Читать книгу One Night Before Marriage - Anne Oliver - Страница 10

THEY separated before they reached the door and met again at the elevator. Shocked, Carissa watched as Ben keyed his card. ‘The penthouse?’

‘I like space and a room with a view.’

Seconds later the elevator doors whooshed open. She stepped into the room and stared. Low lighting didn’t dim the view of Sydney’s coat-hanger bridge, the Opera House like luminous swans on the harbour. The room was black on white. Silver glinted, marble shone. The whole scene screamed money. ‘Wow.’

He moved to the full-length glass door, slid it open. Sheer curtains billowed in on the sultry breeze. ‘One of the best views in the world,’ he said.

She hadn’t come for the view. She hadn’t even come for romance.

She’d come for sex.

And the man of the moment lounged against the balcony with wind in his hair, an intriguing blend of casual and remote as he stared over the water. Her first lover, a man she didn’t know.

The jolt of realisation must have shown on her face because when he finally looked at her, the expression warmed. ‘Relax and come here.’

She swallowed and stayed where she was. ‘I want you to know, I’m not in the habit—I mean…this isn’t…’ Now she was babbling and way out of her depth.

‘I like you pink and flustered. An interesting contrast to that cool, classical beauty at the piano.’

Shifting into defence mode, she lifted her chin. ‘I am not flustered.’ But she did relax when she saw the glint of humour in his eyes as he came towards her.

‘Okay, then…’ He trailed fingers of fire up the side of her neck and into her hair under her clasp at the back of her head. ‘Sophisticated naïveté.’

A buzzer dinged. Her eyes whipped to the elevator door.

‘Hey.’ He squeezed her nape. ‘I told you to relax. Admire the view a moment.’

She turned away and waited out the brief exchange and the sound of the doors sliding shut before turning back.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day. Red roses for a blue lady.’ He held out the dozen perfect long-stemmed buds.

Oh, my. Something inside her sparkled, like a snowflake under the first rays of spring sunshine. No one had ever given her flowers. ‘They’re beautiful, thank you.’ She buried her nose in their rich velvety fragrance. ‘But Valentine’s Day was yesterday.’

‘Somewhere in the world it still is.’

‘How did you manage these? It’s after midnight.’

‘The gift shop’s always open for the right people.’

What did he mean by that? Who was Ben Jamieson? Someone important? Obviously someone with money to burn.

Still, something about being here with him, surrounded by the fragrance of summer roses, made her want to weep. She’d never think of Valentine’s Day again without remembering Ben Jamieson. He’d reached deep inside her and found something she’d been determined to keep buried. Need. A need for more than simple lust.

But with that need came vulnerability. Don’t get emotionally involved. You’re walking away tonight; you’ll never see him again. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said, caressing a bud.

‘Why not?’ He tipped her chin up. ‘You in that blue dress makes me wish I could whisk you away to the top of the Sydney Tower. Just us and the stars.’

Clasping her hand, he led her to the balcony where said tower shone like a golden lollipop. Lights shimmered on black water. Somewhere below music drifted, the breeze sighed.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. With gentle persuasion he was changing something simple into something romantic and complicated.

He took the roses, laid them on the smoked-glass table and cupped her face before lowering his lips.

Again his mouth was firm yet soft, and moved over hers in a slow, sensuous kiss that had her mind blotting out all thoughts but the mindless pleasure of it. His hands moved to her shoulders, kneading away the growing tension.

Her world was suddenly intense, alive and filled with colour and movement. She heard the muted noise of traffic and a distant ferry’s horn as he pulled her closer. The sensation of falling, spinning, had her clutching at his chest, sleek muscle over bone.

‘Come with me.’ Twining their fingers together, he walked her through an arch to the adjoining room.

The bedroom was as impressive as the rest of the suite. A single black-shaded lamp threw out a muted, seductive glow in one corner. The king-size bed had been turned down for the night and her heart leapt at its intimate invitation.

Skilled fingers slipped inside the back of her dress and down. The zipper slid open with a whisper, the hooks of her bra loosened. Smoothing his hands over her shoulders, he skimmed down her arms until her dress and bra fell to the floor and she stood only in high-cut sapphire panties, lace-topped thigh-high blue stockings and spiky-heeled shoes.

His eyes darkened and he stepped back. ‘Leave them on,’ he said as her fingers moved to her thighs. ‘I want to look.’

Goosebumps chased over her body; her nipples puckered and throbbed. The whole thing was surreal; she felt like a model in a men’s magazine.

He blew out a long breath, arms crossed over his chest. ‘You’re a living fantasy. Now take off the panties—slowly. Very slowly.’

