Storm and Silence(208)

We were clenched together like this for I knew not how long. Finally, we broke apart. ‘Why?’ he rasped. His voice was a winter storm. ‘You don't seem to mind.’

His hold tightened around me. I fought against it, fought very hard. When I broke free, I grabbed his collar and pushed him backward until we both rammed into the desk.

‘I’m a girl!’ I growled. My anger was burning like a furnace. The world around me seemed to be lit in colours brighter than the sun, and he was brightest of all. Damn him! ‘I’m not supposed to be in control of my emotions. That’s your job! So stop the hell touching me!’

‘Why don’t you stop?’

I traced my fingers down the side of his hard, chiselled face. ‘Because I don’t bloody want to!’

‘Well, I’m similarly disinclined.’

Oh, bloody hell! If he wouldn’t stop making me feel this treacherously good, I would have to force him! Drawing back my hand, I prepared to slap him.

‘Oh no, you don’t.’

He caught my hand in mid-air. Drawing back the other one, I let it fly! He caught that one, too. Before I knew how, my hands were on his face and I was drawn down towards him. Our lips collided.

On the rare occasions that I glanced between the covers of a romance novel, I had chanced upon an expression that seemed to be a favourite with romantic writers - lips 'melting together'.

Well, our lips didn’t melt. They collided. They collided like a ship and an iceberg. They collided like two stars, one red hot, one icy blue. They collided like two wolves, bent on devouring each other. And so did we.

I nearly knocked him over backwards and rammed his head into the desk. He didn’t seemed to mind, though. He was too busy pulling me down towards him. His hands had found their way to the small of my back. The feel of him there, his fingers skimming over me, holding me close… it was like nothing I had ever felt before.

Oh, I had been touched there before - by insolent fellows at some ball or other who didn’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. But those touches had only ever made me want to reach for a bucket to puke into. His touch had quite a different effect. It made me just want to touch him back. Maybe not even by punching him. Just… touching. Softly.

What was wrong with me? Help!

Slowly, I sank forward until I came to rest on his chest. I was resting against a man’s chest. And I didn’t want to cringe away in horror! What the bloody heck was wrong with me?

This is what you’ve always worked so hard to avoid, a small voice in my head whispered. Get away! You don’t want this! You didn’t ever want a man to touch you like this! But the voice was getting smaller and smaller, until I could no more hear the want a man, and all that was left was an echoing touch… touch… touch…

Something touched my face. I jerked back, breaking the kiss, and gasping. His fingers! He had his fingers on my face, stroking my cheeks.

Dear God! How could I have ever thought him cold? The tips of his fingers on my face were like torches, sending sparks racing down my spine to somewhere deep, deep inside me, a place I had never known about before. A place that only waited to be kindled.

‘Come.’

It was an order. But this time one I didn’t mind. His fingers grasped my face tightly, pulling it back towards his. I had never seen it this close: his smooth, raven-black hair - how had I never noticed how shiny it was? - his classical, chiselled features - beautiful, simply beautiful - and above all, his mouth. His mouth. The word suddenly held a whole new meaning for me. No longer was it just the origin of curt, demanding orders and misogynistic balderdash. It was the source of a touch that was so intimate, so inflammatory, that it was beyond anything I could have imagined.

His arms were still around me, holding me tight. His eyes didn’t leave mine for a moment. Was this, I wondered, what it was like for Ella when Edmund was holding her? What it was like to be close to a man, to open yourself and let all barriers fall?

It was an unearthly thing, in the truest sense of the word. I could even see bright stars dancing at the office ceiling, behind Mr Ambrose’s chiselled face.

My head felt strange. What was happening? The fire was slowly burning out. And the stars… the stars were no longer dancing behind Mr Ambrose. They were also dancing in front of his face. And they were multiplying, obscuring my vision. Mist came, flooding in from the edges of my sight, and I slowly sank into the darkness. From very far away I heard a voice calling out: ‘Miss Linton! Miss Linton!’

Now, who could that be? I wondered. Mr Ambrose never calls me Miss.

Then the darkness swallowed me.





A Trace of Fire Brings the Winter