Rival Attractions & Innocent Secretary...Accidentally Pregnant

by Penny Jordan

  Recklessly she turned to Oliver and asked huskily, ‘Oliver, are you going to make love to me?’

  For a moment he was silent, and then he asked in turn, ‘Is that what you want me to do?’

  It wasn’t the answer she had wanted. She bit her lip and stared at him, her mind suddenly fogged and confused by the champagne, her body and its desires, ignoring the cautioning whispers of her brain, challenging her to say fiercely, ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  Oliver was so still that she thought she must have shocked him, but it was too late to retract now, too late to wonder dizzily why she had behaved in such an outrageous fashion, and to wonder even more why she should feel so unconcerned about it. She had never experienced before this extraordinary sense of being so cut free from her normal anxieties and self-doubts—perhaps because she was not normally in the habit of drinking so much strong champagne on an empty stomach.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this all day,’ she heard Oliver saying thickly as he drew her towards him, his hands stroking the fragile bones of her shoulders, and then moving up to slide into her hair and tilt her head, so that she couldn’t have avoided the descent of his head even if she had wanted to.

  He tasted of champagne, she recognised absently, as his mouth met hers—not as it had done before, in an explorative, gentle kiss, but open and moist, so that her heart leapt in heady response to the tension within him, and her body rejoiced in the sheer pleasure of knowing she aroused his desire.

  While he kissed her, his hands shaped the back of her head, then her back itself, right down to her waist and beyond until they were cupping her bottom and pulling her into his body.

  Now her earlier fantasy took on the shape of reality. It was true that her top and his shirt were between them, but she could still feel the rapid thud of his heart against her body, and her stomach clenched on the sensation of her breasts pushing against his chest, wanting a more intimate contact with his flesh.

  As he kissed her, odd, tormented mental images flashed through her brain, and when he slid his mouth from hers to her throat she said huskily, ‘This morning…I didn’t…’

  The champagne still clouded her mind, still relaxed her inhibitions and cautions.

  ‘I did,’ Oliver told her groaningly, his mouth against her ear, sending fierce shivers of pleasure over her skin. ‘I looked at you in that damned pyjama top and the last thing I wanted to do was to leave you and go to London.’

  The new Charlotte, the one she had never known existed before, the one who seemed recklessly to court ever-increasing danger, whispered coaxingly, ‘What did you want to do?’

  At the sound of the words a mild shock ran through her, but there was also a sense of accomplishment, of pleasure almost in what she had done as she felt Oliver’s body tense for a moment before he whispered rawly, ‘I wanted to take you back upstairs to bed, and unfasten those damned buttons, one by one, like this…’

  Like what? She was lost in the dreamy warmth of delight conjured up by his words, and it was several seconds before she realised that he actually was unfastening the buttons on her top, and that his lean dark hand really was lying against the exposed upper curve of her breast, that his gaze had actually found the small dark mole just hidden under the edge of her bra, and that his mouth had left her ear and was now nibbling its way along her throat, and down over her collarbone to the place where he had pushed aside the fine cotton of her bra, so that his tongue could touch that small dark dot of flesh.

  Why should such a light, delicate physical contact release such a flood of heat inside her? she wondered muzzily. Why should the pressure of his hand against her breast make her want to moan and tear away the cloth barriers between it and the bareness of her skin? Why should it make her want to turn to him and press her mouth against his throat, her body against his, to…?

  ‘And then I’d have done this,’ she heard Oliver saying silkily against her skin, his voice so soft and gentle it seemed to lap over her in warm waves, making her sink deeper and deeper into the delicious sea of sensuality in which she was floating.

  She felt his hands removing her bra and sighed voluptuously in pleasure as they touched her skin; she felt his mouth moving against her breast and moved eagerly to speed it on its journey to the summit of her nipple. The sensation of his mouth bathing the aching pulse of her flesh in moist heat made her spine arch and a soft moan of pleasure leave her throat.

  After that, for a long time, the only sounds disturbing the peace of the evening were the soft ones of pleasure Charlotte smothered against Oliver’s skin as mindlessly she gave in to the urgings of her body and put into practice the fantasies she had indulged in earlier. The sensation of Oliver’s hands and mouth against her own flesh, as he slowly revealed inch after inch of her body between whispered words of such promise that her body melted, was slowly driving her out of control. There was no one in the whole world but Oliver…nothing in the universe but the intimacy they were sharing.

