Second Thoughts. Caroline AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
the woods. There’s a badger’s sett and a couple of foxholes, and endless rabbit holes. I thought Tim would like it, but you could stay here if you’d rather.’
‘No, that would be great. I’m sure he’ll love it, but have you got time?’
He looked surprised. ‘Of course — this is your weekend, Jennifer. Stop feeling guilty and enjoy it.’
So she did. Lunch was superb, the walk a delight, brought to life by Andrew’s extensive knowledge of the countryside. Tim, who was fascinated by all knowledge, soaked it up like a sponge, and Jennifer strolled behind, content simply to watch them interact.
If only his father was like that with him, she thought, and felt a twinge of sadness. Nick had never understood Tim, and the older he got, the wider the gulf seemed to grow.
Not that Nick’s casual attitude to access exactly helped, although recently he had been better, making more of an effort not to break arrangements, but often when Tim came back he was silent and uncommunicative, and Nick always seemed to heave a sigh of relief when he handed him over to her again.
‘Penny for them.’
She looked up into Andrew’s homely, lived-in face. He would understand, but it seemed disloyal to discuss Nick’s attitude with him. She felt she had already said too much last night.
Instead she smiled. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘Hey, Andrew, look at this!’ Tim called excitedly.
With a last, searching glance at her face, Andrew turned back to Tim and the huge bracket fungus he had found.
That evening, after they had eaten supper and while she put Tim to bed, Andrew cleared up the kitchen and then lit the fire in the little sitting-room. It had been a glorious, sunny September day, but with the clear sky came a sharp drop in temperature, sufficient justification, Andrew said smilingly, for the self-indulgence of a log fire.
He had opened a bottle of Australian Cabernet with supper, and they finished it off, sitting in their respective chairs in companionable silence and gazing into the flames, while the pure, clear sound of a chorister flowed around them.
Jennifer laid her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, letting it all wash over her.
‘This is beautiful,’ she murmured.
‘You aren’t really in the right place — you should be here for the best image.’
She laughed drowsily. ‘But you’re there.’
His voice was soft. ‘You could always join me.’
And because she was so relaxed and perhaps a little tipsy, and because he was so comfortable to be with, it seemed perfectly natural to go over to him and settle herself on his lap, her head against his broad shoulder, and close her eyes again.
‘Better?’ he asked quietly, and she made a small sound of agreement.
This is lovely — what is it?’
The “Pie Jesu”, from Fauré’s Requiem. ‘
‘It’s so peaceful — uplifting, spiritual.’
‘Requiem means rest,’ he told her, and she sighed softly and let the music soothe her.
After a while the Requiem ended, and she lay cradled on his lap with only the hiss of the logs and the occasional screech of an owl to break the silence.
She could hear the steady thud of his heart, and the slow, even sound of his breathing. His big, blunt hand lay warmly on her knee, and the other arm was around her shoulders, holding her against his solid chest. She opened her eyes and found him looking at her, his expression sober.
‘What is it?’ she asked softly.
He hesitated for a moment, then murmured, ‘I was just wondering if it would ruin everything if I kissed you.’
Her breath lodged in her throat. Unable to reply, she lifted her hand and touched it lightly to his cheek. He had shaved and changed before supper, but even so she could feel the slight rasp of stubble against her palm. She slid her hand round and threaded her fingers through his hair, then gently drew his face down towards hers.
In the moment before their lips met, she wondered briefly why it had taken them so long to reach this point.
After that, there was no more coherent thought. His lips were firm but gentle, not the clever, practised lips of the master-seducer but hesitant at first, as if it was a long time since he had kissed anybody. Then with a small sound of satisfaction his hand slid up into her hair and steadied her, as if he had remembered what to do, so that when she whimpered and parted her lips he was there, his tongue stroking the velvet recesses of her mouth, drawing her own into his mouth to suckle it gently until she whimpered again.
He shifted her in his arms so that his hands were free, and as he unfastened the buttons on her blouse she could see they were trembling. Then he drew the edges apart and gazed at her, at the soft swell of her breasts above the lace edges of her bra, the rose-pink nipples peaking against the restraint, aching for his attention.
His fingers shook as they brushed the delicate skin, then they moved to the clasp.
‘Let me look at you,’ he whispered, and nothing had ever seemed more right.
He fumbled the clasp and in the end she helped him, unable to bear the sweet suspense. Her breasts spilled out into his hands and he groaned deep in his throat.
‘So lovely,’ he whispered, and then his head lowered and his lips and tongue took the place of his fingers, soothing the aching peaks and yet driving them to even greater frenzy. He drew a nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, and with a shocked cry she arched against him.
He lifted his head instantly, his eyes heavy-lidded, dazed. ‘Did I hurt you? I’m sorry ——’
‘No — no, it was — I want to touch you, too…’
Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and he tried to help her but his own hands were shaking nearly as badly. Finally the buttons gave way and she dragged the shirt out of his waistband and slid her arms round his sides as he eased her up against his chest, driving the breath from her lungs in a ragged sigh. The soft scatter of hair chafed unbearably against her sensitive nipples, making them ache for more, and she moved against him restlessly, dragging an answering sigh from his lips as they moved against her shoulder.
‘Touch me,’ he muttered unevenly, and, unable to resist the invitation, her hands slid up and round, over the smooth skin of his shoulders and down the strong column of his back, then round the sides and over the washboard of his stomach and up, feeling his body shudder beneath his hands, her fingers threading into the lightly tangled curls that clustered in the centre of his chest.
Under her palms she could feel his heart thundering, the blood bounding in his veins. Sliding her hands up over his shoulders, she drew him back to her and lifted her face to his.
His mouth found hers with unerring accuracy, their tongues meshing, wild now with need, and he shifted her again so that he was lying half across her, one leg over hers, the imprint of his arousal hard against her hip.
He ran his hand up her thigh and over her other hip, drawing her harder against him, and his shuddering sigh mingled with hers and was lost in their kiss.
His hand moved again, over the inside of her thigh and up, his palm hot through the fabric of her jeans, cradling the unbearable ache that was building deep inside her.
She arched against him, his name a plea on her lips, and his deep, harsh groan answered her.
Then his hand moved, slowly now, up her side to her shoulders, and he lifted his head and looked deep into her eyes.
‘We mustn’t,’ he whispered, his voice tortured, and she whimpered and moved against him, beyond reason.
‘No, love,