of them washed to a similar state of faded softness. Frilly nightdresses were not for her, and when she had returned from London she had eschewed the chain-store-bought nightshirts she had worn then in favour of the discarded top halves of pyjamas she suspected had originally belonged to her father, and which she had found abandoned in one of the house’s many chests of drawers.
Now, absently noticing how thin the cotton was wearing, she acknowledged ruefully that she would soon have to replace them, but with what? She had grown accustomed to the softness of a quality of cotton no longer cheaply available.
Automatically, having walked out on to the landing, she followed her normal routine of making her way downstairs to make some coffee. This was her morning ritual, to make the freshly brewed coffee she enjoyed so much, despite its heavy caffeine content, and then go upstairs to shower and dress so that the fragrant brew was waiting for her when she came back down.
The kitchen floor felt cold beneath her bare feet, her toes curling instinctively at the chilly contact. Beyond the kitchen window, she could see the dew-dampened outline of the lawns and flowerbeds, softened into mystical beauty by their covering of moisture. She paused for a moment to admire the miracle of nature, admitting how much she would miss these simple pleasures of living in the countryside if she were ever forced to return to city living.
Grimacing a little at the state of the kitchen, she hurried into the pantry, and started to fill the filter machine’s jug with cold water. It was while she was doing so, her back to the door, that she felt the unmistakable chilliness of cold fresh air, as though a door had been opened.
Immediately she tensed, swinging round, her eyes rounding in dismayed shock as she saw Oliver standing in the open doorway. Unlike her, he was fully dressed in an immaculate business suit and a crisp white shirt.
‘I thought you’d gone.’
The words left her throat in a husky whisper that sounded more like an apology than the accusation she had intended it to be.
‘I’m just on my way. Unfortunately I couldn’t resist walking round the garden before I left.’ He grimaced as he looked down at his very wet shoes. ‘I’d forgotten how wet dew can be. I was just on my way upstairs to change my shoes when I heard you in here.’
‘I came down to put the coffee on,’ Charlotte told him awkwardly, suddenly conscious of how she must look, her hair uncombed, her face unwashed, dressed in an oversized and worn pyjama jacket that was surely the opposite kind of nightwear someone like Vanessa would choose to sleep in.
She stepped forward awkwardly and stopped, blinking in the full beam of the sunlight shining in through the window to momentarily blind her. She heard Oliver catch his breath, almost as though in shock, and her own nerve-endings responded automatically to the sound so that she froze where she was.
‘I’d better go and change these shoes,’ she heard him saying in a harsh, rasping voice that for some reason made her throat ache.
She wanted him to take her in his arms, to hold her, to kiss her. Angry with herself, she blinked in the strong light, and watched the movements of his tall, lithe body, wondering bleakly at the unfairness of nature. Why couldn’t it have been content with simply giving him his overpowering physical maleness? Why had it had to add the kind of personality she felt so in tune with that she was helpless to defend herself against the impact of his emotional and physical effect on her.
She heard him go upstairs, and stayed where she was until she heard him come down again to leave via the front door, bleakly wondering why it hurt so much that he hadn’t come back into the pantry to say goodbye to her.
Ten minutes later, when she walked into her bathroom, she thought she knew the answer, or at least part of it, and her face turned deep pink with embarrassment. Sunshine flooded her bathroom as it had done in the pantry, but here in the bathroom she had the advantage of seeing in the mirrors that lined its walls the effect that sunlight had.
The soft cotton of her pyjama jacket, so warm and bulky to her touch, had turned virtually transparent in the strong sunshine, so that when she stood bathed in its light the entire shape of her body, every one of its contours and curves, could be seen quite clearly delineated beneath the jacket, right down to the soft shadowing between her thighs and the deep rose areola of her breasts.
From being flushed her skin drained of colour as she stared in mortification at her own reflection. This was what Oliver had seen when he’d walked into the pantry. No wonder he had left so quickly.
He must have thought…what? That she had come downstairs deliberately knowing that he was there, wanting him to see her like that. Had that been what he’d thought? Did he think she had actually…?
Her heart was beating far too fast, a nauseous churning feeling burning her empty stomach. She started to tremble. Why on earth hadn’t she checked before going downstairs? Why hadn’t she realised he was still there? But it was too late now for such recriminations. The damage was done.
* * *
All day long it was on her mind, a poison eating into her, so that several times Sheila watched her worriedly, wondering what was wrong.
