"Now sit down," he commanded, when she contin¬ued to hover as he helped himself to food.
Ruth sat down, politely waited until he had finished, and then helped herself to her usual giant-sized portion of food. When she looked up, Franco was staring at her plate with wonderment.
"I enjoy eating," she said defensively, and his mouth curved into a slow, long smile.
A man could grow ridiculously accustomed to her honesty, he thought. All of a sudden, memories of drawn-out games he had played with the sophisticated women he had always tended to date seemed trite and pointless. Why didn't all women say what was in their heads, instead of batting their eyelashes and flirting and never calling a spade a spade?
Meals for the rake-thin glamour models of his ex¬perience were lettuce leaves and carrot shavings and fat-free vinaigrette. Anything more substantial was tentatively nibbled and then fashionably left. Conversation never expressed real thoughts or opinions or feelings. Conversation, he realised, was always merely a prelude to sex.
"Do you know," he murmured, following her lead and devouring his food with the zeal of someone un¬expectedly rescued from starvation, "that the enjoy¬ment of food is often linked to a sensual nature?"
"Sorry?" She paused in mid-mouthful to look at him. There was a dab of sauce in the comer of her mouth and she licked it away with a gentle flick of her pink tongue, like a kitten. Franco wondered how it was that there wasn't a barrage of men beating down her door. Was it only him who found her the most erotic woman on the face of the earth? He shoveled a mouthful of pasta and prawn into his mouth.
"I said that appreciation of food is often linked to an appreciation of all things...physical."
The gist of what he was saying crawled into her head, delightfully fuddled by the single glass of wine she had consumed, and a slow spark of excitement began to burn.
He stuck his fork into his salad and looked at her. "You are a very sensual woman, Ruth."
Ruth stared at him, shocked at the unexpected di¬rectness of his remark. She carefully returned her wine glass to the table and took a deep, steadying breath.
"I don't think this conversation is...is... appropriate," she said in a whisper, clearing her throat.
"I'm paying you a compliment, not launching into a debate."
"Yes, well, that's as may be..."
"But...? Are you so unused to being complimented by men that you're incapable of accepting one? In the manner in which it was intended? Or maybe you find it uncomfortable to think of yourself as a woman who might enjoy sex..."
The fork, which she had been holding, clattered to her plate, and she hastily retrieved it and licked it clean. Her eyes skittered from plate to glass and back to plate, frantically trying to avoid resting on his face.
"Were your parents inhibited when it carne to the question of sex?" he pressed on, watching as her face went from pink to white and back to pink. "Was it something that was never mentioned at home? Are you ashamed of your body? Of how it feels when you're turned on?"
"No! No, no, no!" She stood up, her hands pressed over her ears, her eyes shut.
Why was he doing this? Why was he pushing her to the limit? What did he want her to say? That, yes, she liked being touched? That he turned her on? That she couldn't lay eyes on him without every pore in her body going into hypersensitive overdrive?
She felt his hands on hers and he gently pulled them away from her ears.
"I can't go on pretending that nothing happened be¬tween us, Ruth," he said softly. "Even though I know that's what you want more than anything else...isn't it?"
"I don't see the point of discussing it," she whis¬pered miserably.
"But it won't go away, will it?" He tilted her face up to his and smiled crookedly at her. "The last week has been agony. Looking at you, wanting you, know¬ing that you want me as well. Because you do, don't you...?"
"No!" Ruth cried wildly, struggling against hands that were gripping her like bands of steel. He waited until her futile struggles had petered out.
"So if I kiss you," he murmured, his voice deepen¬ing, "you won't respond...?"
She looked at him then, her eyes wide with dismay. "... I..." The balance of what she had intended to say was lost as his lips found hers, then it was as if a dam that had been feebly contained had suddenly and irrevocably broken its barriers.
She was clutching him, gripping his arms and re¬turning his kiss with fierce, hungry craving. She could taste sauce and wine on his tongue and she sucked it compulsively, enjoying his fast, uncontrolled breathing and the way his hands, behind her head, curled into her hair, dragging it free of its ponytail.
He scooped her off her feet and into the bedroom and she watched, feverishly, as he stripped off his clothes. Oh, his body! Lean, hard, every muscle toned and rippling as he yanked off the shirt and then his trousers, flinging them to the ground impatiently.
His erection was hard and big and he smiled as her eyes fastened on it.
"This is what you do for me," he said thickly, touch¬ing himself, and she moaned softly under her breath. Instinctively she began undoing the buttons of the shirt, frantically tugging at them while he watched, enjoying every deliciously sweet moment of what was happening between them, of what was to come.
Anticipation had never before been filled with such agonizing, piercing ecstasy.
She heaved a sigh of relief as he unclasped her bra and tossed it to the ground, where it joined the dis¬carded shirt. His sharp intake of breath as he looked at her naked breasts hitched her levels of excitement yet higher. Considering her build was slight, her breasts, she knew, were full, with large nipples now pointing upwards, as though beckoning his mouth. She touched one with the tip of a moistened finger and his throbbing member stirred in heady arousal.
Her trousers felt heavy and cumbersome against her legs and she ripped them off with shaking hands, watching him all the time. Watching him, watching her.
Restraining himself was excruciating, but Franco had learnt from his one experience with her. He wanted everything to go slowly now. No fast foreplay and urgent, solitary orgasm. He wanted to touch ev¬erywhere, with every part of his body.
He waited until all her clothes were off and she was lying in naked splendor on the bed, her hair falling against the pillow in a pale sheet, her slender body hovering on the boyish were it not for the full, ripe swell of her breasts. Then he moved slowly towards the bed and over her, his body skimming hers but not resting on it.
Very delicately he explored her mouth and lips with his tongue, and when she tried to press him harder against her he laughed softly and stroked her hair.
"Oh, no, you don't. This time I want us to enjoy one another."
So she steadied herself, and gradually her body melted under the slow, erotic, lingering caresses. One touch and her whole body tingled. Her breasts she of¬fered to his mouth like ripe fruit and watched his dark head as he suckled on them, slowly taking his time, moving down her stomach and finally finding the honey sweetness he craved.
He nuzzled and burrowed into the shell-like pink lobes that hid her quivering womanhood, enjoying the thrusting of her hips which she couldn't control as the waves of pleasure rippling through her grew more in¬tense.
Her body, under his touch, was like a magical in¬strument, and he felt both privileged and humbled by her granting him permission to play.
And he seemed tuned in to her in a way he had never felt with a woman before. When he knew that the urgency of her movements would soon spill over into unstoppable pleasure he moved over her, kissing her neck, her lips, her eyes, wanting to kiss every bit of her, missing nothing out.
"Oh, my darling." His voice didn't sound as though it belonged to him. It was husky and unsteady and unrecognizable.
Her eyes flickered open. "What is it?" he asked, stilling. "I've never...you know, I...I'm a virgin."
"I'll be gentle." Was he in heaven? He closed his eyes and breathed her in deeply.