Anjuli stared at the protrusion under his kilt. Her pupils widened and she wet her lips as if ready to taste him. Gifts for her and prior plans with his nephews popped out of Rob’s mind. Reason, consumed by need, patience ousted by passion. He wanted her lips around his cock, his shaft inside her mouth. But first he wanted to make her come. She’d experienced so much pain and he wanted to give her only pleasure, mindless and overwhelming. Pleasure that banished her fears and drowned her in bliss, pleasure that destroyed sorrow and guilt.
Swiftly, Rob pulled down her sweat pants and the scrap of lace keeping him from exploring her pussy. Her hand went to his hair as if to push him away, but he wasn’t going to let her escape, kneeling down and kissing slick, quivering flesh that parted at his touch. He delved into her tunnel and she gasped and clutched his shoulders.
“Rob,” she moaned, as he slid a finger inside her, then another, rotating slowly and pushing up with a thrust that loosened a longer, desperate sounding moan from her throat.
He increased his pace; she whimpered. He circled her clit; she moaned. He licked her labia and sucked on her flesh, and she screamed, clutching his head so hard he was immersed in wet, fragrant pussy. She clenched around his fingers, tightening and pulling him deeper until she was incoherent with pleasure, gushing her climax into his mouth.
Rob kissed, licked and circled until Anjuli stopped shaking and her hand fell from his hair. A satisfied grin spread over his face as he listened to her ragged breathing. This was his purpose, to give Anjuli joy and make her live again. His own need could wait.
Straightening, he held her close. Her heart beat as rapidly as his, and she was crying softly against his shoulder. Healing tears, he hoped.
He was elated, soaring beyond the cloudy sky and wanting to tease her, lift her in his arms and swing her around the room until she laughed. But now was not the moment for levity. That would come later, when she was used to being happy. His voice was hoarse, as reluctant to move as the rest of him, but he forced himself to step away. A quick wash of his face and hands in the lavatory, and he was back at the entrance hall, where Anjuli still leaned against the wall, looking breathless and stunned.
He kissed her quickly, lest he forget his responsibilities and stay. “Tonight.”
Tonight he would erase any lingering doubts from her mind and convince her to give them a second chance.
Chapter Eighteen
Fear and panic warred for supremacy in Anjuli’s mind. Since Rob had gone she’d been researching everything she could about testicular cancer, and lunch time had been and gone. She shifted on the sofa, a rush of heat making her feel languid, even now, at the memory of his mouth on her skin. The pleasure had been intense, her climax flowing like the River Redes, erasing everything else but delight.
How could she have come like that in barely a few minutes? So much for a vagina made of steel. Hers was meltable, malleable putty where Robert Douglas was concerned, but that wasn’t the only reason she’d reacted so strongly. Fear had been her aphrodisiac, panic her spur.
Rob’s revelation had turned her inside out, filled her with dread, but then he’d made her forget everything except his mouth and his tongue, stroking her into bliss. But now that he was gone her guilt had returned, and not just about Chloe. Anjuli contemplated what Rob had told her, and once more felt ashamed at her twenty-year-old self. While she’d been railing at his intransigence eight years ago, angry he hadn’t followed her and hurt he hadn’t answered her letters, he had been facing death without her.
How hard it must have been to hide his illness, to continue working and hand over the new primary school on time. No wonder Mac was full of pride, her tone so venomous when she’d spewed her accusations.
Anjuli’s rubbed her chest. Rob’s cancer was in the past, she told herself vehemently. He was healthy and had been for years. He’d said so, hadn’t he? And he’d proved how strong he was time and again. But what if the cancer returned? How would he cope? How would she?
“Cancer,” she murmured.
F sharp, B flat.
Four consonants, two vowels. Backwards it meant nothing and forwards it spelled death.
She wiped away a tear and stared at the clear drop on her finger.
Rob had made her cry, freed her to grieve and then taken her to heights she hadn’t felt since they’d been together. Why, then, was she dreading a future with him? Why did she want to pack up and leave Heaverlock?
Because you’re a coward, like Ash said.
Well, Ash would say that. She hadn’t suffered the loss of a child or lover. Ash would say she was weak for wanting to save herself more pain. Well, maybe she was, damn it! What was “strong” anyway, but a meaningless word people used to hide their suffering behind a façade of stoic endurance?