One Night Before Marriage. Anne OliverЧитать онлайн книгу.
reality intruded like a harsh white light. The magnitude of what she was doing hit her.
Too late. With one deep thrust that stole the air from her lungs, he pushed inside her, then went utterly still. And bit out a short four-letter word.
She tensed at the quick sharp pain and held her breath, trying not to panic. She felt impaled, his hardness invasive and foreign. Only his rapid and heavy breathing broke the silence.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You didn’t ask.’ She could barely speak, so focused was she on her own body and what was happening to her. Already the pain was subsiding, already she wanted more. Until an added vulnerability cooled her enthusiasm. Perhaps he didn’t like virgins; perhaps the reason he was speaking in that harsh tone was because he was disappointed. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Too bloody right.’ He carefully withdrew a little, propped himself on his elbows over her and dropped a sweat-damp forehead on hers. ‘There are rules…’
‘We…I…broke a rule coming here. You said—’
‘My rules. There’s a difference.’ He traced a finger over her cheek, her lips. There was a myriad emotions in his eyes. ‘Why now…why me?’
‘Because I want it, because you’re here. Please…’ She grasped his hand, took it to her breast. ‘Tonight you’ve made me feel beautiful and so alive.’
An infinitely more wary look crossed his face. ‘Don’t make this into something it’s not, Carissa. I’m not that man of your dreams, nor am I a settling-down kind of guy. This is all there is.’
She swallowed and forced herself to remember how it was. ‘This is all I want. I’m not looking for permanence. That makes us ideal partners for this evening.’ She twined her arms around his neck and experimentally moved her hips.
His jaw tightened, his arms quivering with the strain of holding his weight off her. ‘Look, Carissa, I don’t want to hurt you…’
‘Don’t give me that sexist rubbish about it being different for a woman.’ She raked her nails over his back and the hard curve of his buttocks, making him shudder.
‘Well, then. You’ll want something worth remembering.’ His eyes darkened. ‘That I can give you.’
He was true to his word.
Hungry for his taste, his body and completion, she took what he gave greedily, storing the sensations and emotions for later. Dark, heavy heat engulfed her, molten fire flowing through her veins, spreading over her skin. Her body relaxed as she became familiar with him moving over and within her. She’d never forget this one time with him. He was everything she’d dreamed of and then some.
Strength. His body was hard and smooth against hers, tempered with a gentleness she hadn’t expected.
Patience. Another surprise, his willingness to linger over small things—a touch, a kiss, a murmur.
Tenderness. It flowed from his touch like soft summer rain.
And when the ache built again and became unbearable, he knew, and let her fly.
After, he lay silent and still, holding her against him, but somehow removed. As if he’d distanced himself.
How it should be, she told herself. He’d be moving on and she’d go back to her two jobs, her falling-down house and her debts.
But rather than the satisfaction she’d expected, she felt…empty. And cheated somehow, as if she’d opened the door to another world and had it slammed in her face. And she still had to find a way out of his arms, out of this hotel and home—without being seen by management.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. That was her first coherent thought when she woke to the unfamiliar weight of a hand on her abdomen. As she surfaced the night flooded back in a tide of exquisite sensations and images. For a fuzzy moment she drifted with them, aware of a vague tenderness in her lower body and a sense of togetherness she’d never experienced.
Then she blinked as her brain caught up. A grey-pearl sky heralded approaching dawn. A jolt of panic swept through her. Her reputation and job were at stake here. She fought the impulse to leap off the bed. Slow was the wisest course; the last thing she wanted to do was wake him.
She couldn’t resist a last look. She’d never seen a naked man for real. Her moist, tender flesh throbbed at the sight of the thick jut of his sex, which seemed to augment as she watched. Her gaze shot to his face, but he was relaxed, long lashes resting on his cheeks.
Heart racing, she turned away. Get out while you still can. Easing her body out from under his arm was no mean feat, but he was dead to the world, his breathing calm and even.
Her stockings lay at the foot of the bed. She grabbed her bra and dress from the floor, hesitated before stuffing bra and stockings in her bag. She wriggled into the dress, jerked the zip up, then twisted her hair into its clasp while she searched for shoes.
Her panties were nowhere in sight, buried somewhere among the rumpled sheets or under that heavy, slumbering body. She had no intention of risking him waking, and counted the loss of a pair of knickers a minor one under the circumstances.
Then she noticed his wallet on the night stand. Money. Thank you, God. She hunted up pen and paper in her bag, wrote an IOU, promising him she’d reimburse him at the desk tomorrow, then slipped a bill into her purse. Couldn’t be helped—he’d offered, and she absolutely, positively couldn’t catch a train wearing nothing but an evening dress at six o’clock in the morning.
She looked longingly at the roses, but she couldn’t take them. Goodbye, Ben Jamieson. She refused to look at him again as she stole from his room and out of his life.
Through barely raised eyelashes Ben watched her stumble quietly around his room. He’d lain awake the whole night afraid he’d succumb to his usual nightmare and scare her. And embarrass himself.
There was enough light to showcase the slender curves, the glint of gold at her ears and her shadowed secret places as she bent to find her clothes. She straightened, hesitated, giving him a close-up of those tempting globes of flesh with their dark puckered nipples.
Then she turned her back to him and slithered naked into her long blue tube, an innocent striptease in rewind. His blood heated, his already hardened sex turned painful and he had an irresistible urge to lay his lips on that moon-pale patch of skin above the swell of her bottom. Then she yanked the zip up and the moment was lost. Probably just as well.
He wondered if she intended catching her train at this hour, in that state of dress, and what he was going to do about it. He was relieved when he saw her write something on a scrap of paper, then slide a single furtive bill from his wallet. She could have robbed him blind. The fact that she didn’t only confirmed what he already knew. Carissa was an honest if naïve young woman.
Her movements ruffled the air so that her scent wafted to his nose. Not an expensive perfume, but a scent that made him think of a spring morning—cool, fresh, unspoiled. Maybe she was too embarrassed to face him—she’d obviously never done the morning-after routine. It beat the hell out of him why a woman would opt for a stranger for her first sexual experience.
He watched her leave his room and head for the elevator, then stretched, punched up the pillow and shoved his hands behind his head. The trouble with virgins—one intimate encounter and they started looking at engagement rings. Carissa was different.
He heard the elevator doors open, close, and felt more alone than he’d felt before he’d met her. As if she’d taken part of him. Which was plain stupid. No woman took anything from Ben Jamieson.
Throwing off the sheet, he padded to the window to catch a glimpse of her. There. He watched her hail a cab, climb in and drive away. His fists clenched on the window ledge. Damn her for making him feel…needy. He didn’t want to get involved. Not with her, not with anyone. And not now, when his life was going down the toilet.
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