‘Aren’t you feeling very well?’ she asked at one point, causing Charlotte to lift her head from her paperwork.
‘I’m fine. Why?’ she asked defensively.
Sheila shrugged. ‘Well, it’s just that it’s such a beautiful day, and you’re all wrapped up in that thick woollen sweater.’
Sheila herself was wearing a very pretty short-sleeved blouse which showed off her feminine figure, and Charlotte, who with that incident in the pantry very much to the forefront of her mind had deliberately dressed in the most body-muffling clothes she could find, felt her face burn with guilt and humiliation.
In actual fact she felt almost stifled in the sweater, which was more appropriate for cold mid-winter wear than a soft late spring day, but, with her mind still full of mental visions of how she had looked this morning, she had writhed in mental torment and deliberately wrapped herself in as many muffling layers of clothing as she could endure.
‘I…I didn’t realise how warm it was going to be,’ she mumbled, knowing that she was flushing and hoping that Sheila would put her high colour down to the warmth of her unseasonal clothes.
During the afternoon, Charlotte took Sophy with her when she drove out to Hadley Court to measure up the house and to start taking details of those items of furniture which were going to be auctioned.
Sophy proved very quick to follow her directions, and by the end of the afternoon Charlotte was ready to acknowledge that, in doing the younger girl a favour by giving her a job, she had probably done herself one as well, providing always that Oliver left her with enough business to merit employing both Sheila and Sophy.
Oliver had indicated repeatedly that he didn’t want to put her out of business, that he believed the area was large enough to provide sufficient business for both of them. There was something about him, some intrinsic basic honesty that compelled her to believe he meant what he was saying, but was he right? Only time would tell.
But if they both stayed in the area, how was she going to cope with her feelings? Already it was getting harder to conceal them, and, although she knew it was the best possible thing for her, she was dreading the time coming when he would move out of her home and into his own.
Common sense told her that her best course of action would be to put as much distance between them as possible. Perhaps if she didn’t have the business and Sheila and Sophy to consider, she might consider selling up and…
Who was she trying to deceive? she asked herself tiredly as she dropped Sophy off at home and then drove back to the office. She had no intention of doing any such thing. Her brain might tell her one thing, but her heart was telling her something entirely different.
She wanted to be close to him. She wanted to be where he was, self-destructive though she knew such a desire was.
She was a fool, she berated herself tiredly at half-past six when she finally locked up the office and went out to her loaned car. If she had any sense…but what woman in love ever exhibited that particular virtue?
Halfway home, tired and hot, she pulled off the road and crossly removed her bulky sweater. She was aching to get home and shower the sticky heat of the day off her body. The fine wool shirt she was wearing beneath the sweater was clinging uncomfortably to her skin, and, as she wound down the windows and restarted the car, she pushed her fingers into her hair, savouring the cooling effect of the light breeze on her hot, tense scalp.
Oliver’s car was parked outside the house, a reminder of his generosity in offering to lend it to her. She had been wrong about him in so many ways; it was tempting to allow herself to daydream that she might be wrong in others…that the occasional, disturbing glint of sensual awareness she had surprised in his eyes when he looked at her might actually mean something…that that kiss he had given her, the words he had said to her, could have sprung from something other than pity.
Telling herself not to be such a fool, she stopped the car and got out.
The workmen had left for the day, and as she walked round to the back door she found herself hoping that she would not find the same chaos in her kitchen she had discovered the previous evening. The door was open, making her stop and frown over the carelessness of the workmen.
While she was still staring at the open door, she suddenly heard Oliver saying cheerfully behind her, ‘Ah, good, it is you. I thought it must be.’
She turned round to be confronted by the unexpected sight of his naked torso, tanned still with a faint golden residue of the previous summer’s sun, the dark hair that was such a disturbingly visual reminder of his masculinity damp with sweat.
As she stared at him, he pushed a grimy hand through his already ruffled hair, leaving a streak of dirt on his forehead and making her stomach muscles clench against the wave of sensuality and desire that rose up inside her at the sight and scent of his sun-warmed body.
‘I got back earlier than I expected, so I thought I’d make good use of the weather and make a start on the garden,’ he was saying cheerfully, adding more cautiously, ‘You did say you didn’t mind.’
