She had not expected there to be pain, yet there was and she found herself sinking her teeth into her lower lip, in order to stifle her instinctive cry of protest. Aware just the same, that her need—her longing to know and be known—was all that truly mattered.
She gripped his shoulders, rearing up and thrusting herself against him, wrapping her slim legs round his hips, and felt her untried flesh yield in welcome as he filled her totally.
Locked with her, his mouth again joined to hers, Andre began to move, slowly at first then faster, the strong, rhythmic strokes of his body robbing her of what little self-control was left to her, and carrying her to some new level in a long dark spiral of mounting pleasure.
Oh, God, she thought, a sob rising in her throat. What was she letting him do to her—this man—half angel, half devil? As if he had always known how it would be between them? And as if she had ever had a choice?
And then coherent thought fled, and nothing was left but a fierce crescendo of wild, irresistible sensation, which, as she reached its peak, tossed her into one rippling, rapturous convulsion after another, making her cry out helplessly against his mouth.
And heard him answer her hoarsely as his own body juddered to its climax.
Afterwards, as he held her, both of them drained and spent, there was silence and a sense of great peace. She knew that there were things that must be said, but there was time for that, she thought, head cradled on his chest and her eyelids drooping wearily. All the time in the world.
And let that world quietly slip away.
* * *
She awoke slowly to darkness and for a moment lay still, completely disorientated. Her first realisation was that she ached deep inside her. Her second—that a heavy weight lay across her breasts, pinning her to the bed.
She turned her head gently, almost fearfully, and saw Andre Duchard’s dark head on the pillow beside her. Discovered that it was his arm, thrown over her body in a kind of careless possession, that was imprisoning her.
And with that, every searing memory of the past few hours returned, screaming at her, jolting her back to the terrible—the shameful reality of what she had done.
And the absolute necessity of distancing herself from him. In every possible way. Permanently. And immediately...
Moving with the utmost caution, she was able to shift his arm sufficiently to enable her to slide towards the edge of the bed. He muttered something, and she froze, but he was only turning over and didn’t wake.
Ginny didn’t dare relight the lamp, which meant she had to search around on the floor in the dark for the clothing that she’d allowed—oh, God, that she’d wanted him to strip from her—and huddle into it as best and as soundlessly as she could.
She checked her purse and keys were still safely in her coat pocket then let herself warily out into the corridor. A glance at her watch revealed to her horror that she’d been with Andre Duchard for over two and a half hours, and quite apart from the ethical implications of her behaviour, she’d missed almost the entire afternoon session at Miss Finn’s.
Although that was the least of her problems, she thought as she tiptoed down the stairs, hoping and praying there was no one at the hotel desk.
Luckily, the receptionist was again in the rear office, this time intent on her computer so Ginny was able to make her escape unobserved.
As her sister had done earlier...
The thought stopped her in her tracks. She paused in the archway, leaning against the stonework, fighting the nausea threatening to overwhelm her. Because what she’d done wasn’t simply immoral—it was sheer insanity.
From the first, Andre Duchard had scarcely bothered to conceal that he despised them all. Now he had even more reason for his contempt. Because however badly Cilla had behaved, there’d been no need to emulate her.
She swallowed, making herself move. Start putting one foot in front of the other for the journey home.
She’d gone to his room supposedly seething in righteous fury on her sister’s behalf only to emerge with even greater ignominy. Because he’d seen through the indignation and angry protests and recognised, as she had not, that under all the fire and fury, what she really wanted was to get laid.
Some sexual clock she’d never suspected must have been ticking.
And he’d obliged her.
She couldn’t think of it in any other way, which was probably wise.
Two sisters in his bed in the same afternoon. Encounters that had not appeared to test his stamina at all, she thought, feeling as if shame was flaying the skin from her body.
A situation, in fact, that he might have found cynically amusing, as well as confirming his low opinion of her family, this time deservedly. Because she could condone Cilla’s behaviour even less than her own.