Читать книгу Hers For One Night Only? - Carol Marinelli - Страница 7

IT FELT so good to feel so good and it was as if they both knew that they didn’t have long. It was terribly hard to explain it, but now that there wasn’t sex on the menu, now they’d cleared that out of the way, they could relax and just be.

For a little while.

She took a sip of cognac and it burnt all the way down, a delicious burn.

‘Nice?’ Dominic asked.

‘Too nice,’ she admitted.

And he hadn’t wanted conversation, or emotion, but he was laughing, talking, sharing, and that XXXX of a day melted away with her smile.

So they worked the menu backwards and ordered dessert, chocolate soufflé for Bridgette and watermelon and mint sorbet for him. As he sampled his dish, Bridgette wanted a taste—not a spoonful, more a taste of his cool, watermelon-and-mint-flavoured tongue—and she flushed a little as he offered her the spoon. ‘Want some?’ Dominic said.

She shook her head, asked instead about his work, and he told her a bit about his plans for his career, and she told him about the lack of plans for hers.

‘You love midwifery, though?’ Dominic checked.

‘I am hoping to go back to it.’ Bridgette nodded. ‘It’s just been a bit of a complicated year…’ She didn’t elaborate and she was glad that he didn’t push. Yes, she loved midwifery, she answered, loved babies.

‘You want your own?’ He asked the same question that everyone did when they heard her job.

‘One day maybe…’ Bridgette gave a vague shrug. Had he asked a couple of years ago she’d have told him that she wanted millions, couldn’t wait to have babies of her own. Only now she simply couldn’t see it. She couldn’t imagine a place or a time where it might happen, couldn’t imagine really trusting a man again. She didn’t tell him that of course—that wasn’t what tonight was about. Instead she gave a vague nod. ‘I think so. You?’ she asked, and he admitted that he shuddered at the very thought.

‘You’re a paediatrician.’ Bridgette laughed.

‘Doesn’t mean I have to want my own. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I know what can go wrong.’ He shook his head and was very definite. ‘Nope, not for me.’ He told her that he had a brother, Chris, when Bridgette said she had a sister, Courtney. Neither mentioned Arabella or Paul, and Bridgette certainly didn’t mention Harry.

Tonight it was just about them.

And then they ordered coffee and talked some more.

And then another coffee.

And the waiters yawned, and Dominic and Bridgette looked around the restaurant and realised it was just the two of them left.

And it was over too soon, Bridgette thought as he paid the bill and they left. It was as if they were trying to cram so much into one night; almost as if it was understood that this really should deserve longer. It was like a plane trip alongside a wonderful companion: you knew you would be friends, more than friends perhaps, if you had more time, but you were both heading off to different lives. He to further his career and then back to his life in Sydney,

She to, no doubt, more of the same.

Except they had these few hours together and neither wanted them to end.

They walked along the river and to the bridge, leant over it and looked into the water, and still they spoke, about silly things, about music and videos and movies they had watched or that they thought the other really should see. He was nothing like the man she had assumed he was when they had been introduced in the bar—he was insightful and funny and amazing company. In fact, nothing at all like the remote, aloof man that Jasmine had described.

And she was nothing like he’d expected either when they had been introduced. Dominic was very careful about the women he dated in Melbourne; he had no interest in settling down, not even for a few weeks. Occasionally he got it wrong, and it would end in tears a few days later. Not his of course—it was always the women who wanted more than he was prepared to give, and Dominic had decided he was never giving that part of himself again. But there was a strange regret in the air as he drove her home—a rare regret for Dominic—because here was a woman he actually wouldn’t mind getting to know a little more, one who might get him over those last stubborn, lingering remnants of Arabella.

He’d been joking about Bridgette answering the phone.

Sort of.

Actually, it wasn’t such a bad idea. He couldn’t face going back to Sydney while there was still weakness, didn’t want to slip back into the picture-perfect life that had been prescribed to him since birth.

And it was strange because had they met at the start of his stay here, he was sure, quite sure, time would have moved more slowly. Now, though, it seemed that the beach road that led to her home, a road he was quite positive usually took a good fifteen minutes, seemed to be almost over in eight minutes and still they were talking, still they were laughing, as the car gobbled up their time.

‘You should watch it.’ She was talking about something on the internet, something she had found incredibly funny. ‘Tonight when you get in.’ She glanced at the clock on the dashboard and saw that it was almost two. ‘I mean, this morning.’

