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Tomorrow's Bride(11)

By:Alexandra Scott


All at once she was having trouble with her breathing; her heart was  hammering so insistently against her chest, it seemed impossible that he  wouldn't hear. And standing so close, so close that she was aware of  the heat emanating from his body, she was forced to press her  fingernails into the palms of her hands to stop them from reaching out.  The desire was so strong, near irresistible, and... the lift was  stopping.

'But...' There was more than a hint of desperation in her manner as her  eyes searched the control panel. 'But we're not at ground level.'

'No, this is my floor. I can pick up an umbrella.' As if nature was on  his side a sudden gust swirled about the building; she could have sworn  it moved, but... 'I can even lend you a raincoat, if that would help.'

Her will was shot to pieces, which would explain why she followed him  along the corridor, watched him slip the key into the lock then stand  aside for her to go first, which she did meekly.

How warm and peaceful it felt-and safe. Thick carpets cushioned their  feet, table-lamps with pink shades cast a soft glow; she had an  impression of a few water-colours on the walls and there was even music,  faint, disturbing, sensuous and utterly distracting-Rachmaninov,  brushing at her nerve-endings as raw silk might till she felt... She  couldn't even have explained what she felt, except that her blood was  afire, and she was thinking he had the most beautiful mouth ever seen  on...

'Leigh.' It was the merest sigh in her ears; she would not even have  said he had spoken, though her eyes, wide and luminous, searched his  face, then, not answering, she swayed towards him.

There was this soft, susurrant sound in her throat, pain mixed with  pleasure, and her eyelids drifted closed, allowing her imagination to  run riot. She was drowning in the remembered sensation of fingertips  moving over warm, smooth skin. It hadn't died, that first intoxicating  wonder that anything so frankly male should be so smooth, so...so  utterly beguiling. And then a flicker of shadowy eyelids and she could  confirm that this was no dream. If she wanted, all she had to do was  reach out, stroke...

'Leigh.' Now there was no doubt. Who else had ever used her name with  that throbbing, wondering intensity? Who else? She shivered a little as  the hands traversed the length of her arms, circled the delicate wrists,  raised her palms, kissed each in turn. Then-and how often they had  exclaimed at the perfection of this-he inclined her body into the  accommodating curve of his.

And his mouth... An aching sob escaped her lips as his brushed them once  or twice, then she tried briefly, hopelessly, to snatch at her  emotions, which were spiralling out of control. Then, failing, she  surrendered completely, caught his head between her palms, stopping the  unbearable teasing movements, holding him there as slowly, slowly, she  allowed her lips to part, offering the access which it was now  impossible to refuse.                       
       
           



       

'Leigh?' Now his breathing was fast, exciting, and the dark eyes  repeated the question so apparent in the way he spoke her name. And  there was a tiny frown, a faint pulling together of eyebrows, a fierce  intensity about him, as if he was determined to brand her image on to  his psyche.

And she, light-years from her carefully nurtured discretion, replied  with one word-his name, uttered on a note of sighing longing, her violet  eyes hazy and signalling the total submission which was all that was in  her mind. 'Patrick.' And she laid her head against his chest.

A split-second passed, as if time had been arrested, then, with no risk  of misunderstanding, he swept her up and strode towards one of the  doors, which was shouldered open. Only as they reached the bedside did  he begin to release her, allowing her feet almost to touch the floor,  suspended in intimate contact with his body.

'You're sure?' He spoke with exquisite concern and tenderness but she  couldn't reply, not with one hand brushing down her cheek, the other  circling her throat-but then there was no need. All that was needed she  did, reaching out with trembling impatient fingers to unfasten the  buttons of his shirt, to trail through that scatter of curling black  hair, to pick up in the sensitive tips the throbbing of his pulses which  seemed such an echo of her own. Then, at last, she leaned forward to  press the softness of her cheek against the warm flesh, to explore its  contours with her mouth.

His hands travelled the length of her spine, fingers dealing swiftly  with awkward clips and fastenings, and she felt herself succumbing  completely to a blur of pleasure as the delicate blouse was eased from  her shoulders. She moaned as their bodies moved together in a contact  which was building up her fevered excitement. She had forgotten... Eyes  half closed, she tried for a split-second to be detached. She had  forgotten, or more likely she had deliberately banished from her memory,  the sheer magic of this activity with this man. Even the most abandoned  dream could never begin to reach the peak of pure sensation she was  experiencing now. All she wanted was for him to... 'Patrick.' The sigh  was a blatant entreaty.

'Leigh.' His reply was a promise as the last restrictive garments fell  to the floor and he lifted her up, placing her on the bed, gazing down  for a moment before joining her there. 'You can have no idea...'

But words faded, the world faded; all senses were drifting, drowning on a  tide of sheer delight, while the notes of the romantic Russian prelude  were being branded on two souls.





CHAPTER FOUR



WHEN she woke in the dimness of the strange bedroom, stark naked and  barely covered with a sheet, Leigh's mind went blank, eyes moving with  feverish panic about the walls as she tried to identify the room. Then,  as signals in her brain began to click, she drew in one sudden fearful  breath, lay perfectly still for a moment, before slowly turning her head  on the pillow, biting back a cry of denial directed towards the  powerful predator. Just then Patrick stirred, one dark hand reaching out  towards her before falling back, fingers curving within inches of her  arm.

Scarcely breathing, she lay there, watching the even rise and fall of  the broad chest, a potent surge low in her stomach reminding her of the  delicious sensation of touch, how it had given him such pleasure. His  throaty sounds of delight were still echoing in her brain, and a  scalding heat on her skin emphasised her admission that the reverse was  equally true. Each time his fingers had skimmed, touched, tantalised,  she had cried aloud at the intensity of it, arching against him in a  shameless search for fulfilment.

And that was what she had attained. He had made sure of it for her,  though that had been unnecessary the first time-that fierce  instantaneous joining had left no time for the coaxing languorous wonder  which had come later, taking her to such peaks of glorious moaning  delight. Even thinking of it now in the chill light of dawn made her  feel weak and shivery, and she brought one hand up in a slow,  exploratory sweep of her body in a desire to capture those elusive  sensations.

Anger stabbed unexpectedly. Not that it should have happened, and she  would never be able to explain why it had. Such behaviour was so  entirely out of character. Leaving the security of Holly's flat  upstairs, she had been totally in control of her actions; she might even  have felt slightly irritated that she had been in some clever way  coerced into a situation which would involve her yet again with the man  she was so anxious to avoid, slightly resentful of the matchmaking plans  she suspected her friend had been brewing.                       
       
           



       

But quite apart from that she'd had no suspicion of how vulnerable she  was. She had been perfectly confident of walking into his hall to pick  up an umbrella, walking out and along to the taxi-rank and back to the  company flat. But, instead, a touch of his hand and she had been swept  into the powerful whirlpool of emotions that he had always been able to  produce... A quizzically raised eyebrow, a finger-touch on her inner  wrist or at the nape of her neck and...

She was mortified, filled with self-disgust. So many years of  abstinence-what on earth could have possessed her? She brushed angrily  at a tear. Probably the music; she had always been a sucker for that  particular piece of Rachmaninov... Possibly... her brain was whirling...  the sensual assault had lowered her resistance and...

It was all so contrived. That conclusion came to her in a rush. It was  so sordid. He must have known she was to be the guest at Holly's last  night-they must have mentioned her name, or even a few hints would have  been enough for him to reach the right answer. So the scene had been  carefully set, the trap baited, and she... she had fallen in. Ugh.