Now her earlier fantasy took on the shape of reality. It was true that her top and his shirt were between them, but she could still feel the rapid thud of his heart against her body, and her stomach clenched on the sensation of her breasts pushing against his chest, wanting a more intimate contact with his flesh.
As he kissed her, odd, tormented mental images flashed through her brain, and when he slid his mouth from hers to her throat she said huskily, ‘This morning…I didn’t…’
The champagne still clouded her mind, still relaxed her inhibitions and cautions.
‘I did,’ Oliver told her groaningly, his mouth against her ear, sending fierce shivers of pleasure over her skin. ‘I looked at you in that damned pyjama top and the last thing I wanted to do was to leave you and go to London.’
The new Charlotte, the one she had never known existed before, the one who seemed recklessly to court ever-increasing danger, whispered coaxingly, ‘What did you want to do?’
At the sound of the words a mild shock ran through her, but there was also a sense of accomplishment, of pleasure almost in what she had done as she felt Oliver’s body tense for a moment before he whispered rawly, ‘I wanted to take you back upstairs to bed, and unfasten those damned buttons, one by one, like this…’
Like what? She was lost in the dreamy warmth of delight conjured up by his words, and it was several seconds before she realised that he actually was unfastening the buttons on her top, and that his lean dark hand really was lying against the exposed upper curve of her breast, that his gaze had actually found the small dark mole just hidden under the edge of her bra, and that his mouth had left her ear and was now nibbling its way along her throat, and down over her collarbone to the place where he had pushed aside the fine cotton of her bra, so that his tongue could touch that small dark dot of flesh.
Why should such a light, delicate physical contact release such a flood of heat inside her? she wondered muzzily. Why should the pressure of his hand against her breast make her want to moan and tear away the cloth barriers between it and the bareness of her skin? Why should it make her want to turn to him and press her mouth against his throat, her body against his, to…?
‘And then I’d have done this,’ she heard Oliver saying silkily against her skin, his voice so soft and gentle it seemed to lap over her in warm waves, making her sink deeper and deeper into the delicious sea of sensuality in which she was floating.
She felt his hands removing her bra and sighed voluptuously in pleasure as they touched her skin; she felt his mouth moving against her breast and moved eagerly to speed it on its journey to the summit of her nipple. The sensation of his mouth bathing the aching pulse of her flesh in moist heat made her spine arch and a soft moan of pleasure leave her throat.
After that, for a long time, the only sounds disturbing the peace of the evening were the soft ones of pleasure Charlotte smothered against Oliver’s skin as mindlessly she gave in to the urgings of her body and put into practice the fantasies she had indulged in earlier. The sensation of Oliver’s hands and mouth against her own flesh, as he slowly revealed inch after inch of her body between whispered words of such promise that her body melted, was slowly driving her out of control. There was no one in the whole world but Oliver…nothing in the universe but the intimacy they were sharing.
She heard him groan when her hands stroked the flat plane of his belly, felt the sound reverberate against her mouth as she caressed his throat, and then cried out in aching pleasure herself when his hand touched her intimately and her body opened out to him, so femininely enticing and arousing that he whispered things against her skin which turned her mindless with delight. A delight that was doubled when she realised that he shared her need, her desire. It was surely impossible that she could arouse him to this pitch of intensity, this fierce, pulsing desire that he told her raggedly he no longer had the power to check. This could not be reality.
Once he hesitated, almost as though he was asking her…what? For permission to possess her? Hadn’t she already given that permission without words…with the sensual pleading of her flesh when it so wantonly invited his touch?
Soon they would be lovers. Lovers… She shivered in expectant anticipation, wanting him, aching for him, knowing recklessly that whatever might follow she would always have this…always have the knowledge that he had desired her.
Deep down inside her a small voice struggled to be heard, to warn her that something was wrong, that this physical intimacy was too much, too soon, that there were things which should have been said, but it was drowned out, deafened by the fierce sensation of need that pierced her when Oliver drew her down on the rug beneath him, covering her body with his, fitting himself against her as her body, more knowing than she had dreamed, moved to accommodate the weight and heat of him.