‘You watch it too.’ He grinned. ‘We can watch simultaneously…’ His fingers tightened on the wheel and he ordered his mind not to voice the sudden direction it had taken—thankfully those thoughts went unsaid and unheard.

‘I can’t get on the internet,’ Bridgette grumbled, trying desperately not to think similar thoughts. ‘I’ve got a virus.’ She swung her face to him. ‘My computer, I mean, not…’ What was wrong with her mouth? Bridgette thought as she turned her burning face to look out of the window. Why did everything lead to sex with him? ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘you should watch it.’

There was a roundabout coming up, the last roundabout, Bridgette knew, before her home, and it felt like her last chance at crazy, their last chance. And, yes, it was two a.m., but it could have been two p.m.; it was just a day that was running out and they wanted to chase it. She stole a look over at his delectable profile and to the olive hands that gripped the steering-wheel—it would be like leaving the cinema in the middle of the best movie ever without a hope of finding out the end. And she wanted more detail, wanted to know how it felt to be made love to by a man like him. She’d been truthful when she’d spoken to Jasmine—a relationship was the very last thing that she wanted now. Maybe this way had merit…‘We should watch it.’

‘Your computer’s not working,’ he pointed out.

‘Yours is.’ The flick of the indicator signalling right was about half the speed of her heart.

‘Bridgette…’ He wasn’t a bastard—he was incredibly, incredibly nice, because they went three times round the roundabout as he made very sure.

‘I don’t want you to regret…’ He was completely honest. ‘I leave in two weeks.’

‘I won’t regret it.’ She’d firmly decided that she wouldn’t. ‘After much consideration I have decided I would very much regret it if I didn’t.’ She gave him a smile. ‘I want my night.’

She did. And he was lovely, because he did not gun the car home. It was so much nicer than she would ever be able to properly remember, but she knew for many nights she would try.

She wanted to be able to hold on to the moment when he turned and told her that he couldn’t wait till they got all the way back to the city for the one kiss they had previously agreed to. She wanted to remember how they stopped at a lookout, gazed out at the bay, leant against his bonnet and watched the glittering view, and it felt as if time was suspended. She wanted to bottle it somehow, because she wasn’t angry with Courtney at that moment, or worried for Harry. For the first time in ages she had a tiny glimpse of calm, of peace, a moment where she felt all was well.

Well, not calm, but it was a different sort of stress from the one she was used to as he moved his face to hers. Very nicely he kissed her, even if she was terribly nervous. He let her be nervous as he kissed her—till the pleats in her mind unfurled. It was a kiss that had been building all night, a kiss she had wanted since their introduction, and his mouth told her he had wanted the same.

‘I was going to stay for one drink…’ His mouth was at her ear, his body pressed into hers.

‘I was just leaving,’ she admitted as his face came back to view.

‘And now look at us.’

So nice was that kiss that he did it again.

‘You smell fantastic.’ She was glad, to be honest, to have only him on her mind. He smelt as expensive as he looked and he tasted divine. She would never take this dress to the dry cleaner’s, she thought as his scent wrapped around them, and his mouth was at her neck and under her hair. He was dragging in the last breaths of the perfume she had squirted on before going out and soaking in the scent of the salon’s rich shampoo and the warm fragrance of woman.

‘So do you,’ he said.

‘You taste fantastic,’ Bridgette said. She was the one going back for more now.

‘You too.’

And he liked the weight of responsibility that cloaked him as he pressed her against the bonnet and his hands inched down to a silver hem. He could feel her soft thighs and wanted to lift her dress, but he wanted to know if her legs too were freckled, so he ended the kiss. He wanted more for her than that, more for himself than that.

Just tonight, Dominic assured himself as she did the same.

‘What?’ He caught her looking at him as they headed for his home, and grinned.

‘Nothing.’ She smiled back.

‘Go on, say what you’re thinking.’

‘Okay.’ So she did. ‘You don’t look like a paediatrician.’

‘What is a paediatrician supposed to look like?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bridgette admitted. ‘Okay, you don’t seem like a paediatrician.’ She couldn’t really explain it, but he laughed.

They laughed.

And when she told him that she imagined him more a cosmetic surgeon, with some exclusive private practice, his laugh turned wry. ‘You’re mistaking me for my father.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Bridgette said.

And he pulled her towards him, because it was easier than thinking, easier than admitting he wasn’t so sure of her verdict, that lately he seemed to be turning more and more into his father, the man he respected least.

It was three o’clock and she felt as if they were both trying to escape morning.

