All Night Long. Anne Mather

that had happened up to that point had been preordained. But with his thumb tugging at the corner of her lips, she hadn’t attempted to ask him what he meant and he hadn’t repeated it. His mouth had been too intent on tracing a sensuous path down the curve of her neck while he whispered her name over and over with an almost desperate urgency.

      Perhaps that was why she hadn’t attempted to stop him, she consoled herself. Perhaps the knowledge that this attractive man was apparently as drunk with his emotions as she was with hers had prevented her from drawing back. But that was wishful thinking. She’d have let him do anything at that moment.

      For a second, she felt the quivering in her thighs that she’d felt then, the melting sensation of her bones dissolving, of her legs becoming like jelly beneath her. His hands had caressed her throat, she remembered, sliding beneath the neckline of her dress, exposing the pale skin of her shoulders. For the first time in her life she’d been glad that there was flesh on her bones and that she didn’t have the saltcellar hollows that young women seemed to think was such an essential to beauty today.

      She’d hardly been aware that he’d found the zip at the back of her dress until it slid away to pool in a circle of black silk about her ankles. But the amazing thing was that she hadn’t been embarrassed standing there in little more than her bra and pantyhose while he was still fully clothed.

      But that didn’t stop her from cringing now. God, she must have been drunk—and not just on her emotions. She could think of no other reason why she would have acted so out of character. She was simply not that kind of woman. Until now, she’d lived a perfectly decent life. Having sex with a stranger she’d only met hours before was the stuff of romantic novels; not real life. Yet when he’d touched her, when he’d pulled her against his lean, muscled body and tantalised her with his teasing mouth, she’d felt as if she had no will of her own.

      How had it happened? When his lips had returned to hers with what had felt suspiciously like hunger, why had she wound her arms around his neck and given him back kiss for kiss? Dear Lord, she’d behaved as if she was greedy for his lovemaking, raising herself up on her toes, revelling in the hard strength she could feel between his thighs, fitting her quivering body to his.

      For his part Raul had offered no opposition. On the contrary, for some reason he’d seemed to find her—what? Her inexperience? Her naïvety? Her desperation? She shuddered—exciting. He’d been so different from Jeff, she conceded tensely, taking her with him every step of the way. She couldn’t even pretend that she’d thought of her ex-husband when she was in Raul’s arms. There had been no comparison between Jeff’s solid frame and Raul’s sinuous masculinity; no similarity whatsoever in their approach.

      The truth was Jeff had never made love to her with even half of the skill that Raul had so carelessly exhibited, and even with her eyes closed she could not have mistaken his identity. She had never experienced such power, such tenderness, such suppressed passion, that had been at once flattering and thrilling. And, oh, so unbelievably good.

      Half afraid that Mike would notice the way she was twisting her hands together in her lap, she turned her head to stare out of the plane’s window. They’d be landing soon, she reminded herself. She had to stop thinking about what had happened last night and start anticipating her arrival. She had weeks ahead of her to relax and do whatever she wanted, and surely now that she’d got Jeff out of her system she was not going to make the mistake of letting one unguarded incident ruin her holiday.

      All the same, images of herself and Raul together refused to be banished. They had done things that she and Jeff had never done, not even when they were first married. But then, he’d seduced her before she was old enough to know better and, with the twins on the way, she’d been pathetically eager to accept his proposal.

      She sighed.

      Nevertheless, nothing could excuse the way she’d behaved last night. She hadn’t gone to bed with Raul because she’d felt some latent desire to prove herself. She’d slept with him because she’d wanted to, because she’d wanted to please him—and that was the saddest thing of all.

      Still caught up in the spell of emotions she’d never felt before, she’d spared little thought for what was right or wrong. When Raul had tossed his jacket aside and torn off his tie, she’d shocked herself by reaching for the buttons of his shirt. She’d been frantic for him to take his clothes off, frantic to touch him, and when she’d spread her palms against his taut midriff, she’d been almost dizzy with longing.

      And Raul hadn’t given her time to have any doubts. His tongue had painted a sensuous path from her jawline to the rising swell of her breasts, drawing her bra away from her burgeoning nipples before suckling on their tender tips. As if compelled, his mouth had returned to hers again and again and there’d been a sensual pleasure in feeling the abrasion of his chest hair against her sensitive skin.

      Somehow, she didn’t altogether remember how it had happened, they’d been on the bed and she’d been helping him kick off his boots and trousers. He’d been wearing black satin boxers, she recalled tremulously, and they hadn’t been able to hide the impressive bulge of his erection.

      She trembled now, remembering it was she who’d peeled his shorts away and exposed his sex to her intoxicated gaze. Intoxicated! Her lips twisted. She’d been intoxicated all right. Intoxicated in more ways than one.

      But had he been intoxicated, too? It had certainly seemed so at the time though she couldn’t help wondering now if he hadn’t known exactly what he was doing. She could still see him caressing her inner thighs, tucking his thumbs into the hem of her briefs and tugging them off.

      After that they’d both seemed to go a little crazy. She stifled a groan. When had she become the sort of woman who opened herself to a man’s lips and his tongue, who let a man seduce her in ways she’d only read about before? Had she really spread her legs and arched against his tormenting caresses, welcomed the thrust of his tongue that had driven her to the very edge of insanity? And had she sighed with satisfaction when he’d sheathed his rampant shaft in the moist heart of her womanhood, wrapped her legs about his waist and urged him to go on?

      She knew she had; knew, too, that she’d been pitifully eager for him to take possession of her, encouraging him with breathless little sounds that even then she’d hardly recognised as issuing from her mouth. She’d been deaf and blind to everything but the things he was doing to her and when her climax had come she remembered he’d silenced her grateful cry with his lips.

      Her tongue circled her teeth. Thank God he’d had the sense to wear protection, she acknowledged unsteadily. If he hadn’t she might have been facing something much worse than losing her self-respect. How convenient that he’d found the contraceptive in his pocket, she thought bitterly, wondering if a man ever suffered the same regrets as a woman. Probably not, she decided wryly. He hadn’t confessed to her that he’d never felt like that before…