Didn’t mind…what was it she wasn’t supposed to mind? she wondered dazedly. The sight of his half-naked body, clad in a pair of faded ancient jeans that seemed to cling lovingly to the lean length of his legs, outlining the powerful muscles of his thighs, the scent of his body, warm, musky…male…was so powerfully arousing that she wanted to walk blindly towards him, to breathe in that musky aphrodisiac maleness, to explore the powerful muscles of his shoulders and torso with her hands and her lips.
She started to tremble, a deep-rooted, aching physical reaction to the sight of him. She wanted to walk up to him and to slide her hands against the taut flesh above the waistband of his jeans, to unfasten them and to discover if that tormenting line of damp, dark hair…
A shocked moan of self-contempt broke the silence between them; her eyes were wild with panic as she tried to focus on the garden beyond him, to strive for some measure of normality and sanity in a world that suddenly seemed to have turned completely upside-down.
It was men who were supposed to feel this intense sexual need, wasn’t it? Not women… at least, not when nothing had been said or done to encourage it.
Beneath the thick covering of her blouse she could feel her nipples hardening, aching. And, as her breath caught in her throat, she suffered the humiliation of the unbearably erotic mental image of herself, free of the cumbersome burden of her clothes, her body pressed close to Oliver’s, so that the tormented pulse of her swollen breasts was eased by the physical contact of their bodies, so that her paler, feminine flesh was rubbed erotically by the darker, harder maleness of his.
‘Charlotte.’
An anxiety in his voice brought her sharply back to reality. As his hand reached out towards her, she stepped back from him, such a look of revulsion in her eyes that he frowned, not realising that it was directed against herself.
‘I’m sorry…I’d forgotten. I must be filthy. It’s just that for a moment you looked…’
Charlotte turned her back on him. She didn’t want him to tell her how she had looked. She felt sick and faint, stripped of her defences, struggling to come to terms with a latent sensuality she had never dreamed she possessed.
‘I expect you’ll be eating out tonight,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I…’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I had thought we might eat together.’
His words stopped her, so that she had turned round to face him again before she knew what she was doing, her face registering her shock.
‘Together? But—’
‘It’s by way of a small celebration. I’ve sold my London agency for an excellent price, and I was hoping that you might be kind enough to help me to celebrate my decision to make my home permanently down here.’
‘Me? But—’
‘Please…I’ve brought a special Fortnum’s hamper back with me so that we wouldn’t need to cook.’
Charlotte was staring at him. She couldn’t take in what he was saying. ‘You want to celebrate with me,’ she repeated jerkily. ‘But…’
‘But what?’
How on earth had he come to be standing so close to her? She blinked dizzily, wondering when he had closed the distance between them.
He was so close to her now that if she gave in to the temptation to close her eyes and sway close to him her hair would brush that bare, moist chest, and then if she turned her head her lips would touch the satin smoothness of his throat. And, if she did, he would only have to close his hands on her shoulders to bring her body into intimate contact with his and to relieve the aching tension tormenting her.
‘But what?’ he repeated softly, causing her to focus on him and then step back from him, her eyes shadowed and wary.
But why me? she wanted to ask, but dared not. Instead she said as coolly as she could,’ I should have thought you would have friends in London you could have celebrated with.’
‘Not friends,’ he corrected her. ‘Acquaintances, yes. London is that kind of place. Everyone is too busy carving a career for themselves these days to have time to establish friendships. That kind of lifestyle isn’t for me any longer. Mature, sensible relationships where two individuals agree to spend a tiny portion of their time together, sharing their bodies without sharing their dreams…that’s not for me.’
She was starting to tremble wildly, unable to allow herself to believe what she was hearing.
‘You mean you want…friendship…from me?’ She trembled uncertainly over the word friendship, not sure of anything any more, feeling as though she had strayed into an unfamiliar world where there were no markers for her to follow.
She saw the way his mouth twisted and felt sharp anxiety spear her. She had angered him in some way.
‘Is that so very hard to understand?’ he asked her quietly.
‘I—’
‘Look, I’m filthy and sweaty. Let me go and shower, and then we can talk over dinner. You won’t have to do a thing. In fact, if you like we could eat outside.’
‘Outside?’ Charlotte stared at him.
‘Mmm. It’s going to be a lovely warm evening.’
Eat outside… How long had it been since she had done anything like that? Not even when she had been a child had her father believed in the spontaneity of picnics and eating outdoors. Her childhood, she had come to recognise, had been very regimented. A certain code of behaviour had been imposed on her and rigidly adhered to.
