by Sara Craven
But, above all, there was the wide bed, made even more massive by its high, ornately carved headboard. Dominating the entire space as it was clearly intended to do.
And, she realised, freshly made up, too, with crisp white linen and a glamorous satin coverlet the colour of sapphires. Mounded with snowy pillows. Waiting…
She halted, eyes widening, as she began to tremble, and felt his arms go round her, drawing her back against him. Holding her strongly.
He said quietly, ‘Lie with me, Alys. Lie with me here, in my house. In my bed.’
And she turned, lifting her face for his kiss and whispering, ‘Yes,’ against the warm urgency of his mouth.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HIS kiss was deep and yearning, as if he was seeking her soul through her lips, and Allie sank against him as a strange weakness invaded her body, her eyes closing and her hands clinging to his shoulders.
He raised his head at last, framing her face in his hands, looking down at her, gravely and searchingly.
‘You are shaking, mon amour,’ he told her quietly. ‘In truth, am I so terrifying?’
‘No—oh, no.’ The denial tumbled from her. ‘Oh, Remy, I’m such a fool, but I couldn’t bear it if you were—disappointed in me.’
He put a silencing finger on her lips. ‘I love you, Alys. And that is all that matters.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘Pleasing each other with our bodies is a joy we shall learn together.’
He slipped her damp jacket from her shoulders and let it drop, then lifted her into his arms and carried her across the room to the bed, throwing back the sapphire quilt before placing her with great care against the heaped pillows. Then, kicking off his shoes, he came to lie beside her.
She turned on her side to face him, her hand going shyly to brush a strand of thick dark hair back from his forehead, and he captured her fingers, brushing them softly with his mouth.
‘You are the dream of my life, Alys,’ he murmured, then began to kiss her, his lips touching her forehead, her eyes, her cheekbones and her pliant mouth in a series of brief, delicate caresses that seemed to give but then withdraw. Which tantalised but offered no immediate satisfaction.
Yet that was what she wanted, she realised, startled. What she’d craved ever since that first afternoon at Les Sables, when she’d first felt the touch of his hands on her bare skin.
She longed to be taken—to feel him inside her and know the heated steel of his arousal as he possessed her.
She moved closer, pressing herself against him, her lips finding the opening of his shirt, pushing the crisp cotton aside to caress the base of his throat before moving down to the warm hair-roughened skin of his chest.
Remy groaned softly. ‘Doucement, mon ange,’ he ordered, his voice faintly breathless. ‘I want to make this good for you, and for that I shall need every atom of control I possess.’
She looked up at him, running the tip of her tongue slowly round her lips. ‘Are you—really so sure of that, monsieur?’
‘Ask me again, chérie—later,’ he told her huskily, and recaptured her mouth with his.
His hand moved to her breast and stroked it gently, moulding its softness and cupping it in his palm, before allowing his fingers to trace her nipple with a delicate precision that made her gasp as he brought it to sharply delineated arousal against the clinging material of her top.
For a moment he looked down at her, surveying the exquisite havoc he had created, the vivid eyes darkening.
‘You are wearing too many clothes, mon amour.’ His voice was a whisper.
He slipped down the straps of her top, freeing her arms, then deftly tugged the little garment over her head and tossed it aside, baring her to the waist. For a brief, searing moment she was acutely aware of her body—almost ashamed of how slender it was—how slight the curves he’d just uncovered. And her hands went up to conceal them.
But he guessed her intention and blocked her, his fingers closing firmly round her wrists.
‘Don’t hide, Alys,’ he murmured. ‘Not when I have waited so long to see you like this. Show me, ma belle, how truly lovely you are.’
He bent his head, his mouth slowly adoring each swollen rosy peak in turn, the erotic brush of his tongue creating a new, aching excitement that was echoed deep inside. She sighed, her hips moving restlessly, as the sweet, languorous torment continued, her nipples throbbing with a pleasure that was almost akin to pain.
When he raised his head at last, she lay looking up at him, her eyes dazed, her ragged breath sobbing in her throat.
His hands stroked their way down her body to the waistband of her skirt. He undid the small metal button at the front, then the short zip, easing the fabric gently over her hips until she was completely free of it and it could also be discarded.
Leaving her with just the minimal modesty of a pair of tiny lace briefs.
Remy made a small sound in his throat, then gathered her to him so closely that his clothing grazed her skin, his mouth closing on hers in a new and fierce demand.
She responded almost wildly, her lips parting eagerly to receive the thrust of his tongue, her hands tangling in the thick dark hair to hold him to her.
And then his mouth began to move slowly downwards, caressing her throat, her shoulders, and the little valley between her breasts, while all the time his hands were stroking her with sensuous delight, lingering in the hollow of her hip, drifting across the faint concavity of her belly, seeking out the silken length of her thighs.
Touching, at last, the lace that was her only covering. Pushing it aside so that his fingers could reach the slick core of her. Moving on her gently, but with such exquisite precision that when he paused she moaned aloud, her body rearing against him.
‘Oui, mon amour.’ His voice was raw with hunger. ‘Yes—and yes.’
