Torn (37 page)

After a while he moved down her body and she felt the sweep of his hands over her belly. His warm breath brushed her skin, his tongue explored her navel, then travelled on. Surely now he would pull off her bra and pants? It was what she expected. As he moved her thighs apart a shudder was added to her sighs and gasps.

Though a woman of fairly extensive sexual experience she had never known anything quite like this. Some men had difficulty finding the clitoris even if the woman was stark naked. That he was able to lick it, roll it, tantalise it, suck it, even through the lace, added a powerfully heightened erotic charge. The additional friction of the stretched wet threads added an exquisite, almost unbearable piquancy to the sensation. She knew now she was groaning, hips writhing and pushing against him, wanting more. The area to which he was devoting his attention expanded. The crotch of her pants was already wet, soon it was saturated as his tongue worked into and around it, stretching the lace, moulding it to the subtle contours, backwards and forwards, probing up through … It almost felt like … No! That was impossible. And yet she could have sworn he was penetrating her through the fragile fabric.

There was no way back from this. She was aroused beyond the endurable, yet helplessly addicted, needing these sensations to go on and on endlessly. The sound of her own escalating groans mixed with the pulsing excitement which flushed, wildly out of control, through her blood. James lay down on the bed and gathered her tightly against him. The bone shaking orgasm crashed through her body in convulsive paroxysms, blitzing her brain with a total power cut for several phenomenal seconds.

‘Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!' she gasped as consciousness returned. She clutched him against her, only gradually aware of the rock hard column of his erection.

There was no discussion – even if he had asked, Jessica was not sure she could have uttered a sound beyond a strangulated grunt – James simply rolled away from her and opened the drawer next to him. There was the sound of fumbling, paper tearing, then a brief silence.

Kneeling on the bed he completed her undressing. Carefully he slid her arms out of the dress and pulled it from under her. He slid his hands behind her back and unhooked the bra, lifting it away from her breasts; he rolled the soaking pants down over her feet.

‘You're utterly lovely,' he whispered. ‘Did you know? Like a pale and beautiful, blue-eyed Celtic elf.' He stooped and kissed her mouth, then each nipple, and then the triangle of hair at her loins. She stared up at him as if in a trance. If she was an elf than he was the satyr. Wild, pitch dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin; limbs furred, a pelt of dark curls on his chest and at his groin, from where his sheathed penis sprang urgently erect.

He lifted her up from the bed, face momentarily smothered in her breasts, hands cupping her buttocks. Her legs wound around his trunk, her arms twined about his head and as he let her down her body opened to his. They gasped in unison as he slid easily into her. This time any finesse was abandoned in the raw passion of the moment. Already oiled with sweat their skins smacked and squeaked as she lifted and lowered around him. They clawed at one another, on the edge of pain, each seeking a more profound penetration. Wet rapacious mouths, tongues plunging, sucking, knotting mimicked that other desperate pounding conjunction. He clutched her so close she felt the stretch and tension in his muscles. A sudden shudder racked him, accompanied by a long and gasping groan. He exhaled a breath on a deep, sobbing sigh.

As he relaxed, his head drooped forward onto her shoulder. Almost as if in answer to his orgasm, a secondary electric discharge swept through her body, taking her by surprise and making her gasp with unexpected pleasure. He tensed and held her face, almost as if he suspected it was fake. What he saw in her eyes must have reassured him for he laughed breathlessly, and kissed her, and soon they collapsed back down onto the bed in a sticky tangle of limbs.

She woke early; it was still not fully light. Though she immediately knew where she was and who with, she could not quite comprehend how it happened. One minute they were hardly more than acquaintances, the next they were behaving as though bewitched – as if some powerful love drug had been slipped into the bottle of cognac, mesmerising them, altering their perceptions and their normal responses. The bed smelt musky; it was a familiar enough scenario, the faint odour of sex and sweat, but this time she felt almost scared – as if she was no longer in control.

