His body started to move, winding the tension higher, and then suddenly he stiffened, dropping his head into the curve of her shoulder, his harsh cry muffled against her skin.
Then he collapsed, his body trembling under her hands, his chest heaving.
She lay there, her hands smoothing him, and slow tears slipped from her eyes.
She needed more—her body screamed for more, for some elusive release that only David had found.
He lifted his head. ‘I’m sorry—oh, Emily, you’re crying. I did hurt you.’
‘No—no, you didn’t. It’s just …’ She hesitated, unable to voice her need, but it was unnecessary.
Shifting slightly, he slid his hand between them and touched her. ‘Is that right?’ he asked softly. Tell me.’
She was beyond speech, beyond anything but the feel of his hand touching, soothing, yet winding the tension even higher until—
‘David!’ she sobbed, and, burying her face against his shoulder, she felt the ripples spreading, lifting her higher, higher, until suddenly she was over the crest and there before her was paradise …
They came slowly back to earth, their arms wrapped tightly round each other, their legs still tangled, and David rained tiny, butterfly-kisses over her face.
‘Are you OK?’ he murmured softly.
‘Mmm. You?’
Shyly, she met his eyes, and nearly melted at the love in them.
He was speechless, just hugging her closer. ‘You were wonderful,’ he said eventually. ‘I had no idea it would feel so—oh, Em …’
‘Nor did I,’ she whispered, thinking of that unbelievable fullness, the rightness of his body joined with hers.
‘Next time I’ll wait for you,’ he vowed.
They grew cold, and while David explored the fridge she unpacked her dressing-gown and had a shower.
By the time she went back down he was dressed again in jeans and a sweatshirt, and had put some salad out on plates.
‘We’ve got champagne to finish,’ he told her, and they sat together on the hearthrug and fed each other nibbles of salad and toasted their toes in front of the blazing logs until the champagne was finished.
David had put on some music, and, emboldened by the champagne and the look in his eyes, she stood up, swaying softly to the music.
‘Dance with me,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘Dance for me,’ he murmured.
So she did, slipping the dressing-gown over her shoulders to puddle on the floor, teasing and taunting until with a ragged groan he drew her down before the fire and made love to her again …
‘Emily?’
She turned, startled, to find David framed in the doorway.
Her first thought was that he wasn’t naked. Her second was that her memories must be written all across her face in letters ten feet high.
She felt colour rush to her cheeks and was grateful for the gloomy light in the room.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘I was just passing and I saw your car,’ he told her. His eyes were on the fireplace, then flicked back to her kneeling on the hearthrug where they had made love that very first time. Something flickered in his eyes, and she could tell he was remembering, too.
She struggled to her feet.
‘I was just having a look.’
He glanced round. ‘For old times’ sake? It hasn’t changed,’ he said softly.
Their eyes met, clashed, locked. Her breath clogged her throat, her heart beating a wild tattoo against her ribs.
‘No,’ she murmured.
‘No, what?’ he asked, his voice husky.
‘No, not for old times’ sake,’ she said, firming her voice. ‘I’m going to be living here.’
‘Oh.’ His eyes travelled slowly over her, so that she was conscious of her nipples straining against the fine fabric of her blouse. His eyes strayed lower, then jerked back to her face with an almost physical effort. ‘Good idea,’ he said, his voice still touched with that smoky gruffness she remembered so well from the intimate moments of their marriage. ‘It’s very handy for the practice—is Sarah renting it to you?’ he asked.
She dropped her eyes. ‘No—she’s—Sarah died two years ago. She left me the cottage.’
‘Oh, Emily—I’m sorry. What happened?’
His voice had changed instantly, softening with compassion, and she swallowed the lump in her throat as she thought back to the awful night when Sarah had died.
‘A car accident,’ she told him hollowly. ‘It was foggy. A drunk driver—’
David groaned. ‘What a waste. Oh, my love, I’m sorry.’
So was Emily, because she hadn’t wanted Sarah to drive in the fog. ‘Stay,’ she had begged her, but she should have been more insistent, hidden her keys or something. Sarah had been upset, too, too upset to drive really, because that was the day she had found out that Philip was dying of cancer—Philip, her beloved husband, Jamie’s father—and the man Emily had then married so that her godson’s future would be secure.
EMILY arrived to take up her post two weeks later, having sent the housekeeper on ahead to clean up the cottage and prepare it for her arrival with Jamie.
He was thoughtful about leaving the big house in Surrey where he had lived with his parents, but she explained that they wouldn’t be selling it yet and could always come back for visits. Anyway, she remembered how much Jamie had wanted to move to Devon, how he had begged her. That was one reason, probably the most significant, why she had taken the job. She just hoped for all their sakes that it didn’t prove a huge mistake.
‘Are we going to live in Mummy’s cottage, Emmy?’ he asked for the hundredth time on the drive down. He was so insecure now, and she hastened to reassure him.
‘Yes, darling. We’ll be there tonight.’
‘Will I have my own room?’
‘Yes, of course.’
There was the question of where she would sleep, but as the cottage had four bedrooms there was no need for her to use the room that Sarah and Philip had used—and that she had slept in with David on their honeymoon.
Mrs Bradley, the housekeeper who had been with Philip’s family for years and who was to stay on to help care for Jamie at Philip’s behest, would have the large room next to Jamie as her bed-sitting room. Emily would have the fourth bedroom.
It was small, but she was on her own, so it didn’t matter. Anyway, it had a distant view of the sea down the valley and across the rooftops of Biddlecombe, and the sun would wake her every morning.
They arrived at the cottage to a warm welcome from Mrs Bradley, and within a very short time Jamie was settled in his bed, his teddy under his arm, his thumb tucked in his mouth, and Emily was sitting down with Mrs Bradley going over the arrangements for the beginning of the next week when Emily started work and Jamie would join the village school. She had managed to get a place for him, and the headmaster was looking forward to meeting the boy on Monday.
The only thing left to concern her was David, and the prospect of working with him made the ergonomics of her accommodation