‘I think there are some deck-chairs in the shed,’ she began uncertainly. ‘But—’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Leave everything to me. Give me half an hour.’
Half an hour…
* * *
Now she had five minutes of that half-hour left, Charlotte saw, as she stood in front of her bedroom mirror and stared at her reflection.
What did one wear for an al-fresco meal in the garden with a man who wanted one as a friend? She had no idea, having no previous experience of such a thing, and in the end, after she had showered, washed and dried her hair and replaced her make-up, she had dressed uncertainly in a pair of jeans nearly as old and snug-fitting as Oliver’s had been, although hers were clean, and a long-sleeved, soft pink top in T-shirt fabric, which had a pretty scooped neckline and a row of buttons down the front.
She had chosen the top because it was light and cool without being in any way brief or revealing. Only, as she went downstairs to join Oliver in the kitchen, she realised that she had not allowed for the intensity of his effect on her body, and she prayed that the now familiar tightening of her nipples was not visible to him through the fabric of her top.
Like her, he was wearing jeans—clean ones—and a soft cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, with the sleeves rolled back to reveal the warm strength of his forearms.
A wicker hamper stood on the kitchen table and with it was an ice bucket complete with champagne and two glasses. Her eyes widened as she looked at it, an unfamiliar warm sense of pleasure igniting inside her as she realised that he must have been thinking of this…of her…while he was in London.
Or was she reading too much into what he had said? She darted him an uncertain glance, and was immediately reassured by the warmth of his smile, almost as though he knew what she was thinking…what she was feeling. But that was impossible, of course; there was no way he could know. He was just being pleasant. He was lonely, and wanted her company.
‘Chairs,’ she began vaguely, trying to concentrate her mind on something mundane.
‘All organised. If you could carry the champagne, I’ll bring the hamper.’
As they walked out into the garden, still warm, as he had forecast, still bathed in sunshine, he started to tell her about the sale of his business, and of the visit he had managed to make to a friend who worked for one of the London agents who specialised in dealing with large houses and country estates.
‘It seems they may have a buyer for Hadley Court,’ he told her as he guided her down the path that ran alongside the lawn. ‘He’s going to get in touch with us later in the week when he’s made contact with his client. I’ve given him your number as well as mine. His client is a private buyer, wanting a property for his own occupation.’
‘Oh, that’s marvellous!’
It was impossible to conceal her relief. She stopped on the path and turned towards him, her eyes shining, her face turned up to his, and then she tensed as she saw his expression change.
Her mouth had gone oddly dry; she could hear the shallow rapidity of her own heartbeat. An odd lazy heat seemed to be engulfing her.
He’s going to kiss me, she thought dizzily… but then, just as she was about to step closer to him, he moved back, so that she had no option but to follow him along the path. Hot colour flooded her as he backed off from her and moved away.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked him, striving to appear unconcerned and relaxed, praying he hadn’t realised she had thought he was going to kiss her.
‘Here,’ he told her, gesturing towards the small orchard tucked away at the bottom of the garden.
The soft grass beneath the trees was thick with fallen blossom, the evening air heavy with its scent. Under the largest of the trees was a rug heaped with cushions. The setting was idyllic, like something out of a painting…a scene set for seduction.
Seduction? Did Oliver intend to seduce her? The sheer unexpectedness of what her senses were telling her shimmered through her, creating a warm welling of delighted shock, so that bubbles of disbelieving amusement combined with a heady sense of having strayed into a magical world of fantasy whirled into her bloodstream, making her buoyant and light-headed.
Like her, he had stopped walking, and now they faced one another. How did one ask a man if he was merely trying to provide a comfortable setting for a shared meal or whether it was something more intimate that he had in mind? And why would Oliver want to make love to her? Her face burned suddenly as she remembered how he had seen her this morning.
Did he think this was what she wanted? Had he gone to all this trouble simply because he felt sorry for her? Did men make love to women they felt sorry for?
Suddenly very deflated and miserable, she said uncomfortably, ’Oliver, I—’
‘I’m hungry,’ he interrupted her firmly. ‘Let’s eat, and then we can talk.’
He sounded so matter-of-fact and calm that it seemed idiotic that she should have thought even for a split second that he might have intended to make love to her, and so she followed him into the orchard and allowed him to settle her comfortably against the cushions, while he opened the hamper and removed its contents.
