on for Tim and Martin.” The gaze from those light eyes exposes my most unacknowledged motives. “Did you, Anna?”
“N-No, but I—” His first fury spent, his kisses become, if anything, even more thorough, but now they are less of an assault. His objective is to turn me on, not to punish me, and now he is allowing me—daring me—to respond. I realize only hazily that he has clasped my thigh, pulled it up to his hip and pushed back the hem of my dress till his fingers reach the lace top of my stocking. He draws me against himself, not roughly now, but in a way that leaves no doubt that resistance would be futile.
I don’t resist him at all. With his fingers crooked around my knee he pulls me onto the smooth, hard slope of his thigh between my legs and rocks me gently back and forth, his other hand in the small of my back.
Although I could hate myself for it, it is the most deliciously sensual feeling, being in the hands of this angry, beautiful man who has set his mind on arousing me. His fingertips are on my naked flesh, high up on my thigh. He feels for me blindly, and my body is responding just as blindly to any touch, any movement of his. My good angel, a bedraggled little figure squatting on my right shoulder, warns me that we’ll be copulating on the floor in a couple of minutes if his fingers inch any higher. His other hand glides down to my ass, one of my ass cheeks fits comfortably into his hand, and there is a worrying inevitability in the way he yanks me against his rock-hard thigh. Oh, God—does he really mean to fuck me now, here, in his office?
“Please, no, don’t—”
He cuts me short huskily. “Hold still.”
In delicious obedience I slip my arms round his neck as he hauls me up and against the length of his body. It’s like an electric shock running through me when it becomes very clear that his thigh is not the only part of his nether regions that is as hard as a rock. One of my legs is still wrapped around his hip; his probing fingers reach the edge of my panties and then, through the thin lace of my panties, his fingertips feel my soft, swollen flesh. And I want to die with desire and shame, I’m so wet for him. Now he knows how wet I am for him. This is so embarrassing—oh, God, this feels so good! My arms tighten around his neck and I press my face against his shoulder. He smells of expensive cloth, a little of rum punch and shaving cream, but the predominant fragrance is that of Giles himself, which I can’t define at all except that there is a hint of licorice in it and that it’s the loveliest smell I can imagine.
Still there is nothing frantic in our movements. We are dancing on a tightrope, in more senses than one, a supreme rush of adrenaline balanced by a supreme effort at control.
Suddenly he stops.
“Don’t do that…”
He lets go of my thigh and steps back from me. In a flash of shame and disappointment I take my hands off him. The anguish of finding myself rejected is so intense that tears shoot into my eyes. The moment seems to stretch out forever, but it can only have been a couple of seconds during which he looks down at me. Then he takes my hand and leads me over to the sofa.
“Giles—” I have no idea what to say. It’s just that I feel that I ought to say something. “We cannot go on doing this! It’s crazy!”
“It drives me crazy that I can’t touch you. And you’ll have to resist me harder if you really want me to stop.”
He kisses me again, slowly and deeply. Already his mouth is familiar, the way the tip of his tongue runs along the sensitive corners of my mouth, the way his lips soften against mine. Oh, the delight of a man who knows how to kiss! Both his hands clasp my butt again and drag my hips against his, and I’m no longer kidding myself. If he wants to fuck me here, now, in his office, I won’t stop him.
He pushes the low table to one side with his shin and sinks onto the sofa, pulling me with him. I try to sit demurely with my feet on the