Imogen watched him open his mouth. He shut his eyes and swallowed. Fascinated, she followed the jerky movement of his throat. Then blazing, dark eyes met hers again. ‘You’ve changed your mind?’ Even his voice was unfamiliar.
‘Of course not.’ How could he even think it? ‘But I can’t wait. I need you now.’ Already she was running her hands over him, revelling in the heat of ridged muscle beneath his fine shirt. One hand dipped to his belt buckle and her fingers fumbled in their haste.
Thierry’s eyes widened, his body rigid, as if he couldn’t trust her words. Hadn’t he ever met a woman so eager for him? Impossible!
What was impossible was that she, Imogen Holgate, was so desperate she didn’t think she’d survive another minute of his seduction.
He was going to kiss and caress her, taking his time, and she’d self-combust at any moment. She’d never known anything like this spike of arousal.
‘Please, Thierry.’ Finally, she got his buckle undone and slid the belt free with clumsy hands. ‘You can seduce me later. Whatever you like. But I need you inside me now.’
Fire washed from her throat to her hairline. But she didn’t care about embarrassment or appearing unsophisticated. Desire was too tame a word for this urgent, visceral need. Nothing mattered but being one with this man.
Imogen bit her lip as her fingers slipped on his zip. She tried again and heard his sharp inhale. Hard fingers closed around hers.
He wasn’t going to stop her, was he? Not now. She almost sobbed with frustration, her whole body burning like a single, vibrant flame that would at any minute consume her.
‘Let me, ma chérie.’
* * *
Thierry kept his eyes on her face as he shucked his shoes and grabbed one of the condoms he’d brought.
She was glorious, her skin flushed with sexual arousal. Her eyes were bright as stars, veiled by long black lashes. Her reddened lips were plump and inviting, but not as inviting as the rest of her. His movements quickened, sheathing himself as his gaze dropped to proud breasts straining against that tight bodice. A surge of hunger hit and he drew an uneven breath. Despite what she said he needed to rein himself in, not surrender to hunger and take her with no preliminaries. He needed to...
Thierry’s thoughts spun away as she reefed up the hem of her dress. Long, pale, toned thighs. Skimpy, emerald-green lace panties. The subtle, enticing scent of vanilla sugar and feminine arousal.
Slender fingers hooked the green lace and she arched her hips up, wriggling, to pull it away.
His hands tangled with hers, stripping the lace off. Then his hands were on her, skimming satin-soft flesh, stroking the dark silk, already damp, at her core.
He didn’t register moving closer. But an instant later he was there, pressing against her softness, his hands planted beside her on the bed. Her skirt was up around her waist and her hair had come down on one side, dark tresses curling to her breasts.
A shudder ripped through him. He wanted to feast on her, take his time to build their pleasure, but he couldn’t.
It wasn’t the tug of her fingers digging into his shoulders that shattered his control, or the tiny, throaty purring sound she made. It was simply that he’d never wanted a woman so urgently.
His hand shook as he lifted her to him. Then in one sure, glorious stroke he surged home, high and hard, till he felt nothing but her, knew nothing but her liquid heat, sweet scent and indescribable pleasure.
Tawny green eyes snared his. Her head pressed back, baring that delectable throat. He heard his name in a throaty, broken gasp. It was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard, and to his amazement was all it took for him to lose the last of his control.
She quivered, jerking and shaking around him, drawing him into the most mind-blowing climax he’d ever experienced.
It was a long, long time before his brain functioned again. Imogen shifted drowsily, and he found himself quickening into arousal again. His immediate thought was to wonder if he’d brought enough condoms.
His second, when her eyes fluttered open and her tentative smile hit him square in the chest, was to congratulate himself on finding her. He’d never known a woman so unstinting in her passion.
Two weeks would barely be enough to enjoy all she had to offer. Yet that was all they had. She’d be gone in a fortnight.
Thierry felt a flicker of something almost like regret. But it would dissipate. A temporary lover was all he wanted. A couple of months and he’d be free of the shackles that had tied him down for four years. Then he’d leave, ready for adventure and the physical and mental challenges he missed. Which was why Imogen, who could only ever be temporary in his life, was absolutely perfect.
IMOGEN STARED FROM her hotel window at the London square with its communal garden and neat Georgian buildings. A couple strolled by hand in hand and her stomach did a little somersault. She looked away, lifting her peppermint tea to her lips.
She’d developed a taste for herbal tea since that night in Paris when Thierry had ordered it for her.
Turning, she found her gaze following the couple and felt a pang of regret. They were in their seventies, she’d guess, yet they held hands, heads turned towards each other as if in conversation.
What would it be like to grow old with the man you loved? The question wormed into her brain and she had to slam down a protective portcullis before her thoughts went too far.
Thierry Girard had been a revelation. Any woman would have been in heaven experiencing Paris with him, even if she hadn’t spent years buried in a half-life of tedium, hemmed in by caution. Was it any wonder Venice, Reykjavik and London hadn’t seemed quite as fabulous as Paris? He’d brought the city alive.
He’d brought her alive.
But she couldn’t give in to romantic fantasy.
What they’d had had been wonderful and she’d lingered over each memory, loving the hazy sense of wellbeing they brought. But their passion, the romance and sense of connection had been illusory, the product of an affair that could only be short-lived.
She sipped her tea then grimaced as her taste buds did that strange thing again, turning a flavour she enjoyed into a dull, metallic tang. She put the cup down then realised she’d turned too fast, for the nausea rose again. Imogen gripped the table, taking slow breaths.
Her mother hadn’t had these symptoms. Did it mean Imogen’s condition was different after all? If anything the headaches had eased a little and were less frequent. But the nausea worried her. It was so persistent.
Reluctantly, she turned towards the bathroom. It was silly to consider the possibility of it being anything else. There was no chance a woman in her condition...
She shook her head then regretted it as the movement stirred that sick feeling again.
Clamping her lips, she headed to the bathroom. Of course it was absurd. This must be a new symptom of her deteriorating condition. Though, with the exception of the nausea, she felt better than she had in ages.
What was the point of second-guessing? She needed to see the specialist back in Sydney. He’d explain what was happening. How long she had.
Imogen drew a slow breath, deliberately pushing her shoulders down as tension inched them higher. Whatever the future held, she’d meet it head on.
She crossed the bathroom and reached for the test kit she’d left there. She hadn’t had the nerve to look at the result before, telling herself it was nonsense and she’d be better having tea and biscuits to settle her stomach.
Now, reluctantly, she looked down at the indicator.