‘What would make this even more decadent,’ Anatole observed, ‘would be to pour a liqueur over it.’
‘Or golden syrup,’ contributed Lyn. ‘Lindy and I used to do that as kids. The syrup goes really hard—it’s great!’ She stabbed at another bit of embedded cookie dough.
Finally, when they’d both OD’d on ice cream, they abandoned the carton and Lyn poured out the coffee. As she leant back, curling her legs underneath her into her usual posture, after handing Anatole’s cup to him, she realised that his arm was stretched out along the back of the sofa. She could feel the warmth of his sleeve at the nape of her neck.
I ought to move further away from him, she thought. But she didn’t. She just went on sitting there, feeling the heavy warmth of his arm behind her, sipping at her milky coffee.
‘What’s on TV?’ Anatole asked.
Lyn clicked it on with the remote. The channel opened on one of her favourites—an old-fashioned, retro detective series, set back in the 1950s, just starting up.
She felt the arm behind her neck drape lower around her shoulders. He didn’t seem to notice what he’d done, and for the life of her Lyn could not alter her position. She felt herself relax, so that her shoulder was almost nestled against him.
It felt good. It felt good to be almost snuggled up against him like this on the sofa, warm and well-fed, relaxed and rested.
Very good.
Another programme came on—this time a history show about the classical world. They watched with interest, Anatole contributing a little and Lyn listening avidly. He read out the Greek inscriptions on the monuments on show and translated them.
‘Do you think you could face learning Greek?’ he asked Lyn.
‘I’ll give it a go,’ she said. ‘The different alphabet will be a challenge, though.’
‘It will come to you, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrange lessons for you when we get there. Speaking of which,’ he continued, ‘it could be sooner than we think. The latest from the lawyers is that there’s no objection to Georgy coming abroad with us, so his passport can be issued. We’ll fly out as soon as we’ve got it.’
For a moment Lyn’s eyes were veiled, her expression troubled and unsure. The reality of taking Georgy to Greece was hitting her. It would be soon now—very soon.
Anatole saw her doubts—saw the flicker of unease in her expression. He knew she was remembering her old fears about letting Georgy out of the UK to visit his father’s family.
‘It will be all right,’ he said. ‘I promise you. Trust me.’
She gazed into his dark eyes. He was right. She had to trust him. He had done everything he had promised her he would and she must do what she had undertaken. Go out to Greece with Georgy, trusting the man who had taken the responsibility of his care upon his own shoulders.
‘I do trust you,’ she whispered.
He smiled. ‘Good,’ he said.
Then, with a casual gesture, he moved her closer. She nestled against him, his hand still cupping her shoulder, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She found herself getting drowsy, the warmth of the room, the effect of a couple of glasses of wine and the filling food all contributing. Her head sank back against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering as she tried to keep them open.
‘You’re falling asleep,’ Anatole murmured, glancing sideways at her. He flicked off the TV programme.
She smiled drowsily. ‘I’d better get Georgy’s midnight bottle going. He’ll surface for it soon.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Anatole. ‘You head for bed. I’ll bring the bottle in when it’s warm.’
She uncurled herself and padded off. Five minutes later she was propped up on the pillows, wearing her nightdress, when Anatole entered with Georgy’s milk.
‘He’s just waking up,’ she said as he started to stir and kick at his quilt. ‘Up you come, then.’ She lowered the side of the cot and scooped him up.
‘May I feed him?’ Anatole requested, looking at Lyn.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, slightly confused.
He moved to sit down beside her on the bed and she shuffled sideways against the edge of the cot, hastily putting a couple of pillows behind his back. He leant back, taking Georgy from her and settling him with the bottle. Lyn felt she should get up, but she was between Anatole and the cot. So she went on sitting there. Propped up. Shoulder to shoulder with Anatole. With only the low nightlight for illumination, the physical closeness between them felt very intimate.