A mild nausea washed over her. She'd been here before – too often. She had the resolution and will power of a slug! More crucially, what would his expectations be? He might be an attractive and sexy man, but he was also a man who'd suffered a devastating loss in his life. He'd admitted to one-night stands with strangers, but this? It was likely he would think there had to be more to a relationship than the purely physical? So there were two ways this could go. Either he would be filled with remorse and self-disgust, which he might well turn against her. Or he would expect that last night had been the start of something – something he would want to continue. Neither prospect filled her with delighted anticipation.

All she could see was the curve of his back and the tumble of dark hair on the pillow he embraced, but from the rhythm of his breathing she knew he was still asleep. Above all she had to get out of this room before Sasha and Rory bounced in.

Sitting in Gilda's kitchen before six, with a herd of butterflies pounding flat-footed around her stomach, was not how she'd envisaged this morning. Last night she'd meant to go home – it was the only sensible course of action. What had happened to bring her to this? Jessica thought back over the day; she remembered how she'd begun to like James, to be touched by him, to suspect there was a lot more to the man than met the eye. She recalled how they'd sat up in the theatre's restaurant, talking about everything and nothing. He'd smiled more than she'd ever seen him smile; their glances kept twining and holding. But even then she was determined to go home. Why hadn't she stuck to her original plan?

Ignoring the coffee-maker she boiled some water. Dressed but unwashed she sat at the kitchen table and stared at the instant black coffee in front of her. The butterflies had consolidated into a lead weight, a headache was beginning, and there was still a niggle of something important, something forgotten. It was chilly in the kitchen but soon there were the rumbling groans of the boiler switching itself on. This was still an unfamiliar house so other less definable noises she ignored. The scrapes and bumps were the normal contractions and expansions of joints and beams, the generalised background hissing was presumably something to do with the plumbing system.

Jessica made herself another coffee. She knew why everything had gone wrong last night. It was simple. She'd drunk too much. Drunk too much and allowed herself to be lulled and subverted by the storybook ending to the day of sitting on a rug beside a log fire. It was so stupid! Everyone round here had an open fire, or at the very least a wood-burning stove. Was she going to go to bed with anyone and everyone just because of that? She'd managed to remain faithful to Ben while it lasted. She'd been faithful to Sean, though he'd hardly deserved it after the first year. What had happened in between had been an aberration; she was right to draw a veil over that. Yet now, having got herself out of the Sean situation, and armed with the resolution to be first and foremost ‘a mother', she was behaving like a slapper! Slapper? What did the word remind her of? The beginning of a memory began to resolve itself.

The door which led out to the utility room opened, there were a couple of barks and someone backed into the kitchen, barring the way to the dog, whose skittering claws could be heard on the tiled floor outside.

‘Danny!' Jessica shouldn't have been surprised to see him. She knew he came in for his breakfast. But a moment or two before he'd been a million miles away from her thoughts. Danny's hair looked darker than usual and was spikily clumped together; a towel draped around his neck. The sound of hissing had apparently been the shower.

‘Oh!' His eyes widened. ‘Hi, Jess!' His voice was uncertain and husky when he spoke again. ‘I've … um … I've got to feed Kit.' As if to prove the point he held up the dog's bowl. He must have known she was here; he'd had to walk past her car in the yard. Yet neither had expected to see the other at just gone six in the morning, in the farmhouse kitchen.

‘Anything I can do? Does she have water?'

‘I've already done that,' he gestured clumsily towards the utility room door, then turned away, and began rattling about in one of the cupboards. ‘Shit!' A couple of tins fell out, bouncing on the granite work top then smashing down with a loud clatter on the stone-flagged floor.

‘Here, let me help.' She jumped up and retrieved the tins, which had skidded under the table.

‘Thanks.' He grabbed at the now dented tins, put one back in the cupboard and clamped the other in the opener. Back turned, he scraped the contents into the bowl, put the tin in the sink under the running tap, and, without a backward glance, disappeared into the utility room with Kit's food. His appearance may have been unexpected but since he was around she wanted more of his company. Was he coming back? What about his own breakfast? Jessica filled the kettle, turned the tap off, and went to the door. Danny was crouched beside the black dog, his hand on her back, watching the animal. Kit ate as if starving; the bowl sliding on the floor with the urgency of her consumption.