There wasn’t a frantic kiss through the front door—instead the energy that swirled was more patient.

It was a gorgeous energy that waited as he made her coffee and she went to the bathroom and he had the computer on when she returned. They did actually watch it together.

‘I showed this to Jasmine—’ there were tears rolling down her face, but from laughter ‘—and she didn’t think it was funny.’

And he was laughing too, more than he ever had. He hadn’t had a night like this in ages—in fact, he couldn’t recall one ever.

Okay, she would try to remember the details, how he didn’t cringe when she pretended his desk was a piano; instead he sang.

It was the most complicated thing to explain—that she could sing to him, that, worse, he could take the mug that was the microphone and do the same to her!

‘We should be ashamed of ourselves.’ She admired their reflection in the computer as they took a photo.

‘Very ashamed,’ he agreed.

She thought he was like this, Dominic realised, that this was how his usual one-night stands went. Didn’t she understand that this was as rare for him as it was for her? He hadn’t been like this even with Arabella.

He didn’t just want anyone tonight; he wanted her.

It was an acute want that tired now of being patient and so too did hers. As their mouths met on time and together, he kissed her to the back of the sofa. It felt so seamless, so right, because not for a second did Bridgette think, Now he’s going to kiss me. One moment they were laughing and the next they were kissing. It was a transition that was as simple as that.

It was his mouth and his taste and the slide of his tongue.

It was her mouth and a kiss that didn’t taste of plastic, that tasted of her tongue, and he kissed her and she curled into it. She loved the feel of his mouth and the roam of his hands and the way her body was craving his—it was a kiss that was potent, everything a kiss could be, distilled into one delicious dose.

He took off her dress, because he wanted to see her, not the woman in silver, and his eyes roamed. They roamed as he took off her bra and he answered his earlier question because her freckles stopped only where her bikini would be. There were two unfreckled triangles that wanted his mouth, but he talked to her as well and what she didn’t know was how rare that was.

He left control behind and was out of his mind.

He wanted her in France, he told her as he licked her nipple.

Topless and naked on the beach beside him, and new freckles on her breasts. She closed her eyes and she could smell the sun oil, could feel the heat from the sun that shone in France and the coolness of his tongue on sunburnt nipples. He pressed her into the couch and she pressed back to him.

She was lying down and could feel him hard against her and she didn’t think twice, just slid his zipper down.

She could hear her own moan as she held him and he lifted his head.

‘We’re not going to make it to the bedroom, are we?’

‘Not a hope,’ she admitted.

Was this what it was like?

To be free.

To be irresponsible.

More, please, she wanted to sob, because she wanted to live on the edge for ever, never wanted this night to end.

She wanted this man who took off his trousers and kept condoms in his wallet, and it didn’t offend her—she already knew what he was like, after all.

‘Bastard.’ She grinned.

And he knew her too.

‘Sorry,’ he said. In their own language he apologised for the cad that he was and told her that he wasn’t being one tonight.

This was different.

So different that he sat her up.

Sank to his knees on the edge of the sofa.

And pulled her bottom towards him.

‘Let’s get rid of these.’ He was shameless. He dispensed with anything awkward, just slid her panties down, and she did remember staring up at the ceiling as his tongue slid up a pale, freckled thigh that didn’t taste of fake tan and then he dived right in. As he licked and teased and tasted she would remember for ever thinking, Is this me?

And she was grateful for his experience, for his skill, for the mastery of his tongue, because it was a whole new world and tonight she got to step into it.

‘Relax,’ he said, when she forgot to for a moment.

So she did, just closed her eyes and gave in to it.

‘Where’s the rug?’ she asked as he slid her to the floor.

‘No rug,’ he said.

He maybe should get one, was her last semi-coherent thought, because the carpet burnt in her back as he moved inside her, a lovely burn, and then it was his turn to sample the carpet for he toppled her over, still deep inside her, and she was on top.

Don’t look down.

It wasn’t even a semi-coherent thought; it was more a familiar warning that echoed in her head.

Don’t look down—but she did, she looked down from the tightrope that recently she’d been walking.

She glimpsed black eyes that were open as she closed hers and came, and he watched her expression, felt her abandon, and then his eyes closed as he came too. Yes, feeling those last bucks deep inside her she looked down and it didn’t daunt her, didn’t terrify. It exhilarated her as greedily he pulled her head down and kissed her.

‘It’s morning,’ he said as they moved to the bedroom, the first sunlight starting.

Better still as she closed her eyes to the new day, there was no regret.