Georgy sucked greedily and then, replete, let Lyn wind him gently before consenting to resume his slumbers in his cot. As she raised the side again, to lock it in place, she was burningly aware that Anatole was still beside her. She turned to make some kind of anodyne remark but the words died on her lips.
Anatole was looking at her with dark, deep, long-lashed eyes, his face half in shadow but the expression on it as clear as day. She felt her heart stop, her breathing stop. Everything stop.
Everything in the entire universe stopped except for one thing.
The slow dip of his head to hers. And then the slow, soft brush of his lips on hers. The slow rush of sensation it aroused.
‘My lovely Lyn,’ he murmured.
Then his kiss deepened.
His hand closed around her shoulder, covered only in the thin material of her nightdress. His hand felt warm and strong, kneading at her flesh as he turned her into his embrace. His mouth opened hers effortlessly, skilfully, and sensation exploded within her. Wonder and disbelief swept over her like a rushing wave.
Was this happening? Was this really, truly happening? Was Anatole kissing her? How could it be?
But it was—oh, it was. It was! His mouth was exploring hers and his free hand was around the nape of her neck, moulding her to him. He was murmuring something in Greek that sounded honeyed and seductive. Warm fire lit within her, her senses flared...soared...and then suddenly he was sliding off the bed, taking her with him. Sweeping her up, striding out of the room with her in his arms, kissing her still.
She could say nothing, do nothing, only let him take her, carry her into his own bedroom, lower her down upon the bed’s wide surface. She wanted to speak, to say something—anything—but it was beyond her. Totally beyond her.
He came down beside her, indenting the mattress with his long, lean length. His hands cupped her face as she gazed up at him.
‘My lovely Lyn,’ he said again. And his mouth came down on hers.
Helplessly, willingly, she gave herself to him, letting him ease her nightdress from her, letting his eyes, so deep and dark, feast on her form, letting his hands shape her breasts, glide along the lines of her flanks, slip under her back at her waist and half lift her to him with effortless strength. And all the while his lips worked their magic on hers, deepening the passion and the intensity.
She was in a state of bliss. Unable to think, to reason, to understand—able only to wonder, only to give herself to the sensations of her body, her yielding, arching body, which yearned and sought and found what she had never dreamed possible: the wonder of being embraced and caressed by this man.
Never had she thought it possible! Never had she dreamt of it in her wildest dreams! Yet now it was real—true. He was sweeping her to a place she had never imagined.
For how could imagination possibly have revealed to her what it would be like for Anatole to make love to her like this? Drawing from her, arousing in her, such incredible feelings that she could hardly keep her senses—so overwhelmed by his touch, his caresses, his sensuous, intimate kisses that sought and found her, every exquisitely sensitive place until her body was a living flame.
A flame that seared into the incandescence of quivering arousal as, stripping his clothes from his heated body, he came over her, his strongly muscled thighs pressing on her limbs, parting them. His hands closed around hers on either side of her head as his body—naked, glorious—arched over her, his questing mouth taking the honeyed sweetness of hers.
His eyes were hazed with desire, molten with urgency, as he lifted his head from her. She arched her hips towards his, yearning for the hot, crushing strength of his body. For one endless moment he held back, and then, with a triumphant surge, he filled her, fusing his body with hers, melding them,
She cried out—a high, unearthly sound—as sensation exploded through her. She heard his voice, hoarse and full-throated, felt the tips of her fingers indenting deeply, so deeply, into his sculpted back. Every muscle strained. Her hips arched against his.
It was like nothing she had ever experienced! It flooded through her, the whitest flame of ultimate consummation, further and further, reaching every cell in her body, flooding every synapse. She cried out again and the cry became a sob, emotion racking through her at the wonder of it, the beauty of it...
And then he was pulsing within her, and she was drawing him in, deeper and deeper, with more and more intensity of sensation, more wonderful yet, flowing and filling her like a molten tide. She clasped him to her, tightly and possessively, holding his body to her as, reaching its golden glowing limit, the tide began to ebb, drawing back through her body, releasing her from its wondrous thrall.