And then, at last, the lace too was gone, peeled deftly away, and she was naked in his arms, with no barrier left to his skilfully questing hands.
Or—dear God—his mouth…
For a moment, shock held her frozen. Then, ‘No—please—you can’t…’ Her voice was a small, shaken whimper of distress. She tried to push his head away from her slackened thighs, but Remy’s hands were closing round her wrists, anchoring them effortlessly to the bed so that this new invasion of her most intimate self could continue entirely unhampered.
And her desperate attempts to evade his caress were only making matters a thousand times worse.
With devastating purpose, his lips sought the hot moist petals of her womanhood, parting them so that his tongue could search out the tiny hidden bud within and tease it into delicious tumescent arousal.
And at each sensuous stroke she felt her writhing body succumbing to a languorous weakness, her physical consciousness shifting—spiralling helplessly to a plane whose existence she’d never guessed at before.
Until, at last, there came a moment when she no longer wanted to escape what he was doing to her, even if it had ever been possible.
She heard her breathing change, and the spiral of feeling became an irresistible force, carrying her upwards to some unknown peak of desire. A moan of agonised pleasure burst from her throat, and her body arched rapturously in sheer surrender to wave after wave of utterly voluptuous delight.
And as the storm subsided she lay panting, her sated body damp with sweat, aware that there were tears on her face. She tried to wipe them away with trembling hands, and Remy gathered her in his arms, whispering softly to her in his own language, words of reassurance, words of love, telling her how sweet she was, how clever and how beautiful, while she clung to him, her mouth quivering into a smile.
And when he eventually released her it was only so that he could more easily strip off his own clothing. Allie lay watching him through half-closed eyes as he swiftly undressed, her body shivering in renewed and unforeseen hunger when he turned back to her, naked and magnificently aroused.
It seemed impossible that her body could be capable of such desire so soon agai
n, she thought as she opened her arms to him eagerly, taking him into her embrace and running her hands over his shoulders and back, glorying in the strength of bone and muscle—the texture of his skin. And yet she was burning up for him—melting with need.
‘Do I please you, ma belle?’ There was a smile in the huskiness of his voice as he lifted himself over her—above her. For answer, she clasped her fingers round his jutting hardness, letting her hand slowly travel its length in an appreciation that was as teasing as it was overt.
‘Sorcière,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Witch.’ And he took her with one deep, lingering thrust. She cried out in bewildered joy at the potency—the completeness of their union as he filled her. Knowing that here, at last, was the ultimate in consummation.
For a moment, he paused. ‘There is no problem?’
‘None.’ He was so anxious for her, but it wasn’t necessary. Surely he could tell how much she wanted him? she thought, half-dizzy with this new sensation, her inner muscles clenching round him—holding him.
Remy began to move without haste, his lean hips driving powerfully as he carried her with him into the surging ebb and flow of passion, and she responded avidly, instinctively, matching the rhythmic motion he was creating, her hands digging into his shoulders as her legs lifted to enclose him. To lock round him.
At once she sensed a new urgency in him that he was clearly struggling to restrain, and she knew that he was still trying to be patient, to wait until she was ready to accompany him to their mutual release.
But I, she thought, want it now…
She smiled into his eyes, her lashes sweeping down onto desire-flushed cheeks, letting her hands follow a leisurely path down his back to the flat male buttocks and stroking them with her palms, while one finger traced a delicate, enticing pattern on the sensitive nerve-endings at the base of his spine.
She heard his involuntary gasp, felt the pace of his possession quicken suddenly—fiercely. Recognised with candid female triumph the almost remorseless increase in its intensity that she had coaxed from him.
Was aware of a stirring deep inside her in reply, as warm tendrils of sensation began to spread, to intensify in their turn, splintering what little was left of her control.
Then, a voice she hardly recognised as hers cried out in wild disbelief, as the frenzy of her senses sent her pulsating body into soaring and ecstatic climax.
And Remy followed her, her name wrenched with a groan from his straining throat as he reached the frantic culmination of his own pleasure, and she felt his exhausted weight slump across her, his head heavy on her breasts as he tried to calm the tortured rasp of his breathing.
And she was content to lie like that, holding him tightly, her lips caressing the strands of sweat-dampened hair on his forehead.
Because instinct seemed to be telling her that if ever there was a moment for confession, this was it. When he was in her arms, his sated, emptied body still joined to hers like this, surely he would forgive her anything—wouldn’t he?
‘Remy.’ His name was a breath from her lips. She put her cheek on his hair. ‘Darling—there’s something I have to say. Something I should have told you long ago—when we first met. Only I never knew—never guessed—we would love each other. That you would mean everything in the world to me.’
She swallowed. ‘Sweetheart—mon amour… I—I’m married. I have a husband in England. But I don’t love him, and I never did. So I’m going back to finish it, get a divorce.’
She ended on a little rush of words, and waited tautly for his response. Only there was none.
She was prepared for shock—certainly for anger and recriminations—but not—silence.
Or was he simply too stunned to speak?
She said questioningly, ‘Remy—darling…?’
He mumbled something drowsy in reply, burying his face more closely against her, his body totally relaxed, his breathing deep and steady.
