by Anne Mather
‘I don’t think—’ she began, but his knuckles, tracing the line of her cheek before dipping beneath her jaw line, silenced her.
‘What don’t you think?’ he asked softly. ‘That this is a good idea? Oh, it is, believe me.’ His lips twisted. ‘For me at least, it’s imperative. Unless you want to drive me mad.’
Helen’s breath escaped on a gasp. ‘Mr Aitken—’
‘Matthew.’
‘Matthew, then.’ She moistened her lips with a nervous tongue. ‘Whatever you think—whatever impression I’ve given you by my behaviour—I’m not—I’m not used to—Well, you know what I mean. I—I’m flattered, but I’m not interested. Now, please, I’d like to go back to the others.’
‘Would you?’
His hand dropped to his side, but although he was no longer touching her she was as conscious of him as if he was. It was the way he was looking at her, she thought uncomfortably. As if he could see through her clothes, as if he could see through her skin. And, God help her, her body was responding to him, without any volition on her part.
‘Yes,’ she managed finally, but, when at last she got her legs to move for her, his hand at her nape caused her to falter.
‘You’re hot,’ he said, and she knew he must be feeling the line of wetness beneath her braid. ‘Why don’t you take a shower instead?’
‘A shower!’ The words were more of a squeak than anything else, but he didn’t demur.
‘Why not?’ he asked gently. ‘I find the idea—tantalising. There’s something very sexy about a woman when she’s wet.’
Helen stared at him. ‘You’re not serious!’
‘Yes, I am.’ His thumb invaded the neckline of her T-shirt and stroked softly over the fine bones that formed her shoulder. ‘Your shirt and shorts are sticking to you. Despite the fact that you’re obviously wearing a swimsuit. You can keep that on, if you like. I’ll enjoy taking it off myself.’
Helen gulped. Then she shook her head. ‘You’re mad,’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘Absolutely mad!’
‘Just aroused,’ he corrected her huskily, pulling the loose neckline of the T-shirt off her shoulder. He bent his head and touched her bare shoulder with his tongue. ‘So are you.’
‘I am not.’
Helen’s denial was as spurious as the hand she raised to stop him. In all honesty, she didn’t understand what was happening to her, for, although she’d shared amorous interludes with men before, she had never felt the way Matthew made her feel. The lovemaking she’d experienced before had been strong on affection and weak on sex, but with Matthew she knew it would be different; when he touched her she started to burn.
‘OK,’ he conceded now, letting her have the way of it, but she sensed he didn’t believe her any more than she believed herself. Why else would his hand reach for her, caressing her at her midriff, sliding beneath the hem of her shirt to spread his palm against her back?
‘Mr Aitken—Matthew—’ Her mouth was so dry she could scarcely get her tongue round it, and it didn’t help when he moved nearer and rubbed his chest against her breasts. The hand she’d raised between them was crushed against hair-roughened muscles, and the fibres were surprisingly soft where they curled against her palm. ‘We can’t—you can’t—do this.’
‘Do what?’ he taunted, looking down at her with sensual indulgence. ‘What am I doing, for God’s sake? Just inviting you to get cool. I can’t help it if your puritan soul reads something more into my intentions. You are hot. I can feel it. And I think you can feel it, too.’
It was all double meanings and innuendo. For all her ignorance in some things, she wasn’t unaware of what he really meant. Almost involuntarily, her eyes dipped to where his chest-hair arrowed beyond his navel. His brown flesh was smooth and masculine, his stomach taut and flat. But below his belt the fabric was taut, and her eyes tore away in panic.
‘Please—’ she begged, half aware that the solution was in her own hands. She had only to pull herself away from him, put the width of the room between them, and he wouldn’t touch her again. Something told her she could stop him. Matthew Aitken didn’t have to force himself on anyone.
‘Please, what?’ he asked, the tips of his fingers invading the waistband of her shorts now. The back of her swimsuit dipped low over her hips and he didn’t have to push it aside to find the curve of her taut rear. Her muscles clenched instinctively as his finger found the damp cleft of her bottom, and a wet heat flooded between her legs as he urged her closer against him.