Charlotte blinked in astonishment at the luxury of the food inside. No sandwiches here, but instead tiny delicate quiches filled with salmon and other delicacies, so mouth-wateringly delicious that they were impossible to resist.
The champagne, cool and refreshing, bubbled in her glass.
And, as Oliver drank his own, he said softly, ‘This is how champagne should be drunk: in a warm garden filled with the scents of summer, with a beautiful woman by your side.’
Charlotte started to tremble. She gulped at her champagne to hide her agitation, and said quickly, ‘I can’t believe this food is for a picnic. It’s so luxurious.’
There was fresh salmon and an appetising collection of salad and vegetables, crusty French bread, strawberries and thick cream, all served on china with silver cutlery, and a beautifully starched tablecloth and napkins.
Luxury indeed.
‘It’s the kind of hamper they do for events such as Glyndebourne,’ Oliver told her.
When had his eyes narrowed to that sharp, almost glinting intensity that seemed to see through the defences she was trying to put up against him?
‘More champagne?’
She stared at him, and then realised that her glass was empty. She let him fill it, and drank it quickly while he watched her with unnerving intensity.
Despite the deliciousness of the food, she could barely touch it; she was too tense, too on edge. The champagne, though, was a different thing. She drank three full glasses and felt its mellow, uninhibiting effect on her body. She couldn’t stand the tension any longer.
Recklessly she turned to Oliver and asked huskily, ‘Oliver, are you going to make love to me?’
For a moment he was silent, and then he asked in turn, ‘Is that what you want me to do?’
It wasn’t the answer she had wanted. She bit her lip and stared at him, her mind suddenly fogged and confused by the champagne, her body and its desires, ignoring the cautioning whispers of her brain, challenging her to say fiercely, ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
Oliver was so still that she thought she must have shocked him, but it was too late to retract now, too late to wonder dizzily why she had behaved in such an outrageous fashion, and to wonder even more why she should feel so unconcerned about it. She had never experienced before this extraordinary sense of being so cut free from her normal anxieties and self-doubts—perhaps because she was not normally in the habit of drinking so much strong champagne on an empty stomach.
‘I’ve been thinking about this all day,’ she heard Oliver saying thickly as he drew her towards him, his hands stroking the fragile bones of her shoulders, and then moving up to slide into her hair and tilt her head, so that she couldn’t have avoided the descent of his head even if she had wanted to.
He tasted of champagne, she recognised absently, as his mouth met hers—not as it had done before, in an explorative, gentle kiss, but open and moist, so that her heart leapt in heady response to the tension within him, and her body rejoiced in the sheer pleasure of knowing she aroused his desire.
While he kissed her, his hands shaped the back of her head, then her back itself, right down to her waist and beyond until they were cupping her bottom and pulling her into his body.
Now her earlier fantasy took on the shape of reality. It was true that her top and his shirt were between them, but she could still feel the rapid thud of his heart against her body, and her stomach clenched on the sensation of her breasts pushing against his chest, wanting a more intimate contact with his flesh.
As he kissed her, odd, tormented mental images flashed through her brain, and when he slid his mouth from hers to her throat she said huskily, ‘This morning…I didn’t…’
The champagne still clouded her mind, still relaxed her inhibitions and cautions.
‘I did,’ Oliver told her groaningly, his mouth against her ear, sending fierce shivers of pleasure over her skin. ‘I looked at you in that damned pyjama top and the last thing I wanted to do was to leave you and go to London.’
The new Charlotte, the one she had never known existed before, the one who seemed recklessly to court ever-increasing danger, whispered coaxingly, ‘What did you want to do?’
At the sound of the words a mild shock ran through her, but there was also a sense of accomplishment, of pleasure almost in what she had done as she felt Oliver’s body tense for a moment before he whispered rawly, ‘I wanted to take you back upstairs to bed, and unfasten those damned buttons, one by one, like this…’
Like what? She was lost in the dreamy warmth of delight conjured up by his words, and it was several seconds before she realised that he actually was unfastening the buttons on her top, and that his lean dark hand really was lying against the exposed upper curve of her breast, that his gaze had actually found the small dark mole just hidden under the edge of her bra, and that his mouth had left her ear and was now nibbling its way along her throat, and down over her collarbone to the place where he had pushed aside the fine cotton of her bra, so that his tongue could touch that small dark dot of flesh.