  She heard him groan when her hands stroked the flat plane of his belly, felt the sound reverberate against her mouth as she caressed his throat, and then cried out in aching pleasure herself when his hand touched her intimately and her body opened out to him, so femininely enticing and arousing that he whispered things against her skin which turned her mindless with delight. A delight that was doubled when she realised that he shared her need, her desire. It was surely impossible that she could arouse him to this pitch of intensity, this fierce, pulsing desire that he told her raggedly he no longer had the power to check. This could not be reality.

  Once he hesitated, almost as though he was asking her…what? For permission to possess her? Hadn’t she already given that permission without words…with the sensual pleading of her flesh when it so wantonly invited his touch?

  Soon they would be lovers. Lovers… She shivered in expectant anticipation, wanting him, aching for him, knowing recklessly that whatever might follow she would always have this…always have the knowledge that he had desired her.

  Deep down inside her a small voice struggled to be heard, to warn her that something was wrong, that this physical intimacy was too much, too soon, that there were things which should have been said, but it was drowned out, deafened by the fierce sensation of need that pierced her when Oliver drew her down on the rug beneath him, covering her body with his, fitting himself against her as her body, more knowing than she had dreamed, moved to accommodate the weight and heat of him.

  Her heart was racing frantically, all her senses concentrating on the pleasure that lured her on.

  The brief cessation of his hands and mouth caressing her skin, drugging her senses with delight upon delight, promise upon promise, confused her, so that when his hands shaped her face and she looked into his eyes she felt a momentary schism within her, a sudden stabbing realisation of what she was doing, but then she felt Oliver’s mouth move against her own and heard him saying rawly, ‘My God, I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s too late now to stop.’

  The pressure of his lips on hers hardened, quickening her pulses, his tongue plunging fiercely into the moist sweetness of her mouth, the movements of his body against hers relentlessly driving them both to a pitch of such intense desire that she cried out in tormented frustration as she waited impatiently for the first thrust of his body within her own, welcoming it with such voluptuous pleasure that he cried out in turn, abandoning himself to the enticement of her, taking them both so far beyond the boundaries of earthly reality that Charlotte felt briefly she had become immortal, capable of touching the stars in their heavens, capable of reaching to every part of the universe, and most of all capable of giving this man who was holding her, and whom she was holding in turn, such pleasure and fulfilment that the rest of their lives would become as irreversibly entwined as their bodies.

  The pleasure, once so sharp and piercing, so unbelievably immense, died slowly, floating her back down to earth, to the realisation that she was lying naked in Oliver’s arms, on a rug under the s
hade of one of her own apple trees…that odd blossoms had drifted down from the tree and now lay against Oliver’s skin.

  She touched them gently, too deliciously inert to even think of moving, her body so unbelievably relaxed and lazy that she wanted to stretch like a cat with the pleasure of being inside her own skin.

  The thought made her smile. Oliver reached out and touched her mouth with his fingertip.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked her softly.

  She flushed defensively, distracted by the subtle sensation of pleasure evoked by the teasing movement of his finger, and then said honestly, ‘It never occurred to me. Did you mind…that I hadn’t…?’

  ‘Had another lover.’ He shook his head, but already she could sense a constraint in him that was communicating itself to her.

  Like Eve in the garden of Eden, she was abruptly conscious of her nudity, of what she had done and why, but the euphoria of the pleasure they had shared still warmed her veins, and it was easy to dismiss the vague doubts crowding the edge of her mind like the shadows stealing over the garden when she bit softly at the tormenting finger and watched desire banish the constraint from Oliver’s eyes, saw and felt the immediate response of his body to her own as she moved softly against him.

  This time, it was different; this time he took her deeper into an intimacy she had never suspected she would experience, never mind enjoy.

  She discovered why the dark arrowing of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans had tormented her senses so, and how powerful and feminine it made her feel when her own longing drove her to caress him intimately, to place her mouth against him and to feel his instant uncontrollable response.

  The things he said to her, the way he touched her, these were things she would treasure until the end of her days, she acknowledged tiredly, nestling close to him a little later.

