inst the warmth of his breath, and the kiss went on and on and on.
He lifted his mouth away by a fraction, seeing the look on her face and feeling pretty dazed himself. As though he had drunk a glass of champagne very quickly, and yet he had drunk nothing stronger than tea. ‘You were born to be kissed, Catherine,’ he observed unsteadily.
‘Was I?’ she questioned, with equally unsteady delight.
‘Mmm.’ He pulled a pin from her hair so that it tumbled free, black as the sky above them. ‘To be made love to beneath the stars, with the light of the moon gilding your skin to pure gold.’
‘I’ve never been made love to beneath the stars,’ she admitted, without shyness.
He smiled as he took her hand, raised it to his lips, his eyes unreadable. ‘It’s too cold out here, but you can see them from my bedroom.’
She didn’t remember making any assent, only that her hand was moved from his mouth to his hand and that he was leading her through the splendour of his Georgian flat into his bedroom.
‘See,’ he said softly, and pointed to the huge windows where outside the night sky dazzled.
‘It’s like the London Planetarium!’ she said. ‘You’re very lucky.’
‘Very,’ he agreed, but both of them knew he wasn’t talking about the stars. ‘You’re a long way away, Catherine.’
‘A-am I?’
‘Yes, indeed. Come here.’
She knew a moment’s apprehension as she walked straight into his arms. And now she could see his eyes, and read the hectic glitter in their velvet blue. What in the world was she doing?
But by then he was sliding the zip of her dress down in one fluid movement, as if he had done such a thing many, many times before. And Catherine supposed that he had.
‘I should feel shy,’ she murmured.
‘But you don’t?’
‘You’ve seen me with less on than this.’
But underwear was always a million times more decadent than a bikini, however brief. ‘So I have,’ he agreed thickly, as he surveyed her lace-clad body. ‘Only this looks a whole lot better.’
He bent his head to touch his lips against the tip of one breast which strained impatiently against the flimsy lace of her brassière.
And Catherine closed her eyes, giving herself up to sensation instead of thought. A soft, sweet aching overwhelmed and startled her, and she wound her arms tightly around his neck, as if afraid that he might suddenly disappear. As if this—and him—might be all some figment of a fevered longing. ‘Oh, Finn,’ she sighed.
He lifted his head and looked at her questioningly. ‘Should we be doing this?’ Her green eyes opened very wide.
He felt like saying that this was something she should have asked herself earlier than now, that his body was growing unbearably hard.
‘That’s up to you, sweetheart.’ His mouth immediately stopped grazing the long line of her neck, the restraint nearly killing him. ‘It’s make-your-mind-up time. Stop me if that’s what you want.’
Was he aware that he was asking the impossible?
‘Do you want to?’ he murmured.
‘God, no. No,’ she breathed. A thousand times no. She moved her mouth to rove over the rough shadow of his chin, her hands on the broad bank of his shoulders for support, her knees threatening to buckle.
He gave a low, uneven laugh as the moonlight shafted through the window and illuminated the ebony strands of her hair. Her undisguised need only fuelled him further, and he gave in to the overwhelming desire to possess her. His hand reached round to snap open her brassière, as though they were old and familiar lovers, and she clung to him wearing nothing but a tiny little thong.
‘I want to make love to you, Catherine,’ he said urgently.
She didn’t reply, just burrowed her hands beneath his sweater, finding the silken skin there, her fingernails tracing faint lines against it, hearing him suck in a ragged breath.
‘I want to make love to you,’ he repeated. ‘Come to bed.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, just led her over to the king-sized canopied bed and pulled back the cover. ‘Get in, sweetheart,’ he instructed shakily. ‘You’re shivering.’