‘Mmm, sweet,’ he murmured huskily, his teeth fastening on to the skin of her shoulder and nipping the yielding flesh. ‘You know what I want to do, don’t you? It’s not easy for a man to disguise his needs.’
His meaning was all too obvious. The way he was holding her was bringing her into intimate association with his body. And, although until that night on the beach she had had little experience of a man’s arousal, there was no mistaking the solid feel of his sex pressed against her thigh.
Her breathing trembled. What she should do and what she shouldn’t do were just abstracts, suspended in her brain. Thinking was becoming a problem; coherence was almost impossible. And, when he lifted his head and found her mouth, her sigh signalled her inevitable surrender.
His mouth was so sensual, slanting across hers first one way then the other, nibbling kisses at her lips until they were forced to part. Her hands, balled into fists, provided her only resistance. But when his tongue plunged into her mouth, every muscle felt suspended.
His hands cupped her buttocks now, lifting her against him. She could feel the whole length of him hard against her mound. His tongue performed a sensuous dance, miming what his body demanded. And, almost without volition, her hands crept to his neck, grasping handfuls of his hair, pulling him closer.
‘God,’ he groaned as she strained against him, her small breasts almost bursting out of her swimsuit. ‘We are wearing far too many clothes. We’ve got to do something about it.’
‘I don’t want a shower,’ protested Helen weakly, briefly sobered by his hands pushing her shorts down to her thighs.
‘Well, not right now,’ Matthew agreed, as her shorts puddled about her ankles. He lifted her legs about him and carried her to the bed. ‘Maybe later, hmm?’ he added, as she felt the coolness of the bedspread against her midriff. He tugged the T-shirt over her head and then frowned. ‘What happened to the bikini?’
Helen caught her breath. ‘I—it’s too revealing,’ she got out tremulously, and he uttered a lazy laugh.
‘And this isn’t?’ he teased her softly, peeling the one-piece maillot down to her waist. ‘Oh, God, Helen, let me touch you. I’ve been wanting to do this for days.’
Helen had the feeling that this was all some incredible dream. She couldn’t be here, in Matthew Aitken’s bedroom, letting him undress her without doing anything to stop him. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t the kind of woman to drive a man mad with desire. As a matter of fact she was fairly ordinary—an awareness she’d felt even more strongly since she’d seen her mother again.
Matthew had shrugged off his shirt now, and, tugging her braid towards him, he went to work on her hair. In no time at all he had loosened the plait and drawn the sun-streaked strands over her breasts. Then, as she lay there, too dazed to feel embarrassed, he bent his head and took one erect nipple into his mouth.
The feeling that swept through her as he suckled on her breast was amazing. It was like an exquisite kind of pain that she didn’t want to stop. It caused her to close her eyes, so that the sensual feelings filled her head. But when her lids flickered open, and she saw his bent head, the weakness she was feeling only intensified.
Dear God, she wondered, was this what it was like to want a man? Was the dampness between her thighs and the trembling in her legs a forerunner to what he meant to do to her? Knowing what happened was one thing; experiencing it was something else. Did she want this man to be the one to teach her, to show her how it could be?
; She was in no state to decide, she thought, realising she was ducking the issue, but incapable of doing anything else. It had all happened too fast; she was still coming to terms with her own sexuality. And there was still that element of fantasy, of not believing that this was happening to her.
But it was. The heat of Matthew’s body splayed beside her, his warmth, his passion, his smell—they were unmistakable proof of what he was doing. For some incredible reason he wanted her, and her bemused senses couldn’t handle anything else.
His mouth moved to her other breast, his teeth tugging an even greater response from her. She was weak, helpless, in the grip of emotions too strong to deny. Her pulse was racing, the blood rushing through her veins like liquid fire. She was on fire, she thought wildly. She was drenched in sensual flames.
When he drew her hand down to the bulge that swelled his jeans, she no longer tried to stop him. ‘Help me,’ he said. ‘Touch me. Open the zip—that’s right. Oh, God!’ He caught his breath as she took hold of him. ‘Oh, yes! Yes. That’s so good.’
