Anyone Can Dream

‘Here.’

He turned sideways so that one leg was against the back of the sofa and pulled her gently into the V of his thighs, so that her back was cradled against his chest and his arms rested lightly across her waist.

‘Now—tell me all about this rat who hurt you so badly.’

‘Greg?’

‘Was that his name?’

She nodded. ‘He was OK at first, I suppose. I was very naive—an only child, and my mother died when I was young. I didn’t think there was anything odd about waiting on him hand and foot—it was something I’d always done for my father, and it seemed natural to carry on.’

‘But?’

She shrugged. ‘He never seemed to appreciate anything. At least my father had been grateful for my efforts in the house, but Greg criticised everything I did. The cooking, the cleaning, the ironing, even——’

‘Yes?’

She ran out of courage. ‘Nothing.’

He sighed, a soft puff of breath that teased the hair on the back of her neck and sent shivers down her spine.

‘Don’t tell me—the bastard called you frigid.’

She stiffened, the word still jabbing through her like a knife.

‘Oh, Charlotte …’ His hands slid up her arms, coming to rest on her shoulders. ‘Poor, poor baby,’ he murmured, and she felt his thumbs working deeply in the muscles of her neck, soothing, easing the tension. She dropped her head forward and let him touch her, then gradually the touch changed, growing less soothing, more sensuous. He turned her in his arms, so that her side rested against his chest, and one hand tipped her chin up so that she was facing him.

‘I’m going to kiss you,’ he said softly, and then his head came down and his lips settled against hers.

The desire was back, sharp and shocking as before, but this time she was helpless to pull away. Instead she reached for him, winding her arms around his neck and tunnelling her fingers through the soft, thick hair at his nape. She felt a hand, warm and strong but gentle, cup her breast, and she arched against it, a little cry rising in her throat. His fingers were against her skin somehow, inside the blouse, under her bra, working the sensitive nub of her nipple to an aching peak.

His mouth left hers, trailing hot, steamy kisses over her neck and throat, down over the slight swell of her breast to close over the tender bud of flesh. She cried out, clutching his head and holding it close, and he made a guttural sound of satisfaction, switching his attention to the other aching breast that was clamouring for his attention.

Her breath was sobbing now, the sensation so exquisite that she was almost beyond reason.

‘William,’ she moaned, reaching for him, and he turned so that she was under him, stretched full-length on the sofa, his legs locked with hers as his mouth returned to claim her lips again.

She arched against him, her body now beyond her control. In the distance she could hear her voice pleading, but the words were meaningless. Her blouse was open now, and she tugged at his shirt, ripping the buttons in her haste.

‘Steady,’ he laughed, but his voice wasn’t steady, and nor were his hands as he wrenched off the shirt and came back to lie against her, the soft, slightly wiry hair on his chest chafing against her unbearably sensitive nipples.

‘Please,’ she begged, and seconds later she felt his hand slide between them, easing her skirt aside and cupping the aching mound of her womanhood in his hard, hot palm.

She bucked under his hand, needing more, needing him, but he was in no hurry now, his fingers making slow, leisurely explorations of their own.

She felt his hand slip under the edge of her tiny bikini pants and move down again, the long, strong fingers probing, searching for something.

He found it, his touch unerring, and Charlotte felt something inside her give and shatter.

‘William,’ she sobbed, and then the sensations flooded her, blinding her, leaving her shaken and weeping in his arms.

‘Frigid my aunt Fanny,’ he said softly, and, smoothing her skirt down over her trembling thighs, he gathered her in his arms and held her till she was quiet.

Then he lifted his head and stared down into her face. ‘Your eyes are like crushed pansies,’ he murmured.

‘More like crushed tomatoes,’ she said with a sniff.

He chuckled. ‘No. You look gorgeous.’

She felt hot colour flood her cheeks. ‘I feel an idiot,’ she told him candidly.

‘Why?’

‘Why? I just—after what I did—why?’

He laughed again, his voice softly teasing, and hugged her. ‘You were beautiful. Warm, soft, all woman.’

Something occurred to her.

‘What about you?’ she asked shyly, dreading his reply.

‘What about me? I’ll live.’

‘But you …’

‘I said I’ll live,’ he repeated, but she could feel the hard ridge against her thigh and knew he was still aroused.

She wished she felt confident enough to return the compliment, but the whole experience had left her shaken and she didn’t feel she could cope with any more.

It seemed she didn’t have to. He eased his weight off her and retrieved his shirt, gazing ruefully at the ripped buttonholes.

‘Oh, well,’ he said philosophically, and tugged it on anyway. Charlotte sat up, acutely aware of her bare breasts, and struggled with the catch on the back of her bra.

‘Let me,’ he offered, kneeling down at her feet, and, reaching round her, he clipped the catch together easily.

‘You’ve done that before,’ she said, struggling for a teasing note, and he grinned like quicksilver.

‘Once or twice.’

He drew the edges of her blouse together and buttoned it, his fingers steady now, and as she looked down at his bent head a huge well of some nameless emotion rose up inside her.

‘William?’ she said tentatively.

He lifted his head. ‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

For a second he was silent, then his arms came round her and crushed her against his chest. ‘My pleasure,’ he murmured.