Why should such a light, delicate physical contact release such a flood of heat inside her? she wondered muzzily. Why should the pressure of his hand against her breast make her want to moan and tear away the cloth barriers between it and the bareness of her skin? Why should it make her want to turn to him and press her mouth against his throat, her body against his, to…?
‘And then I’d have done this,’ she heard Oliver saying silkily against her skin, his voice so soft and gentle it seemed to lap over her in warm waves, making her sink deeper and deeper into the delicious sea of sensuality in which she was floating.
She felt his hands removing her bra and sighed voluptuously in pleasure as they touched her skin; she felt his mouth moving against her breast and moved eagerly to speed it on its journey to the summit of her nipple. The sensation of his mouth bathing the aching pulse of her flesh in moist heat made her spine arch and a soft moan of pleasure leave her throat.
After that, for a long time, the only sounds disturbing the peace of the evening were the soft ones of pleasure Charlotte smothered against Oliver’s skin as mindlessly she gave in to the urgings of her body and put into practice the fantasies she had indulged in earlier. The sensation of Oliver’s hands and mouth against her own flesh, as he slowly revealed inch after inch of her body between whispered words of such promise that her body melted, was slowly driving her out of control. There was no one in the whole world but Oliver…nothing in the universe but the intimacy they were sharing.
She heard him groan when her hands stroked the flat plane of his belly, felt the sound reverberate against her mouth as she caressed his throat, and then cried out in aching pleasure herself when his hand touched her intimately and her body opened out to him, so femininely enticing and arousing that he whispered things against her skin which turned her mindless with delight. A delight that was doubled when she realised that he shared her need, her desire. It was surely impossible that she could arouse him to this pitch of intensity, this fierce, pulsing desire that he told her raggedly he no longer had the power to check. This could not be reality.
Once he hesitated, almost as though he was asking her…what? For permission to possess her? Hadn’t she already given that permission without words…with the sensual pleading of her flesh when it so wantonly invited his touch?
Soon they would be lovers. Lovers… She shivered in expectant anticipation, wanting him, aching for him, knowing recklessly that whatever might follow she would always have this…always have the knowledge that he had desired her.
Deep down inside her a small voice struggled to be heard, to warn her that something was wrong, that this physical intimacy was too much, too soon, that there were things which should have been said, but it was drowned out, deafened by the fierce sensation of need that pierced her when Oliver drew her down on the rug beneath him, covering her body with his, fitting himself against her as her body, more knowing than she had dreamed, moved to accommodate the weight and heat of him.
Her heart was racing frantically, all her senses concentrating on the pleasure that lured her on.
The brief cessation of his hands and mouth caressing her skin, drugging her senses with delight upon delight, promise upon promise, confused her, so that when his hands shaped her face and she looked into his eyes she felt a momentary schism within her, a sudden stabbing realisation of what she was doing, but then she felt Oliver’s mouth move against her own and heard him saying rawly, ‘My God, I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s too late now to stop.’
The pressure of his lips on hers hardened, quickening her pulses, his tongue plunging fiercely into the moist sweetness of her mouth, the movements of his body against hers relentlessly driving them both to a pitch of such intense desire that she cried out in tormented frustration as she waited impatiently for the first thrust of his body within her own, welcoming it with such voluptuous pleasure that he cried out in turn, abandoning himself to the enticement of her, taking them both so far beyond the boundaries of earthly reality that Charlotte felt briefly she had become immortal, capable of touching the stars in their heavens, capable of reaching to every part of the universe, and most of all capable of giving this man who was holding her, and whom she was holding in turn, such pleasure and fulfilment that the rest of their lives would become as irreversibly entwined as their bodies.
The pleasure, once so sharp and piercing, so unbelievably immense, died slowly, floating her back down to earth, to the realisation that she was lying naked in Oliver’s arms, on a rug under the shade of one of her own apple trees…that odd blossoms had drifted down from the tree and now lay against Oliver’s skin.
She touched them gently, too deliciously inert to even think of moving, her body so unbelievably relaxed and lazy that she wanted to stretch like a cat with the pleasure of being inside her own skin.
The thought made her smile. Oliver reached out and touched her mouth with his fingertip.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked her softly.
She flushed defensively, distracted by the subtle sensation of pleasure evoked by the teasing movement of his finger, and then said honestly, ‘It never occurred to me. Did you mind…that I hadn’t…?’
‘Had another lover.’ He shook his head, but already she could sense a constraint in him that was communicating itself to her.
