They could make love.
He didn’t have to know.
He didn’t have to see.
And then his large hands were there, scooping under the curve of her breasts, leaving her breathless as ecstasy melded with fear. His thumbs flicked over her nipples and she felt them harden under his touch as sensation drove exquisitely downwards. His mouth at her throat, she tried to maintain her breathing. She tried to take control over the unfamiliar feelings of some tissues firming, others plumping and slickening. But she had no power to haul herself back—not when he dropped to his knees and placed his mouth over one breast.
She shuddered in his arms. Even though the silk of her blouse and the layer of satin beneath, the tropical heat of his mouth made her gasp and arch her back. Her hands clung to his head, losing their fingers in his thick dark waves as his teeth tugged on her nipple and his hands dipped to the backs of her knees.
The shock of his hands against the bare skin of her legs, circling upwards, threatened to melt her bones. She swayed, clinging to Loukas with one arm for support, reaching out to find the balustrade with the other, knowing even in the fog of her desire that she needed to hang on to something more grounded if she wasn’t to topple right over.
He seemed to sense their precarious position, his hands ceasing their ascent of her thighs as he removed his mouth from her breast, trailing kisses up her throat until she was in his arms again and she could let go her hold on the balustrade with Loukas to anchor her.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said, before his mouth descended on hers again.
It was meant as a compliment, but it hit her like an accusation. She wasn’t beautiful. He wouldn’t say that if he knew.
And he didn’t know because she wasn’t being honest with him. If she were, she would tell him before-hand—and just maybe he’d understand. Maybe he wouldn’t think she was a freak. Maybe it wouldn’t change anything.
But, then again, maybe it would.
The look on Garry’s face came back—the revulsion, the contorted features of his face, as he realised what he’d just had sex with, when he realised she wasn’t what he’d expected. And all the good feeling about the success of her latest treatment, all the joy at finally being able to lift up her head in Yarrabee, the excitement of even finding a boy willing to be her partner for the senior dance—all of it had evaporated in one bitter moment.
She’d realised in that instant, and confirmed in the tears she’d shed into her pillow that night, that she would never be like other women.
She knew she should tell Loukas. She should warn him. But she couldn’t. At least not until afterwards when, no matter what his reaction, at least she would have experienced the magic of one time with him. Was it wrong to want that? Was it wrong to just want one magical time?
Because there was no doubt it would be a world away from what she’d experienced that one fractured summer back in Yarrabee.
So she didn’t say a word. She just kissed him back with all the feelings welling up inside her that came so naturally now, with all the sensations that he’d unleashed within her. And before she knew it he’d scooped her up into his arms and, still kissing her, carried her inside the house.
There’d never been a moment she’d felt so alive. Her senses were buzzing with so many different emotions, so many different needs, and all of them were directly sparked by one man and directed to one outcome.
She felt herself being lowered onto a bed, and he knelt down almost reverentially alongside her, his body a dark silhouette against the dull yellow glow from the lamps filtering in from the hallway.
‘I’ve wanted to make love to you since the moment I first saw you,’ he whispered, his voice husky and thick.
‘I know,’ she said, because she knew it was the truth. ‘I’ve felt it too.’
He reached a hand over to a side-table and she caught his intent.
‘No!’ She caught his arm with her hand, stopping him before he hit the switch. And then, in case he read too much into the urgency in her voice, she whispered, ‘Please?’
‘I understand,’ he said, moving away from the lamp. ‘We’ll take it slowly.’