With an excitement she’d never felt, she hooked her fingers in the skinny blue straps and slid them down her thighs. She could see the sweat beading his brow as he shifted his stance, drawing her attention away from his face to the straining and impressive bulge in his jeans. Oh, God.

He gestured to the discarded undies. ‘Put them on the bed.’

Why? Then she felt his eyes consume her body as she bent down to obey his request and knew the answer.

‘Now release your hair. With both hands.’

Her breasts lifted with the movement, swollen and heavy. She let out an uneven breath as she tossed the clasp on the floor and separated the thick strands. He’d barely touched her and she was glowing.

‘Anticipation’s half the fun,’ he murmured. But he sure didn’t smile as if he was having fun. A muscle in his jaw clenched; his mouth hardened.

Her cheeks were on fire, and, yes, anticipation—every pulse point hammered with it. She focused on his gaze and told him with her eyes.

But he didn’t reach for her. With a swift tug, he rid himself of his T-shirt, tossed it on the floor beside her dress. His eyes burned. ‘Touch me.’

She swallowed over a healthy dose of nerves. Clothed, no problem, but alone with a semi-naked man and knowing he was going to get a lot more naked any minute…What if he wanted her to do…something she didn’t know how to do?

Get a grip, he’s only asked you to touch him. So far. Tentative, she touched the dark hair sprinkled over that massive chest, felt the texture against the warm, hard skin beneath. She trailed her fingers lower, following the line of hair to his navel and below, where his jeans rode low on his hips…

Taking her hand, he pressed it against his thick, throbbing erection and squeezed. Heat burned through his jeans; his body jerked. Very soon, that heat, that hardness was going to be inside her. The last thing she needed was a pregnancy. She gazed up into his eyes again. ‘You do have protection. Don’t you?’

‘It’s okay, Carissa. I won’t let anything happen to you. Trust me.’ Then with a growl he tumbled her backwards onto the bed. One shoe fell to the floor. A flick of his wrist and his jeans snapped open. He pushed them off his hips, down his legs with his boxers and a hard, hairy thigh nudged between her legs.

The contrasts were stunning. His heat, the angles and planes of his masculine body, the coolness of the crisp cotton sheet, the sultry air against her dewy skin.

Soft light played over bronzed flesh and hard-packed muscle and his, oh…his restless hands as they slid across her belly and up over her breasts. He sifted his fingers through her hair with a murmur of masculine appreciation.

Lowering his head, he closed his mouth over one nipple, then the other. She felt the tug all the way to the soles of her curled feet. She arched her back on a moan as sensation layered over sensation.

The stockings were last to go. He took his slow sweet time, his fingers brushing aside the nylon, laying a sensuous trail of kisses behind until there wasn’t a square inch of skin that wasn’t tingling. Except where she wanted him most.

At last, when she didn’t think she could stand it any longer, he parted her thighs with his hand and slid a finger over moist flesh that had never been touched. She went weak, moaned again. She’d never dreamed it could feel this…good.

He was familiar with things about her woman’s body she’d never known. Exactly the right place to touch. When to stroke, slide, dip or plunge. How absolutely arousing a slow, smooth hand could be. Their world became her only world.

‘Ben…’ She couldn’t help the breathy little sounds coming from her throat, couldn’t help arching blindly towards the source of that pleasure. But there was more; something just out of reach. Something her body instinctively sought. ‘Ben, I want…I need…’

‘I know.’ The hot glide of his clever fingers over slick and swollen flesh increased. Darts shot through her body, lights exploded behind her eyes. Her body spasmed as her climax ripped through her, sending her to another dimension.

He was still there when she floated back to earth. Time drifted like the tide, the air hung heavy, languid, scented with desire.

Then he rolled away, reached for something on the night stand. She heard the rip of foil and closed her eyes as his weight settled over her. She felt his heart thundering against her breast, his breath hot against her ear, and prepared to be swept away.

But when the blunt tip of his sex nudged her, rosy dreams and soft sighs vanished, and reality intruded like a harsh white light. The magnitude of what she was doing hit her.

Too late. With one deep thrust that stole the air from her lungs, he pushed inside her, then went utterly still. And bit out a short four-letter word.