Like Eve in the garden of Eden, she was abruptly conscious of her nudity, of what she had done and why, but the euphoria of the pleasure they had shared still warmed her veins, and it was easy to dismiss the vague doubts crowding the edge of her mind like the shadows stealing over the garden when she bit softly at the tormenting finger and watched desire banish the constraint from Oliver’s eyes, saw and felt the immediate response of his body to her own as she moved softly against him.
This time, it was different; this time he took her deeper into an intimacy she had never suspected she would experience, never mind enjoy.
She discovered why the dark arrowing of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans had tormented her senses so, and how powerful and feminine it made her feel when her own longing drove her to caress him intimately, to place her mouth against him and to feel his instant uncontrollable response.
The things he said to her, the way he touched her, these were things she would treasure until the end of her days, she acknowledged tiredly, nestling close to him a little later.
At first she had been hurt, had ached both emotionally and physically, when he had refused the mute invitation of her body to possess it a second time, but when he had gently explained to her that he didn’t want to hurt her, that there were other ways he could ease the tension she was suffering, that giving her pleasure gave it back to him, she had allowed him to show her what he had meant, a little shocked by the intimacy of his mouth against the inner core of her body until the pleasure that racked her overwhelmed everything but the need to accede to its demands.
Now, she felt boneless, and only one cloud dimmed the haze of pleasure bathing her. It worried at the corner of her mind, keeping just out of reach so that she couldn’t quite grasp it. Something that hadn’t been said…something wrong…but she was asleep before she could grasp what it was.
As she slipped into sleep Oliver studied her wryly. Things had got dangerously out of hand. All he had intended had been a little light lovemaking, a breaking down of the boundaries between them as a prelude to the relationship he wanted to have with her—a slow, gentle courtship.
That abrupt question she had asked him, demanding to know if he wanted to make love to her, had taken them both way, way beyond what he had intended. His body rejoiced in what they had shared, in the way she had responded to him, but his mind…
He sighed faintly, knowing that, in giving in to the desire that had been burning in him ever since he first met her, he had probably caused himself more problems than he had solved.
Why, when, after all the years of being alone and being content to be alone, he did meet the woman he loved, should she be this stubborn, defensive creature, who refused to believe just how very desirable a man might find her? Any man…not just himself.
He smiled mirthlessly to himself. Part of him wanted to open her eyes to reality, to show her that it was her own attitude that prevented his sex from making overtures towards her, not any innate lack of desirability; another part of him selfishly wanted to keep that knowledge from her, so that he could never lose her to someone else.
Brushing a small spider off her sleeping face, he wondered how long it would be before she realised the potential consequences of what they had done.
Unprotected sex…the very first rule that should have governed the kind of intimacy they had just shared had been ignored by both of them.
He found himself dangerously hoping that he might have made her pregnant. That way…
Fool, he chided himself, standing up, and then bending to lift her into his arms.
The evening breeze cooled his flesh, and he grinned to himself as he contemplated the picture they must make, both of them mother-naked, she in his arms, her body still bearing the faint betraying signs of his lovemaking…of his possession.
Something hot and primitive stirred in his stomach—a male possessiveness he hadn’t realised until now he could feel. She was his now…
As he carried her into the house and upstairs, she stirred in her sleep, turning her head to nestle her face into his shoulder, her hand pressing against his chest; he wondered if he dared put her in his own bed. He wanted the pleasure of waking up beside her in the morning, the certainty of knowing…
But no, things were going to be difficult enough as it was. Ruefully he carried her into her own room, slipping her beneath the covers, before going back outside to retrieve their clothes and to clear away the remains of their picnic. As he picked up the empty champagne bottle, he grimaced to himself. It had not been his intention to make her tipsy. She had been the one to insist on having her glass refilled.
Was he fool to hope that, because she desired him, she must also love him as he loved her? Tomorrow would tell. He wished he had had the courage to tell her how he felt as they made love, but he had been terrified that if he did she would withdraw from him, and honesty compelled him to admit that in the urgency of his own arousal his physical desire had momentarily been stronger than his emotional need to tell her what he felt for her.
He had plucked himself a very thorny rose indeed, he reflected, as he headed back to the house. Perhaps a romantic breakfast, a room full of red roses… And then he remembered that the workmen were all too likely to arrive even before she had woken up, and he abandoned such a scheme.