Once More, With Feeling. Caroline Anderson
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it seemed dry enough. She walked hestitantly into the sitting-room and faltered to a standstill.
It hadn’t changed—not since—oh, lord.
Memories came back to swamp her—David, lying naked on the hearthrug, watching her hungrily as she danced in front of the flames, his eyes warming her pale skin as effectively as the fire. He had reached for her, drawing her down beside him, then his body had claimed hers again—
She became conscious of a dull, heavy ache of need, buried long ago deep down inside her, and the slow, insistent beat of her heart beneath her breasts.
She must be mad, she thought with a moan as she pressed cool palms against her flaming cheeks. Mad to think she could come back here to live, in this cottage which held so many memories. And madder still to think she could work side by side with the man who had helped to make those memories.
Her eyes strayed back to the fire, and, sinking down on to the hearthrug, she let her fingers stray over the soft woollen pile.
He had been so tender with her, so nervous himself and yet so thoughtful of her …
‘Isn’t it lovely?’
David glanced round, then back to his bride, her cheeks glowing with health and something else.
‘Absolutely,’ he said huskily, but she knew he wasn’t talking about the cottage and her throat went dry.
Her whole body tingled with anticipation, with the tension that had built between them until now.
But it would end here, tonight, their wedding night.
‘It’s cold,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll light the fire.’
It was reluctant, and she laughed at him and pushed him out of the way, interfering.
In the end, amid much teasing and hilarity, they got it going, and David went out to the car and brought in the luggage and a bottle of champagne.
The fridge, they found, was full of goodies courtesy of Sarah’s parents—the lady who looked after the cottage had been in and cleaned it, made up the beds and stocked up with groceries at their instruction.
‘How kind,’ Emily said to David, and he agreed and turned to her.
‘What about supper?’
‘I’m not really hungry,’ she confessed, her eyes tangling with his.
‘No, nor am I. Shall we sit by the fire and open the champagne?’
They found glasses and settled down on the hearthrug. Although the heating was on it was a cold, cheerless day and darkness had fallen some time before. There, though, in the flickering firelight, the outside world was forgotten.
‘To us,’ he said softly, touching his glass to hers, and, their eyes locked, they entwined their arms and sipped deeply.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Bubbles,’ she said, a little breathless, and he leaned back against a chair and pulled her between his legs, her back against his chest, one arm resting comfortably across her waist.
Her head was tipped back against his throat, and she could feel the beat of his heart against her shoulders.
‘It was a lovely day, wasn’t it?’ she said softly.
‘I thought it would never end,’ he murmured.
She turned her head a little and stared up at him. The flames were reflected in his eyes, but then he moved his head and she saw a fire in them that was all his own. She swallowed, her heart suddenly pounding, and he took her glass away and set it down with his.
Then he reached for her, a little clumsily, and she turned in his arms to meet his kiss. Their passion caught and blazed, yet he seemed reluctant somehow, as if he was holding back.
She lifted her head and looked at him. ‘What’s wrong?’
He shook his head slightly. I so badly want this to be special for you, but I expect it’s going to be a disaster,’ he confessed, his voice trembling a little. ‘I’ve never done it before, so don’t expect miracles.’
She reached up and cupped his cheek. ‘Nor have I, so don’t worry. I don’t know what to expect—except that it might hurt.’
His eyes clouded. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Emily.’
‘Well, we can’t wait forever,’ she told him with typical candour. ‘I suppose it will only be the once.’
‘I’ll be as gentle as I can.’
‘I know.’
He reached out his arms again and kissed her once more, slowly, softly, with all his love—or so it seemed, because suddenly Emily found she didn’t care how much it hurt, she just needed to hold him and be held by him, to feel his body on hers, to know him in the oldest sense.
She reached for his shirt buttons, freeing two and sliding her fingers inside against the warm, smooth skin. A light scatter of hair grazed her knuckles, sending shivers down her spine.
‘Cold?’ he asked, but she shook her head.
‘No—no, not cold.’
He moved away a little from her, and stripped off his jacket and tie, then his shirt.
Her heart thudded and crashed against her ribs. He was so—male? She felt liquid heat pooling low down, just where her body ached for him. She couldn’t drag her eyes from him, and as he slid his trousers down the taut, well-muscled thighs she thought she would die of wanting him.
He turned back to her, his scanty briefs doing little to hide his need for her, and she flicked her tongue out and moistened her dry lips.
‘Your turn,’ he said gruffly, and helped her to her feet.
‘You do it,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t know where to start—’
‘Zip at the back,’ she told him, and, turning round, she lifted her hair and bent her head forward.
She felt the slide of the zip, then the warmth of his lips pressed against her spine.
‘You smell wonderful,’ he breathed against her skin, and a shiver ran over her.
Turning in his arms, she slipped the dress down over her shoulders and stepped out of it.
The breath left him as if he’d been punched. He lifted trembling hands and curved them lightly over her barely covered breasts.
‘Emily,’ he whispered raggedly, and she arched into his hands, pressing her aching breasts against his palms. His fingers tightened convulsively as her hands locked behind him and drew them together, then as their hips brushed against each other they both gasped.
‘I need you,’ he said, the words shattering against her cheek.
‘I’m yours,’ she said simply, her shyness forgotten.
He drew her down on the rug and slowly, his hands shaking, he stripped away the scraps of silk and lace that hid her from his eyes.
‘Emily,’ he breathed.
She’d thought she would feel shy, but the awestruck reverence of his expression dispelled her last fears. Slipping her fingers in the waistband of his briefs, she eased them down and abandoned them, turning back to study his now totally naked form.
He took her breath away.
‘Let me touch you,’ he murmured, and she lay down again beside him, her hands reaching for his shoulders, smoothing the hot satin of his skin.
Tremblingly, his hands traced her body, cupping her breasts, gliding over the sleek skin of her flank, his knuckles grazing her inner thighs. Her legs fell open for him, her hips arching up against his hand as he straightened his fingers and laid his palm against the damp nest of curls.
Her own caresses