My God, she thought with an inward groan, he’s asleep. Which means he hasn’t heard a single word I’ve said, even though it took every atom of courage I possess to say it.
She was tempted to wake him there and then—to repeat her stumbling confession. But he looked altogether too peaceful, all tension gone from the dark face. He was even smiling a little as he slept.
Well, Allie thought, sighing. I suppose it will keep a little longer at that. But I must tell him soon—very soon. And, on that resolve, she closed her own eyes and allowed herself to drift slowly away.
She awoke with a start, and lay for a moment totally disorientated, her heart thudding. Hugo, she thought. Oh, God, I was dreaming about Hugo.
Then she heard the rain still lashing the window and realised where she was, and why, and relief and joy flooded through her.
She turned her head slowly and looked at Remy, still fast asleep beside her. At some point he must have moved a little, lifted himself away from her, although his arm was still thrown possessively across her waist.
Did he know? she wondered with passionate tenderness. Did he have the least idea how she was feeling? Did he understand her starved body’s reaction to the miracle of physical delight he’d created for her?
For the first time in years she felt totally relaxed and at peace. Also happier than she had ever believed possible.
And when he woke she would tell him so, along with, she decided, a suitable reviver.
She slid carefully from under the protection of his arm and swung her feet to the floor. From the tangle of clothing beside the bed she retrieved Remy’s shirt and slipped it on, fastening a few discreet buttons on the way. She could detect the faint fragrance of the cologne he used, and she put the sleeve to her nose, sniffing luxuriously.
She pulled the coverlet over him, then padded quietly out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen, where she stood looking around her, getting her bearings.
He’d offered her coffee some lifetime ago, she told herself, so the makings had to be available.
She looked first in the refrigerator, finding milk, and mineral water too, and she uncapped one of the small bottles, drinking thirstily as she leant back against the work surface.
This would be an amazing kitchen to work in, she thought, imagining herself here with Remy, preparing a meal together.
She sighed, smiling. Well—perhaps—one of these days. But coffee would do to be going on with.
Inspection of the pale wood cupboards eventually yielded a pack of ground beans and a cafetière, so she filled the elegant stainless steel kettle and set it to boil, humming quietly to herself as she did so. She’d just located a set of earthenware beakers when she heard a sound behind her and turned quickly.
Solange was standing in the middle of the living room, staring at her, lips parted, eyes burning with anger and disbelief in her white face.
And Allie knew, of course, what the other girl must be seeing. The dishevelled hair, the half-buttoned shirt reaching only to mid-thigh, the shining eyes and swollen mouth. Everything about her, she realised with dismay, must be screaming Sex.
Oh, God, she thought. Why didn’t I get dressed properly?
‘Chienne.’ Solange’s voice shook. ‘Sale vache.’
For a moment, all Allie wanted to do was run. To get away from the fury and the ugly words. And from the French girl’s bitter disappointment, too—which, perhaps, was the worst thing of all. But she stood her ground, lifting her chin defiantly.
‘Please don’t call me names, mademoiselle,’ she said quietly. ‘I am neither a bitch nor a dirty cow. I have been making love with the man I love, and I have nothing to be ashamed of.’
Solange took a step closer, her hands balled into fists at her sides. ‘You don’t think so? But I tell you different. Because you do not belong here, you—espèce de raclure.’ Her tone was a hiss. ‘You are an outsider—not one of us—and Remy needs a woman beside him who can support him in his work. Someone who knows this community—who has its respect. Not a slut of an English girl who will s
oon be gone, back to her own filthy country.’
Allie was almost reeling under this onslaught, but she made herself stay ice-calm. And her voice reflected this. ‘I think Remy is free to make his own choices, Mademoiselle Geran.’
‘And what is this great choice? To degrade himself with a putaine like you? Well, he will soon regret that.’ The other woman drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Always—always I knew what you were. Knew that you could not wait to throw yourself into his bed.’
‘What exactly are you complaining about?’ Allie asked coldly. ‘That I have taken your place—or that you never received an invitation?’
Solange gasped, and her head went back as if Allie had struck her, the once pretty face twisted with rage and crimson with mottled blood. She lifted her hands, bunched into a semblance of claws, and her voice was thick. ‘Would he still want you, I wonder, if I scratched out your eyes?’
From the stairs, Remy said grimly, ‘An interesting point, Solange, but we will not put it to the test. And now I think you should go, before you make matters any worse.’
His feet were bare, concealing his approach, and he’d clearly dragged on his jeans simply for the sake of marginal decency, because they hung, only half-fastened, low on his hips.
Solange’s small red-tipped hands were suddenly uncurled. Extended in appeal.
‘Remy, chéri, I do not blame you for this. A man has—temptations.’ She tried, horribly, to laugh. ‘I—I understand this, and I can forgive—’
But he cut coldly across the stumbling words. ‘There is no need for forgiveness, Solange. Let me speak plainly. Local gossip may have paired us together, yet I have asked nothing from you, and promised nothing in return. This—understanding between us does not exist.’
She swallowed harshly. ‘Remy—mon coeur—how can you say that?’