Helen’s head swam. Was she really doing this? Was the living, throbbing thing in her hand a part of him? She knew it was. She could feel the blood beating beneath the sensitive skin, could feel his pulse racing against her palm. Hard and velvety smooth, it filled her with alarm as well as excitement. He was so big, so overpowering. And, although she was no foolish teenager, age did not necessarily bring reassurance in its wake.
Her fingers moved involuntarily, sliding up and down the length of him, so that he swore, quite explicitly, and removed her hand. ‘If you do that, I can’t be responsible for the consequences,’ he told her thickly. Then, with unsteady fingers, he tugged her swimsuit down her legs.
She should have been embarrassed, and momentarily she did think of trying to cover herself. But somehow he’d managed to push his jeans away, and his hairy thigh came between her legs. Then he nudged the melting source of her femininity, and it was far too late to hide herself from him.
Her hips rose off the bed, almost in protest, but his fingers were already taking the place of his knee. They threaded between the moist curls, and she caught her breath instinctively. Then he rubbed the tiny nubbin hidden in the folds.
‘Is that good?’ he asked against her lips, as his tongue made another greedy foray into her mouth. His fingers moved again, sliding inside her, and a swelling sense of anticipation spread through her stomach and down her trembling legs.
‘Don’t—that is—I haven’t—’ she began chokingly, but the sudden eruption of her senses left her weak. A wave of shattering sweetness washed over her. She jerked against his fingers in helpless fervour as the feeling spread.
‘Relax,’ he breathed when she subsided again, but the shuddering that had gripped her body wouldn’t stop. ‘It was that good, hmm?’ he added softly. ‘You sure know how to drive a man insane.’
Then he was kneeling between her legs, his palms tantalising her breasts for a moment before dipping to draw her legs wider apart. His thumbs probed the soft creases, and she knew he was watching her reaction as he did it. But that didn’t stop her bucking helplessly when he touched the place where he’d caressed her before.
She had to tell him, she thought dizzily, wondering if he was in the habit of making love to virgins. Or did he know? Had he guessed? For all he’d succeeded in arousing her, far beyond anything she’d imagined, surely he must know she was painfully ignorant of what came next?
But when his finger slid inside her again and found her wetness, the groan he uttered made it impossible for her to offer any last-minute confession. Besides, if she was honest with herself, she would admit that she didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want him to think she was so inexperienced, so lacking in sex-appeal, that no man had touched her.
‘God, Helen,’ he muttered, as she lay there gazing at him with an unknowingly sensual invitation in her eyes. ‘I wanted to make this last, but I don’t think I can. There’s a limit to my endurance, and I guess we just reached it.’
There was still time. As he reached towards the drawer in the cabinet beside the bed and pulled out a foil wrapper, Helen tried to find suitable words. But she saw what he was doing, and her mouth dried in helpless anticipation. He was protecting himself—and her. She had nothing to worry about. Nothing—nothing could go wrong.
How wrong she was.
His hands cupped her bottom, lifting her against him. The solid bluntness of his arousal was touching her now, there, in that place between her legs that suddenly seemed too small for what he expected it to do.
Yet he was still caressing her, his fingertips between her legs, holding her apart, drenching her in her own heat as she responded without volition.
And it was good. The feelings she had felt before flowered again as he caressed her, and when he pushed against her, her muscles expanded to meet him.
It was going to be all right, she thought, relaxing and letting her body receive him. She could feel him now, hard inside her, and her hips arched almost instinctively to meet his powerful thrust.
And then a sob escaped her. The pain was excruciating for a moment. Dear God, she hadn’t dreamed it would hurt so much. All pleasure vanished as he pushed his way inside her.
‘God!’
Matthew’s exclamation was no less fervent than hers, but, although he looked down at her with hot, accusing eyes, there was no way he could prevent what was happening. Her cry, her sudden resistance, had caused her muscles to convulse around him, and the constriction was enough to send him shuddering into release.