She tensed at the quick sharp pain and held her breath, trying not to panic. She felt impaled, his hardness invasive and foreign. Only his rapid and heavy breathing broke the silence.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You didn’t ask.’ She could barely speak, so focused was she on her own body and what was happening to her. Already the pain was subsiding, already she wanted more. Until an added vulnerability cooled her enthusiasm. Perhaps he didn’t like virgins; perhaps the reason he was speaking in that harsh tone was because he was disappointed. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Too bloody right.’ He carefully withdrew a little, propped himself on his elbows over her and dropped a sweat-damp forehead on hers. ‘There are rules…’

‘We…I…broke a rule coming here. You said—’

‘My rules. There’s a difference.’ He traced a finger over her cheek, her lips. There was a myriad emotions in his eyes. ‘Why now…why me?’

‘Because I want it, because you’re here. Please…’ She grasped his hand, took it to her breast. ‘Tonight you’ve made me feel beautiful and so alive.’

An infinitely more wary look crossed his face. ‘Don’t make this into something it’s not, Carissa. I’m not that man of your dreams, nor am I a settling-down kind of guy. This is all there is.’

She swallowed and forced herself to remember how it was. ‘This is all I want. I’m not looking for permanence. That makes us ideal partners for this evening.’ She twined her arms around his neck and experimentally moved her hips.

His jaw tightened, his arms quivering with the strain of holding his weight off her. ‘Look, Carissa, I don’t want to hurt you…’

‘Don’t give me that sexist rubbish about it being different for a woman.’ She raked her nails over his back and the hard curve of his buttocks, making him shudder.

‘Well, then. You’ll want something worth remembering.’ His eyes darkened. ‘That I can give you.’

He was true to his word.

Hungry for his taste, his body and completion, she took what he gave greedily, storing the sensations and emotions for later. Dark, heavy heat engulfed her, molten fire flowing through her veins, spreading over her skin. Her body relaxed as she became familiar with him moving over and within her. She’d never forget this one time with him. He was everything she’d dreamed of and then some.

Strength. His body was hard and smooth against hers, tempered with a gentleness she hadn’t expected.

Patience. Another surprise, his willingness to linger over small things—a touch, a kiss, a murmur.

Tenderness. It flowed from his touch like soft summer rain.

And when the ache built again and became unbearable, he knew, and let her fly.

After, he lay silent and still, holding her against him, but somehow removed. As if he’d distanced himself.

How it should be, she told herself. He’d be moving on and she’d go back to her two jobs, her falling-down house and her debts.

But rather than the satisfaction she’d expected, she felt…empty. And cheated somehow, as if she’d opened the door to another world and had it slammed in her face. And she still had to find a way out of his arms, out of this hotel and home—without being seen by management.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. That was her first coherent thought when she woke to the unfamiliar weight of a hand on her abdomen. As she surfaced the night flooded back in a tide of exquisite sensations and images. For a fuzzy moment she drifted with them, aware of a vague tenderness in her lower body and a sense of togetherness she’d never experienced.

Then she blinked as her brain caught up. A grey-pearl sky heralded approaching dawn. A jolt of panic swept through her. Her reputation and job were at stake here. She fought the impulse to leap off the bed. Slow was the wisest course; the last thing she wanted to do was wake him.

She couldn’t resist a last look. She’d never seen a naked man for real. Her moist, tender flesh throbbed at the sight of the thick jut of his sex, which seemed to augment as she watched. Her gaze shot to his face, but he was relaxed, long lashes resting on his cheeks.

Heart racing, she turned away. Get out while you still can. Easing her body out from under his arm was no mean feat, but he was dead to the world, his breathing calm and even.

Her stockings lay at the foot of the bed. She grabbed her bra and dress from the floor, hesitated before stuffing bra and stockings in her bag. She wriggled into the dress, jerked the zip up, then twisted her hair into its clasp while she searched for shoes.

Her panties were nowhere in sight, buried somewhere among the rumpled sheets or under that heavy, slumbering body. She had no intention of risking him waking, and counted the loss of a pair of knickers a minor one under the circumstances.

Then she noticed his wallet on the night stand. Money. Thank you, God. She hunted up pen and paper in her bag, wrote an IOU, promising him she’d reimburse him at the desk tomorrow, then slipped a bill into her purse. Couldn’t be helped—he’d offered, and she absolutely, positively couldn’t catch a train wearing nothing but an evening dress at six o’clock in the morning.

She looked longingly at the roses, but she couldn’t take them. Goodbye, Ben Jamieson. She refused to look at him again as she stole from his room and out of his life.

Through barely raised eyelashes Ben watched her stumble quietly around his room. He’d lain awake the whole night afraid he’d succumb to his usual nightmare and scare her. And embarrass himself.

There was enough light to showcase the slender curves, the glint of gold at her ears and her shadowed secret places as she bent to find her clothes. She straightened, hesitated, giving him a close-up of those tempting globes of flesh with their dark puckered nipples.

