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since she’d arrived, London fell silent. Save for the sound of them.
His breathing was ragged and their mouths were frenzied. And surely he’d kissed the oxygen from her because he made her dizzy, and his tongue was so expert and thorough that it made her crave more of him.
His hands undid the belt of her robe. He freed one arm, then the other, and as it slid to the floor she felt cool air on the back of her body—a contrast to the warm rough fabric of his suit and the press of metal and buttons on her naked front.
Freya had never known such raw passion. Their tongues jostled and then she was pressing herself into him, her hands clutching his hair as his hands spanned her waist.
He guided them so that they moved to the wall as if as one. His kisses were certainly not smooth now—they were indecent and delicious and Freya was lost in them. Their chins bumped, their teeth clashed. She wanted to climb him and wrap her body around him.
Freya was tackling his belt, to free him, and then she felt his hard warmth leap towards her hand.
Richard reached into his jacket pocket for a condom, and it was an impatient pause for them both as he sheathed himself. She ached to have him inside her, and he ached to be there too.
And so he rectified things, thrusting in and taking her against the wall.
Freya had never been so thoroughly taken, and it felt sublime. He lifted her so that her legs could wrap around him and she knew she had never moved so seductively. He exposed a side to her that she did not recognise, because she had always been a touch reticent in bed.
Not now.
His fingers dug into her buttocks as she ground against him, and instead of feeling herself holding back, she was more herself with him.
She was so light that he could put one hand against the wall and hold her round her waist with the other. And then he changed the pace...
There was a scream building in her throat, which was clamped closed, so it waited there, trying to burst free. And then there came a breathless shout from him, followed by a rush of energy along her spine as he came deep within her. Finally her scream found its release, but it came out in staccato sobs as she throbbed to his beat.
His hands soothed now, rather than inflamed, and he seemed to know that this wasn’t a Freya she knew.
And it wasn’t.
Her head came to his shoulder and she felt the fabric of his jacket. He was completely dressed, and she was utterly naked. And now there was a smidgen of shame creeping in for Freya—just a curl of guilt as he lowered her down to the floor, yet still held her tightly.
He buried his head in her damp hair and then she felt his lips near her ear. ‘I only wanted a cup of tea.’
Richard made her laugh. He just did.
Having sorted out his clothes, he picked up her robe and helped her into it, then did up the very same belt she had so readily allowed him to open.
They were both still a touch breathless, still trying to find their balance again—but, God, they felt better.
She went and sat on the sofa, where she’d been lying earlier. Richard looked utterly normal—not even particularly dishevelled. His hair fell into perfect shape, whereas Freya was quite sure hers was in knots.
But she didn’t care.
He came and joined her on the sofa, and though they didn’t speak it wasn’t awkward. It was nice to lie down with her head on his lap, looking up at him as he played with her hair. It was relaxing not to speak.
He looked around at her flat and saw for the first time the mustard carpet and odd curtains. Even odder, though, was the fact that there was nothing that spoke of her.
Well, there were some books and magazines on a shelf, but there was a large picture on the wall of a horse and carriage, and he was certain it hadn’t been wrapped in a blanket and lovingly moved down from Scotland.
‘Do you like horses, Freya?’ he asked.
‘Not particularly. Why?’
‘There’s a picture of one on your wall.’
She looked over to where his gaze fell. ‘I know. I can’t get it down.’
Well, that wasn’t quite true. Freya had a little step ladder, which she’d used when she’d re-hung the curtains, but she simply hadn’t got around to taking the horse and cart picture down. It wasn’t as if she had anything to replace it with. It would do for now.
And, anyway, there were far better things to look at. Gosh, it was nice to lie there, Freya thought, looking up at Richard.
And for Richard it was nice too—nice to feel her hair, because it had entranced him.
He looked down, but not into her eyes. Her robe was hanging open a little, and he could see the curve of her breast and the edge of a pink areola beckoning. He wanted to slip his hand in...
But sustenance first.
‘I’m starving.’
He wasn’t asking her to cook for him—a bowl of cereal was his usual choice when in a rush, and he was in a rush. To resume proceedings!
He hauled her off his lap and walked through to her tiny kitchen, where he opened up the cupboards while Freya lay there, liking it that he hadn’t asked if he could do so.
Usually that would have made her tense. She recalled well how she had sucked in a breath when she had bought her little cottage and Malcolm had opened her fridge. But now she lay smiling as Richard opened and closed her cupboards.
‘You have absolutely nothing to eat,’ Richard said when he came back. ‘Not even cereal.’
‘I meant to stop at the shops on the way home from work. I think there’s some soup...’
‘That’s not going to cut it. Come on,’ he said. ‘Get dressed.’
‘We could always ring for pizza,’ Freya suggested.
He was tempted. There was a huge appeal in the thought of having pizza delivered and then moving straight to bed. And he had seen from his search of the fridge that there was a bottle of wine there.
A perfect evening.
Except—rarely for him—the pleasure was laced with guilt.
Did she fully get that he didn’t do the dating thing?
He wasn’t that bad—it wasn’t all bed. Just...mostly.
He had come here tonight fully intending to take Freya to that damned film—which was actually quite a concession for him. Richard couldn’t remember the last time he had been to the cinema.
But now he had to be clear. Richard wanted to make sure that she didn’t think this might lead to anything more than a few casual dates and a whole lot of bed.
While he hoped he had spelled things out yesterday—and although getting pizza and going straight to bed would be easier and far more pleasant—Richard knew that he needed to tell her that this night wouldn’t change anything.
Yet clearly it was going to.
For they were soon back at the Italian restaurant—but as lovers this time.
TONIGHT IT WAS Richard who had the carbonara.
Freya chose spaghetti, and it came with a rich, meaty tomato sauce.
‘You did it again,’ Richard said.
‘What?’
‘When I saw your carbonara last night I regretted my choice...’ And then he stopped,