choir. He took her into his arms, and she felt as though she’d come home after a long, long journey.
She didn’t know how long they danced for, she only knew that there had never been a dance like it. She seemed to fit so perfectly into his arms, her head gently resting against the broadness of his chest. She was floating, dreaming—she must be. Things like this just didn’t happen to girls like her.
She didn’t remember at which point he suggested they leave. She didn’t say anything as they walked through now deserted streets to his car. There was an air of magic surrounding them. He drove her through unfamiliar streets, which became more imposing and more tree-lined with each moment, drawing up at last outside a white house, where the scent of some shrub filled her senses with its fragrance.
He led her inside. She was aware of opulence and faded splendour. He didn’t put any lights on, but instead took her through to a room whose uncurtained windows let in the bright silvery light of the moon. The moonlight, with its surreal glow, only added to her feeling of unreality. Somehow she was in his arms, where she belonged, and he was whispering to her.
‘Do you want to dance some more?’
Her voice sounded heavy, drowsy. ‘No.’
‘A drink, then? Some more grappa?’
‘No.’
‘What, then? This. . .?’ And he bent his head and started to kiss her. ‘Is that what you wanted all the time, my little Cat?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed against his parted lips. ‘Yes. Yes.’
The sweetness of his breath was more intoxicating than the grappa she had drunk. Cat had been kissed before, naturally, but this might just as well have been the first time, for it made every other kiss fade into insignificance.
His mouth was firm, hard, insistent yet gentle. She felt his tongue begin to explore first the warm outline of her lips, investigating every tiny pore, so that when eventually it moved inside her mouth it seemed like the most wantonly exciting invasion imaginable. She found herself wanting to run her hands through the rich, glorious thickness of his hair. He pulled her closer, so that she could feel the frantic racing of his heart through the flimsy fabric of her dress.
She was scarcely aware of how or when he took her up a long flight of stairs, to a room where there was a large bed, but she remembered feeling relief when she saw the bed, relief and a slow, relentless build-up of longing. She saw his eyes alight with a wondering fire as he lifted a hand up and began to slide the thin shoulder-straps down, one by one.
‘Cat,’ he murmured. ‘My little Cat. You’re so very beautiful.’ He made it sound like a sonnet.
‘Nico.’ She could barely gasp the word out through swollen lips, lips that longed to feel the heady pressure of his kiss once more.
He pulled the bodice of the dress down, so that her breasts in their insubstantial bra lay revealed, and she heard him catch his breath. ‘Cara,’ he whispered. ‘Mia cara.’ He kissed the hollow between them, and she shuddered as she felt his tongue trail a path to one hardened rosy nub of nipple.
Head flung back, totally uninhibited, she heard herself gasp, ‘Take it off,’ in a kind of frenzied whisper.
The wisp of bra floated its way to the floor, and he cupped each breast in almost reverential fashion, bending his head slowly to kiss each one in turn.
Driven by instinct, and a power as old as time itself, she found herself unbuttoning the fine linen of his shirt, until his chest too was bare, and she heard him give a groan of sheer delight as she kissed him there. He pulled her to him fiercely then, and she knew a sensation of both wonderment and gratification as, for the first time ever, she felt bare skin touching bare skin in the act of love.
She was aware of his shrugging off his jacket, of his other clothes being flung off his body, straight on to the floor.
That beautiful suit, she thought with lazy amusement, and then she was in his arms again, and he was laying her on the bed, pulling her dress off completely, then the filmy half-slip, and finally he hooked his fingers into the tiny lace panties and slid them off her, leaving her naked before his eyes.
He lay above her, just watching her, a mixture of awe and desire and something else on his face, something she couldn’t recognise. He lifted a hand and touched her face quite gently. ‘Are you sure you want this, my Cat? Quite sure, mia cara?’
She gave him an enchanting smile, loving him all the more because he would have stopped. Some primitive instinct told her that with absolute clarity. Yes, he wanted her very badly, she could see that, but one word and he would have stopped. One word. She put her hand up to trace the outline of his lips, and he imprisoned it there, kissing the palm with breathtaking homage. He was waiting for her answer. One word.
‘Yes,’ she told him. She scarcely recognised the voice as her own; it sounded almost slurred with the blood-stirring response he was eliciting from her.
He moved over her then, to shower her with kisses, light, butterfly kisses at first, gradually becoming deeper and more insistent.
She had never seen anything so beautiful as the physical perfection of this naked man. Each limb brown and strong, all muscle and sinew. But there was softness behind the steely strength. Tenderness, too, in the way he spoke her name, over and over again. She kissed him back, with a fervour and a passion that matched his. She was flying, like a bird newly out of the nest. The wings she had never used before were unexpectedly simple to use. She matched each stroke, each caress, each seeking gesture with movements of her own. She had never been to bed with a man before, but she felt no fear, no hesitation, no embarrassment. It was as though the instinctive way she responded to him was being guided by some force stronger than she, stronger indeed than both of them. She knew a moment of sheer pleasure as she saw his face just before he moved in to possess her utterly. A primitive joy at the sensation of his fullness, dominating her completely, before the sharp and totally unexpected spasm of pain. She had forgotten, she had actually forgotten that it might hurt. She heard him exclaim, saw his face. . .not pleasure there now, puzzlement, yes, and—surely not?—anger. His movements became fierce and strong, tinged with a kind of desperation. He moved one last time with a sudden ferocity, and then she heard him groan, before withdrawing completely, and falling on to the bed beside her.
There was a brief silence, if you could count it as silence, when the raggedness of his breathing seemed almost to deafen her. She turned to him miserably, knowing that it should not have ended like this, feeling his mental as well as physical withdrawal, knowing, just from the forbidding set of his newly tense shoulders that he was very angry, but not knowing why.
When he turned over to look at her she almost recoiled from the pure fury that lit the dark eyes with a angry glow.
‘Dio!’ he swore. ‘You little idiot—how could you? How could you?’
She felt suddenly cold. ‘How could I what? Nico—what is it? What have I done?’
He moved as far away from her as he could, as though he could taint himself by mere proximity. He sat up, the rumpled sheet at his waist, still breathing heavily. ‘What a waste!’ he exploded. ‘Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me that you were a virgin?’
Why? Why indeed? If she told him the reason she would be able to add scorn to the contempt on his face. Tell him that she had never felt anything like that in her life