‘Danny, are you coming back in?'

He returned slowly to the kitchen and closed the door firmly, standing with his back to it with his hands behind him. The kettle was re-boiling and Jessica had begun to search the cupboards.

‘What do you have first thing? Something warm to drink? Cereal? Toast?' When she turned for his answer she saw his eyes were glassy.

‘Um … just tea and … um … toast.'

‘Is that all?'

‘Edie … Mrs Dowdeswell … usually cooks something for me later.'

‘Danny, sit down. What's the matter?' They both knew what the matter was. Within a few minutes she'd put a pot of tea in front of him and a plate of buttered toast. He shook his head. Jess didn't know whether it was at the prospect of eating or at her stupid question.

There was a noise outside and the door from the hall was flung open. Dressed in joggers and a rumpled polo shirt, James looked exactly as if he'd just this moment got out of bed and dragged on the first clothes he'd laid hands on; his hair looked even more like a forest wilderness unpenetrated by mankind; his feet were bare. At first he looked worried, then fazed to find Jessica and Danny apparently sharing breakfast.

‘There was a crash. Something fell?'

‘It's OK. Nothing broken. Just some tins falling out of the cupboard,' Jessica said. His eyes focused on her.

‘I was afraid you'd gone. Can't see the yard from the … from my … the back.'

‘I'm still here,' she said unnecessarily, then added for Danny's benefit. ‘We had a day out in Stratford, yesterday. Went to the theatre.'

‘Oh. … You'll've enjoyed that. It's your kind of thing.'

‘Yes. Then … as Rory was staying the night, I stopped over as well. Made it simpler all round …' Why was she explaining herself? Not that he looked as if he believed a word of it. She didn't blame him. Here she was with make-up still smudged under her eyes, and an unmistakable soreness around mouth and chin from kissing a man whose stubble you could almost see growing. Even James looked distracted, as if having a problem gathering his thoughts. The pair of them might just as well have been wearing banners saying “Après Sex!” After a moment or two's silence James focused on his employee.

‘Isn't there anything you could be doing?'

Danny cleared his throat. ‘Thought I might have another go at training Kit?'

‘Good idea.' James said, latching on to the idea. ‘There's no point putting her anywhere near the sheep until she's obeying some basic commands. Though I'm not holding my breath. Doesn't look like she's inherited much of the herding instinct from her sheep dog antecedents.'

Jessica felt inclined to jump in here, to say how she'd witnessed Kit's exemplary conduct while surrounded by sheep, but she kept silent. Her intervention was neither wanted nor needed just now.

Danny pushed back his chair. ‘Sorry about the …' He looked first at the untouched food then at Jessica. His eyes were bleak, his mouth twisted down at the corners. He was still so young, still incapable of successfully masking his emotions. Her heart lurched as she watched him leave, heard him calling the dog to follow.

Chapter Twenty-three

Jessica bit her lip. If only she'd been alone she could have followed him and hugged him. And said what? She sat down abruptly; for something to do she began to eat the toast. It was cold. James sat down opposite her.

‘Jess?'

Too late. She'd remembered what he said in the car just before she withdrew into sleep. Why had her subconscious taken this long to throw it back at her? The previous night's high-jinks would never have happened if she'd woken from her doze with perfect recall of how James Warwick classified women. She'd have insisted there and then to be taken home.

‘When I woke up I didn't know where you were,' he said.

‘I didn't want the children discovering us together.'

‘Then you're more thoughtful than I am. They don't seem to have surfaced yet. Won't be long. Is there enough tea in that pot for me?'

‘I made it for Danny, but he didn't … It's probably stewed.'

‘I'll take the risk. Jess, is something the matter?'

‘Why should anything be the matter?'

‘Is it something to do with Dan?'

‘Is what something to do with Dan?'