lifted his head and stared down at her in the dim light on the edge of the dance floor, their eyes locked as each of them battled against the need raging within them. She could feel him fighting it, feel herself losing just as he closed his eyes and unclasped her hands from behind his neck, sliding his hand down her arm and linking their fingers as he led her off the dance floor and up the broad, sweeping staircase to the floor above in a tense, brittle silence.
They didn’t speak to anyone. They passed people in the hall, people on the stairs—they didn’t stop, didn’t look left or right, until the door of his room was opened and closed again behind them, and then he cradled her face and stared down into her eyes once more.
Still he didn’t speak, and neither did she. What was there to say? Nothing that would make any sense.
Slowly, with infinite tenderness, he touched his lips to hers again, and she whimpered softly and clutched at him, desperate for the feel of him, for his body on her, in her, surrounding and filling her.
‘Please,’ she whispered silently, but he heard her and took a step back, stripping without finesse, heeling off his beautiful handmade shoes, his hired suit hitting the floor and crumpling in a heap. After a brief fight with his cufflinks the shirt followed, then the boxers, the socks, and he spun her and searched blindly for the zip.
‘Here.’ She lifted her arm so he could find it, sucking her breath in as he tugged it down and the dress fell to the floor, puddling round her ankles and leaving her standing there in nothing but a tiny scrap of lace.
A rough groan was torn from his throat and he lifted her in his arms and lowered her carefully to the middle of the bed. Fingers shaking, he hooked his fingers into the lace at her hips, easing it away, following its path down the length of her legs with his lips, the slight roughness of his stubble grazing the sensitive skin as he inched his way to her feet, driving her to the edge.
He turned his head, looked back at her, and his eyes were black with need. She whimpered, her legs twitching under his warm, firm hands, and he moved, nudging her thighs apart, so nearly there—and then he froze, his face agonised.
‘Amy, we can’t—I haven’t—’
‘I’m on the Pill.’
The breath sighed out of him in a rush, and he gathered her into his arms, held her for a moment, and then his lips found hers again and he was there, filling her, bringing a sob of relief from her as his body slid home and she tightened around him.
‘Matt …’
‘Oh, God, Amy, I’ve missed you,’ he whispered, and then he started to move, his body shaking with control until she was sick of waiting and arched under him, her hands tugging at him, begging for more.
And he gave her more, pulling out all the stops, driving her higher and higher until she came apart in his arms, her reserve splintering under the onslaught of his unleashed passion.
Then he held her, his body shuddering in release, his heart slamming against his ribs so hard he thought they’d break, until gradually it slowed and he rolled to his side, taking her with him, their bodies still locked together as the aftershocks of their lovemaking faded slowly away into the night.
CHAPTER TWO
HE MADE love to her again in the night, reaching for her in the darkness, bringing her body slowly awake with sure, gentle hands and whispered kisses. She laid her hand tenderly against his cheek, savouring the rasp of stubble against her palm, her thumb dragging softly over the firm fullness of his lower lip.
He opened his mouth, drawing her thumb inside and sucking it deeply, his tongue exploring it, his teeth nipping lightly and making the breath catch in her throat. She shifted so she could reach him, her hands running over him now, checking for changes and finding only sweet, familiar memories. He moved on, his mouth warm and moist against her skin, and she joined in, their lips tracing tender trails across each other’s bodies. They were taking their time now for leisurely explorations, the darkness shielding them from emotions they couldn’t bear to expose—emotions too dark, too painful to consider.
That wasn’t what this night was about, Amy thought later as she lay awake beside him listening to the deep, even rhythm of his breathing. It was for old times’ sake, no-longer lovers reaching out to touch fleetingly what had once been theirs to love.
She was under no illusions. After the wedding, Matt would be going back to London, and she’d be staying here, nursing her still-broken heart but with a little more tenderness, a little more forgiveness in her soul. He wasn’t indifferent. Clearly not. But their lives had moved on, gone in different directions, and maybe it was for the best.
Maybe this was the way forward, for both of them. A little healing salve smeared gently over their wounds, kissing each other better.
She shifted slightly, seeking the warmth of his body, and he reached for her again in his sleep, drawing her closer, their legs tangled, her head pillowed on his shoulder as she slept, until the first light of dawn crept round the edges of the curtains.
He woke her gently, his voice a soft murmur in her ear.
‘Amy?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Amy, it’s morning.’
‘Mmm.’
‘You’re in my room.’
‘Mmm. I know.’
‘Sweetheart, everyone will know soon.’
Her eyes flew open, and she sucked in a breath, the night coming back to her in a flood of memory and sudden awkwardness. ‘Oh, rats. Damn. Um—Matt, help me get dressed.’
She threw the quilt off and starting searching for her underwear. Stupid, stupid … ‘Where the hell are my pants?’
Pants? He nearly laughed. Try cobwebs.
‘Take the dressing gown on the back of the door—have you got your room key?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s—’
In her clutch bag, which was—somewhere. She flopped back down onto the edge of the bed, dragging the quilt back over herself to hide her body from his eyes. Pointless, after he’d explored it so thoroughly, knew it so well in any case, but she was suddenly smitten with shyness. ‘It’s in my clutch bag,’ she admitted.
‘Which is …?’
Good question. ‘Downstairs?’
He groaned and rolled away from her, vanishing into the bathroom and emerging a few minutes later damp, tousled and unshaven. And stark naked, the water drops still clinging to his body gleaming in the spill of light from the bathroom door and drawing her hungry eyes. He flipped open his overnight bag, pulled out some jeans and boxers and a shirt, dressed quickly and took the room key out of the door lock.
‘What’s your bag look like?’ he asked briskly, and she dragged her mind off his body and tried to concentrate.
‘Cream satin, about so big, little bronzy chain. It’s got a lipstick, a tissue and the room key in it.’
