But first he needed to ensure her innocence hadn’t created complications he couldn’t control.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT TOOK ALLY a moment to adjust to the dawn light shining through the open shutters of the big bay window when she woke the next day. She pushed herself up on her elbows, the sheet sliding over sensitive skin. It took her a moment more to figure out where she was.
Then the memories came flooding back in a dizzying kaleidoscope of scents and sights and sounds and sensations.
The crackle of the dispatcher’s voice shouting out Dominic’s name through the rain, the aroma of pine soap and whisky, the rich fruity taste of the Merlot, the flicker of moonlight caressing the muscular planes of Dominic’s chest, the rending pain and then the shocking pleasure as he filled her to bursting.
And the confusing thoughts as she’d drifted into sleep afterwards.
She swung her feet to the floor and wrapped the sheet around her naked body, aware of all the places Dominic had caressed with such skill and efficiency the night before. Her breasts, her lips, her sex.
What she’d experienced had been so much more than she had been prepared for. She hadn’t expected that level of pleasure, or that level of intimacy. How had he known exactly how and where to touch her? Was this what her mother had always craved, that pure physical connection? Was that why she’d exposed herself so easily? To so many men? After Pierre had discarded her?
A chill rippled over Ally’s skin, even though the house’s heating was set at the perfect ambient temperature.
Another thought intruded, of how Dominic had kept his composure last night, and she’d lost all of hers.
She walked across the room on unsteady legs and shrugged on the bathrobe he’d given her the night before, inhaling the scent of him, which still clung to the material. Then felt foolish.
She needed to leave. She should have left last night. Seeing him this morning would be awkward and uncomfortable for both of them—the fact of her virginity, and the lies she’d told to conceal it from him, not just an elephant in the room but a ten-ton pachyderm.
It was still early, she thought, assessing the light through the window. Probably only six, if that. She had time to take a quick shower, then hunt up her clothing, find her bike and get out.
But when she dashed into the bathroom, she spotted her reflection in the mirrored wall opposite the shower cubicle.
The sight stole her breath. She hadn’t expected to look different, to feel different, had assumed that was a myth women told each other to make their first time have meaning.
But she did look different. Her hair was rumpled, her skin pink in places where his stubble had rubbed against it.
The stupid wave of emotion took her unawares.
Not a big deal. Not a big deal. Don’t make too much of it.
A heavy weight sank into the pit of her stomach.
Don’t you dare cry.
After a quick shower, she ran her fingers through her hair and stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, pressing her thumb against the skin of her cheek—tender from beard burn.
Last night had been an experience, an experience she refused to regret. But it was a new day now, the harsh light of the March dawn after the storm signalling a return to real life.
Tiptoeing down the hall, she slipped into the study, cold now with the fire burnt out. She found her bra on the floor where Dominic had discarded it.
Now all she needed was the wet cycling gear she’d left in the bedroom where they had made love. The door was ajar. She huffed out a shaky breath when she peered into the room to discover it empty, the large bed still rumpled from the night before.
A vision of Dominic’s magnificent chest limed by moonlight blasted into her brain. The heavy sensation at her core throbbed.
She shook her head, trying to expel the dazed feeling.
So, so not the point.
She found her cycling gear where she’d left it, hanging over the heated towel rail in the bathroom. Dropping the robe, she slipped on the now dry clothing, easing the torn cycling pants over the bandage on her leg.
The memory of his fingers, gentle and efficient as he bandaged her calf, had the heat eddying back through her body. And the emotion squeezing her ribs. She breathed. In, out. And waited for the wave to pass.
But as she left the bathroom, she stumbled to a stop as her gaze connected with the unmade bed—and the pulse of guilt and yearning wrapped around her heart like a vice, the bloodstains on the bedsheet like a banner ad to her naiveté.