'Matt,' she countered, leaning forward to silence him with a kiss, and he slumped back again almost helplessly.
But despite his resistance, the kiss was like no other they had exchanged. It was hot, and passionate, and soul-deep, and almost destructive in its intensity. It was an open-mouthed affirmation of how good they were together, and, almost without her being aware of what she was doing, Fliss began to move.
With her hands pressed on the pillows at either side of his head, her first foray was almost tentative. But it was so good, made her feel so good, that she repeated the exercise. And, although she was sure Matt still believed she was wasting her time, he couldn't prevent his own automatic participation.
Their kisses grew hotter, wetter, more and more uncontrolled, and pretty soon Fliss was rearing back to ride him like the stallion he really was. And as if Matt at last believed that there might-there just might-be something in what she'd asserted, he rolled her over again and took over the dominant position.
Fliss didn't know how many times she climaxed during that wild possession. At least three times that she knew of before Matt himself gained his release. And gain his release he did, trembling and sweating though he was. But superbly replete at last, shouting his triumph to the world in general and to Fliss in particular …
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
'CAN I come to Matt's house with you this morning?' asked Amy excitedly, and Fliss, who had been wondering whether she ought to turn up as usual herself, regarded her daughter with doubtful eyes.
'I don't know, poppet,' she said, aware that her father was listening with interest to their conversation. 'Grandad's going to be here all morning. Why not ask Kelly over to play?'
'I don't want to play with Kelly,' said Amy at once, and Fliss thought that was par for the course. "'Sides, her mother's prob'ly taking her shopping. That's what she always does, when we have a lavatory day off school.'
'A what?'
Fliss was immediately diverted from her own problems, and Amy gave her a mischievous look. 'Well, Mrs Hill said it was a loo day,' she pointed out innocently. 'And that's what you always say when you're going to the bathroom.'
'A lieu day!' exclaimed Fliss, as her father chuckled behind his paper. She spelled it out. 'And don't pretend you didn't know.'
Amy grinned. 'Well, it made you smile,' she said, tilting her head to one side appealingly. 'Can I come? Please. I'm sure Matt won't mind.'
'Mr Quinn,' Fliss corrected her shortly, and then, conscious that her father might pick something up from her expression that she didn't want him to see, she said, 'I'm going to make the beds. I'll think about it, OK?'
'OK.'
Amy had to be content with that, but as Fliss left the room she was aware that her father's eyes followed her and she guessed he was curious about her attitude, too.
And who could blame him? Since she'd got back from the Old Coaching House the day before, she had been unusually subdued, and she doubted her father had accepted her assertion that she was tired. Sooner or later, he was going to demand an explanation and, quite honestly, she didn't have one for him.
The truth was, she didn't know how she felt. Oh, she had no doubts about her feelings for Matt, but that wasn't really the problem. Matt was; and, despite what he'd told her the day before, she was having a hard time believing it had been anything more than a spur-of-the-moment thing, brought on by gratitude and nothing else. He didn't really care about her. Goodness, until yesterday morning he'd believed he was impotent. Not exactly the condition in which to swear undying love for anyone. Even Diane.
Especially Diane.
And that was the crux of the matter. Everything Matt had said and done since he arrived at the Old Coaching House had been based on that spurious principle. However kind he had been to her or to Amy, he'd believed there had never been any question of their relationship progressing beyond a certain point. He liked her, he liked Amy; but anything else had just been wishful thinking on her part.
Even remembering the two occasions before yesterday when he'd kissed her took on a different aspect now. With hindsight, she suspected they had just been abortive attempts to prove his own lack of sexuality, and he'd always drawn back before she could discover what was going on.
It hurt to think he might have been using her in that way, but she had no real proof of that either. And despite what had happened the day before, she might be beating herself up over nothing.
Nevertheless, as she shook pillows and smoothed sheets, she couldn't help marvelling at the way she had behaved. She, Fliss Taylor, single mother and full-time housewife, whose only claim to success was three years at university and a one-year stint as a trainee physiotherapist, with one failed relationship behind her, had seduced Matt Quinn, TV journalist, erstwhile prisoner of war, and known celebrity.
It was incredible. Even now, she had difficulty remembering how she had had the nerve to behave as she had. She wasn't-she had never been-the kind of woman to believe she was attractive to men. Well, not to men like him, anyway. Her usual dates were with people like herself: working men, who considered a meal at the pub or a trip to the cineplex in Westerbury constituted an exciting evening out.
Matt wasn't like that. Until he'd been captured and imprisoned in Abuqara, he'd attended society parties and film premières, he'd regarded mixing with socialites and politicians as all in a day's work. He'd travelled the world. He'd spoken about visiting Australia as if it were just across the English Channel, whereas she'd be hard-pressed to afford a package tour to Majorca. The gulf between them was immense and just because yesterday morning the lines had become blurred didn't mean they didn't still exist.
Yet, at the time, it had seemed the only thing she could do. She'd been so high on sex and adrenalin, she hadn't thought twice about acting in a way that was totally alien to her normal nature. She'd acted like a-like a femme fatale, for God's sake, and, amazingly, it had worked.
Whatever misgivings she had, and she had to admit that these misgivings were probably all on her own part, she had succeeded. Somehow, and even now she hardly understood how she'd done it, she'd proved to Matt that he was not the useless weakling he'd thought he was. The sex they'd shared had been wild and passionate and incredibly moving, and at the end he'd been totally sated, totally grateful.
But it was his gratitude that she'd found so hard to take. She hadn't wanted that, hadn't wanted to feel that all her efforts had aroused in him was an obligation to thank her in whatever way he believed she wanted. She hadn't expected him to say he loved her, for heaven's sake. She hadn't wanted that. Not when she knew that until that moment of revelation in his bedroom all he'd felt for her was a simple affection.
An affection that was primarily based on the way he'd treated her that morning, she acknowledged ruefully. For reasons best known to himself, he'd decided to give her a taste of what she was missing. Why had he done it? To reassure her after the shock he'd given her earlier? Or because he'd felt sorry for her all along, a single woman alone, with very little going on in her life to get excited about?
Whatever, the end result had been the same. She had learned again that it really was dangerous to play with fire, and he had recovered not just his virility, but his belief in himself, too.
She sighed now, lifting the veritable army of soft toys Amy had on her bed onto their usual place on the window-sill. If only she'd left while Matt was in the shower, she thought wearily. Then he wouldn't have said what he did and she wouldn't be feeling such a fool now. They might even have been able to forget the whole incident. Unlikely perhaps, but not impossible. After all, she had made it pathetically clear that she'd expected no commitment from him.
It hadn't happened that way, however. Like the idiot she was, when Matt had said he was going to take a shower, she'd hurriedly put her clothes on and gone downstairs. It hadn't occurred to her that it might be easier all round if she just gave herself the rest of the day off, that if he wanted to speak to her, he knew where she lived. If she had, the ball would have been in his court, so to speak, and she wouldn't be suffering all this soul-searching now.
Instead, she'd been so bemused by what had happened that she hadn't looked beyond the end of her nose. By the time Matt came downstairs, barefoot as usual, and smelling deliciously of soap and shampoo, and clean male flesh, she'd made fresh coffee and was standing at the open back door, a mug of the aromatic beverage in her hand.