But it was her expression that captured the attention of the viewer. It was sublime. Her eyes were closed, her brows slightly puckered, her moist, shiny lips parted in a hint of a smile. Its message was clear: this woman was in the throes of passion fulfilled.
Actually at the time the photographer had said, "When we finish, Shay, I'll treat you to a hot fudge sundae. Think of it. Gooey chocolate, whipped cream, almonds, vanilla ice cream."
His camera had been clicking all the time he talked. She closed her eyes and licked her lips in anticipation since she hadn't eaten that day. When she heard his whispered, "My God," she knew she'd given him just the expression he'd been striving for all afternoon.
Ian studied the photograph for a long time. Shay's heart stood still. She had a wild vision of him slinging the picture, the book, and his conscience aside, grabbing her to him, and devouring her mouth with his. She saw her fingers plowing through his thick black hair to hold him fast, saw herself reclining at his insistence on the soft cushions of the couch, saw him stretching out above her, saw his hands urgently but gently peeling away her clothes. Blood pounded through her veins as her fantasy enlarged and she saw his hands exploring her, saw him raining hot kisses on her naked skin. She wet her lips.
Ian stirred, and she held her breath. Hold me, kiss me, she wanted to cry out to him.
Instead he carefully stacked all the photographs neatly and closed the cover of the portfolio. "They're all very good. I'm sure you have a long career ahead of you—provided you don't get fat or anything."
She wanted to scream, to weep. But she only sat there stupefied as he pushed himself to his feet, stretched, and yawned broadly. "Boy, I'm tired. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed. Don't forget to turn out all the lights before you come up. Good night."
Chapter Four
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She sat in the empty room, feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her life. Was it too much to ask that they indulge in a little harmless kissing? Would that have offended his stern principles so very badly?
Irritated now, she picked up the portfolio and dumped it onto the table near the front door so she wouldn't forget it in the morning. "Thanks for nothing," she muttered.
Lacking anything better to do, and not yet ready to go upstairs, she wandered into the kitchen for a glass of milk. She spied the bottle of burgundy on the counter. It was much more appetizing than a glass of milk. Pouring a liberal portion into a glass, she downed it in a few stinging gulps.
"Damn him, damn him, damn him." If she couldn't curse him in his presence, she'd do it while alone. It's not as if I'm a tramp or anything, she thought to herself. She wasn't promiscuous, as he seemed to think.
If only he knew how monastic her life really was. She hadn't had any kind of relationship with a man since her divorce.
Wiping angry tears from her eyes, she poured herself another glass of wine. "All I wanted of you, Ian, was a little affection," she said between swallows that drained the glass. A few harmless kisses and caresses. Would that have offended his rigid moral code? Was he totally turned off by sex? Or was he just totally turned off by her? A sound resembling both a hiccup and a sob escaped her lips as she poured the last of the wine into her glass. Didn't he find her the least bit attractive, the least bit desirable?
She didn't consider why she wanted Ian when other men had tried to gain her affection and failed. In the far recesses of her mind she knew that finding the answer to that question might prove to be dangerous. She couldn't handle such introspection now.
Having drunk more tonight than she ever had in her life, she swayed as she turned toward the dining-room door. It wasn't hanging straight. She'd have to tell John about that in the morning. He really should do something about that uneven floor, too, she thought disjointedly as she groped her way to the stairs, instinctively obeying as she went Ian's instructions that she turn out the lights.
How long it took her to climb the stairs, she never could remember. The next thing she knew, she stood staring blankly at the door of her room. Something, a mischievous brain wave that hadn't been dulled by the wine, caused her to look farther down the hall to the other door, a twin to hers, that led into Ian's bedroom.
Chuckling softly, she tipsily negotiated the few steps that brought her to the door. She opened it quietly. The room was dark, but moonlight filtering through the window allowed her to see his sleeping form beneath the light blanket on the double bed.
An idea so inspired that she had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing out loud burst like a ray of light on her fogged mind. It would serve him right, she thought vindictively. It would rattle him, shake his damn cool attitude, blow his pious condescension to hell.
Trying to stabilize the spinning room, she weaved toward the bed. Her dress was no problem. It slipped off easily. As did her underwear. The straps of her sandals were a challenge to her rubbery fingers, but soon they had joined the pile of clothing on the floor. Giggling like a child about to commit the naughtiest of no-nos, she raised the covers and slid naked between the sheets.
His body was warm. That was her first thought as she laid her head on the pillow beside his. He was facing away from her, but she could hear his steady breathing. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she lifted a hand, intending to put it around him. She longed to touch the mat of dark hair that covered his chest, to comb her fingers through it, to satisfy her curiosity about its texture.
But her arm seemed to weigh a ton, and her hand remained heavily on his hip. A warm, sweet lethargy seeped through her body like melting butter. The roaring in her head had quieted to a lullaby. Sleepily she wondered what his congregation would think if they knew their sanctimonious pastor slept naked.
Then an alcohol-induced sleep stole every conscious thought.
Was this a dream or was it really happening? Shay didn't open her eyes on the outside chance that it was nothing more than a wonderful dream. It certainly felt real, but the probability of it was so outlandish she feared it was only a product of her imagination.
She was lying entwined with Ian in a bed. One of his arms was beneath her neck. Her head rested in the crook of his elbow. The other arm was holding her firmly against him. His hand idly traced her spine. She could feel the pressure of his leg on top of hers, moving languorously, detailing the contrasts between them. One of her legs was positioned between his thighs, her knee tucked snugly against their juncture.
Ardent lips planted a kiss at her hairline and trailed down the side of her face. He kissed her temple at its tenderest spot. He blessed her high cheekbone with soft kisses. Her ear knew the sweet nuzzling of his mouth, the explorations of his tongue. Then her neck was treated to small, quick kisses by parted lips. The stubble on his chin abraded her pleasantly.
Acting on instinct, she lifted her arm around his neck. She didn't need to open her eyes. By feel she laid her arm on his shoulder, and her fingers were finally granted the privilege of threading through his glossy black hair.
Her raised arm provided him access to the front of her body. He seized the advantage. His hand slid around her and glided up her narrow ribs to lightly cup her breast. He sighed, his breath a moist vapor on her neck.
He fondled her tenderly, adoringly. Questing fingers lightly brushed her nipple, plucking it gently until it bloomed with desire.