Then she turned her back to him and slithered naked into her long blue tube, an innocent striptease in rewind. His blood heated, his already hardened sex turned painful and he had an irresistible urge to lay his lips on that moon-pale patch of skin above the swell of her bottom. Then she yanked the zip up and the moment was lost. Probably just as well.

He wondered if she intended catching her train at this hour, in that state of dress, and what he was going to do about it. He was relieved when he saw her write something on a scrap of paper, then slide a single furtive bill from his wallet. She could have robbed him blind. The fact that she didn’t only confirmed what he already knew. Carissa was an honest if naïve young woman.

Her movements ruffled the air so that her scent wafted to his nose. Not an expensive perfume, but a scent that made him think of a spring morning—cool, fresh, unspoiled. Maybe she was too embarrassed to face him—she’d obviously never done the morning-after routine. It beat the hell out of him why a woman would opt for a stranger for her first sexual experience.

He watched her leave his room and head for the elevator, then stretched, punched up the pillow and shoved his hands behind his head. The trouble with virgins—one intimate encounter and they started looking at engagement rings. Carissa was different.

He heard the elevator doors open, close, and felt more alone than he’d felt before he’d met her. As if she’d taken part of him. Which was plain stupid. No woman took anything from Ben Jamieson.

Throwing off the sheet, he padded to the window to catch a glimpse of her. There. He watched her hail a cab, climb in and drive away. His fists clenched on the window ledge. Damn her for making him feel…needy. He didn’t want to get involved. Not with her, not with anyone. And not now, when his life was going down the toilet.

Moving to his bed, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the slender gold chain he’d slipped off her wrist. Antique, by the looks. Insurance, he told himself, pocketing it once more. He could see her again if he wanted, if he chose to. He knew where she was on a Friday and Saturday night. Simple.

Or he could keep it even simpler. Just Carissa, an intimate stranger who’d shared his bed for a night. Some soft curves in the bumpy road that was his life right now.

She didn’t know he had her bracelet. And her panties, he noted, spotting the scrap of blue silk on the bed amongst the tumbled sheets. Ah well, he’d have them gift wrapped and handed in to her at the front desk. But he’d see she got the bracelet back personally.

A girl with her classical background wouldn’t know anything about a band like XLRock, he decided, hunting up a room-service menu. Rave’s band had needed financial backing to get started and Ben had been happy to put down the money.

Fourteen years ago in a tiny pub on the edge of the Nullabor Plain, Ben had taken the fifteen-year-old runaway pickpocket under his wing and taught him to play guitar. The kid had become a runaway star.

Ben stared sightlessly at the ceiling. All he saw was Rave. A couple of weeks ago he’d stepped in with his own guitar to help out when one of the band members had quit on the eve of the open-air concert, Desert Rock. But Ben hadn’t been able to resist the lure of Broken Hill’s Musicians’ Club on the way home.

The memory taunted him. His stomach tied itself into those familiar knots and he decided he wasn’t hungry after all. Grimly he grabbed his jeans from the floor where he’d shucked them last night and headed for the shower.

Adjusting the temperature to just above cold, he let the water pelt him and shivered as he soaped up. He could still see the frustration in Rave’s eyes. But he’d grown accustomed to the tantrums. ‘Jess won’t mind one extra night, Rave. Phone her and blame me. Here, take the Porsche for a spin.’ He’d handed him the car keys himself.

It was the last time he’d seen him.

Ben wrenched off the taps, pressed his fingers to his eyelids. He hadn’t expected Rave to be irresponsible enough to get plastered before he got behind the wheel. He should have seen it. He’d tried to escape the visions that plagued him—waking, sleeping—but the guilt stuck like barbed wire.

And the nightmares kept coming.

For one brief evening, Carissa had made him forget.

When he re-entered the main room, the Sydney Morning Herald had been slipped beneath the door by some faceless night porter. Without glancing at the headlines he tossed it into the bin. He was so tired of the smell of impersonal hotel rooms. Sick of the sight of staff with their plastic smiles, the clatter of service trolleys.

He turned to the spectacular view of high-rises against a gold sky. Just once he wanted to look out a window and see an untidy cottage garden or a stand of stringy eucalypts, a wooden letter-box with the paint peeling off. How many years had it been since he’d slept in a house? A home? Too damn many.

He needed a place where no one who knew him could find him. Space where he could think for a few days before the gut-wrenching prospect of facing up to Jess.

Even if he had to pay a couple of months’ rent for a few days, the room on Sydney’s coast advertised in the staff cafeteria might just be the temporary hideaway he was looking for.