He collapsed on to her, almost winding her with the weight of his heavy body. All the air exploded from her lungs in an unwary gasp and she lay there, gulping for breath, as his hips jerked helplessly against her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BY THE time Matthew was capable of lifting his head, Helen was already beginning to move restlessly against him. Dismay, pure and simple, was mirrored on her expressive face; her eyes were bright with unshed tears, looking anywhere but at him.
And, curiously, it was her obvious distress that dispelled his own feelings of anger and accusation. Despite the undeniable relief he’d felt in slaking his own needs, his gratification had been tempered by the knowledge of what he’d done. Contrary to her belief, he was not in the habit of ravaging inexperienced women. And, if he’d known she was a virgin, he’d have probably let her go.
Or would he?
The point was moot, but no longer debatable. And, looking down into her drowned grey eyes, he wondered if he’d have found the strength to do anything differently. He’d wanted her—more, in fact, than he’d wanted any woman ever before. And, what was more, he still wanted her. He could feel himself growing hard at the prospect of doing it all again.
‘Please…’
Her voice, soft and tremulous, nevertheless contained a note of recrimination. She was trying to get up, but his body wouldn’t let her. She obviously wanted to get away from him, but he didn’t want her to go.
Instead of complying with her wishes, Matthew lifted one hand and shaped the curve of her jaw line. She jerked away from his touch, but she couldn’t avoid it, and he allowed his thumb to invade the softness of her mouth.
‘How old are you?’ he asked suddenly, and she stopped struggling long enough to give him a wary look.
‘Does it matter?’
He inclined his head. ‘Humour me.’
She hesitated. ‘Twenty-two.’ Then, with some dignity, ‘As—as you’ve got what you came for, can I get up?’
Her words irritated him more than a little, but he contained his anger and said quietly, ‘So—how did you get to the age of twenty-two without—without—?’
He couldn’t find the right words, but in the event he didn’t need to. ‘Just unlucky, I guess,’ she responded, with obvious sarcasm, but he knew that she was hurting, and not just in a physical sense.
He sighed then. ‘It’s incredible.’
‘Incredibly boring, don’t you mea
n?’ she retorted tightly. ‘Perhaps I never had the opportunity. We’re not all like—like that, you know.’ He was fairly sure she’d been about to say ‘Fleur’, but she swallowed the distinction and gave him a guarded look. ‘I’m sorry if I wasn’t what you expected. If it’s any consolation, you weren’t what I expected either.’
Matthew traced the outline of her lower lip with his thumb. ‘Is that your way of telling me you were disappointed?’ he enquired gently, and her face suffused with scarlet colour.
‘No!’ she exclaimed hotly. And then, more steadily, ‘You’re only making fun of me again. Well, fine. The joke’s on me. I should have had more sense than to stay.’
‘I’m not making fun of you,’ Matthew informed her evenly, his hand dipping into the hollow of her shoulder, before moving on down her arm. He could feel her trembling beneath his touch and he knew an inexplicable feeling of protection. Which was ridiculous in the circumstances, he thought. When he’d been the one to abuse her trust.
Needing to detain her now, as much for his own needs as hers, he added, ‘Why did you? Stay, I mean? I would have let you go if you’d told me. I’d never have forced you, if that’s what you believe.’
‘I don’t—that is—’ His questing hand had found her breast, and a little shudder feathered her smooth flesh. ‘I— don’t know why I did,’ she admitted honestly. ‘Perhaps I was curious.’ Her lips twisted ruefully. ‘Someone—some man— had to do it.’
‘And you chose me?’
‘No. Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
She was getting frustrated. He could sense it. Even though she refused to look directly at him, even though she refused to acknowledge how her own body was betraying her, a kind of raw panic was setting in. She was afraid of herself, he thought, with sudden intuition. She didn’t understand her own needs. And, dammit, he’d done nothing to explain them to her. He’d just gone ahead and had his way.
Ignoring the protest of his own body, whose needs were all too understandable to him, Matthew levered himself up on his hands and withdrew from her. But when she would have rolled away, he grasped her shoulders. ‘Wait,’ he said, and something in his voice stilled her instinctive protest. ‘I think it’s time we took that shower. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.’