  At first she had been hurt, had ached both emotionally and physically, when he had refused the mute invitation of her body to possess it a second time, but when he had gently explained to her that he didn’t want to hurt her, that there were other ways he could ease the tension she was suffering, that giving her pleasure gave it back to him, she had allowed him to show her what he had meant, a little shocked by the intimacy of his mouth against the inner core of her body until the pleasure that racked her overwhelmed everything but the need to accede to its demands.

  Now, she felt boneless, and only one cloud dimmed the haze of pleasure bathing her. It worried at the corner of her mind, keeping just out of reach so that she couldn’t quite grasp it. Something that hadn’t been said…something wrong…but she was asleep before she could grasp what it was.

  As she slipped into sleep Oliver studied her wryly. Things had got dangerously out of hand. All he had intended had been a little light lovemaking, a breaking down of the boundaries between them as a prelude to the relationship he wanted to have with her—a slow, gentle courtship.

  That abrupt question she had asked him, demanding to know if he wanted to make love to her, had taken them both way, way beyond what he had intended. His body rejoiced in what they had shared, in the way she had responded to him, but his mind…

  He sighed faintly, knowing that, in giving in to the desire that had been burning in him ever since he first met her, he had probably caused himself more problems than he had solved.

  Why, when, after all the years of being alone and being content to be alone, he did meet the woman he loved, should she be this stubborn, defensive creature, who refused to believe just how very desirable a man might find her? Any man…not just himself.

  He smiled mirthlessly to himself. Part of him wanted to open her eyes to reality, to show her that it was her own attitude that prevented his sex from making overtures towards her, not any innate lack of desirability; another part of him selfishly wanted to keep that knowledge from her, so that he could never lose her to someone else.

  Brushing a small spider off her sleeping face, he wondered how long it would be before she realised the potential consequences of what they had done.

  Unprotected sex…the very first rule that should have governed the kind of intimacy they had just shared had been ignored by both of them.

  He found himself dangerously hoping that he might have made her pregnant. That way…

  Fool, he chided himself, standing up, and then bending to lift her into his arms.

  The evening breeze cooled his flesh, and he grinned to himself as he contemplated the picture they must make, both of them mother-naked, she in his arms, her body still bearing the faint betraying signs of his lovemaking…of his possession.

  Something hot and primitive stirred in his stomach—a male possessiveness he hadn’t realised until now he could feel. She was his now…

  As he carried her into the house and upstairs, she stirred in her sleep, turning her head to nestle her face into his shoulder, her hand pressing against his chest; he wondered if he dared put her in his own bed. He wanted the pleasure of waking up beside her in the morning, the certainty of knowing…

  But no, things were going to be difficult enough as it was. Ruefully he carried her into her own room, slipping her beneath the covers, before going back outside to retrieve their clothes and to clear away the remains of their picnic. As he picked up the empty champagne bottle, he grimaced to himself. It had not been his intention to make her tipsy. She had been the one to insist on having her glass refilled.

  Was he fool to hope that, because she desired him, she must also love him as he loved her? Tomorrow would tell. He wished he had had the courage to tell her how he felt as they made love, but he had been terrified that if he did she would withdraw from him, and honesty compelled him to admit that in the urgency of his own arousal his physical desire had momentarily been stronger than his emotional need to tell her what he felt for her.

  He had plucked himself a very thorny rose indeed, he reflected, as he headed back to the house. Perhaps a romantic breakfast, a room full of red roses… And then he remembered that the workmen were all too likely to arrive even before she had woken up, and he abandoned such a scheme.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHARLOTTE overslept. Waking up was like clawing her way through sticky treacle, interspersed every now and again by sharp fragments of memory that lacerated and bruised her, so that by the time she eventually got her eyes open her skin was hot with the shocked acid self-disgust gnawing at her stomach.

  How could she have done what she did? How could she have got drunk and then begged Oliver to make love to her? And not just once but…

  Moaning, she rolled over on to her stomach, trying to blot out the visions tormenting her, but the unfamiliar ache in her lower body only reinforced what she was trying to ignore.

  And then she saw her bedside clock, and realised that the noises she could hear were not just little men with hammers in her head, but were actually coming from downstairs.

  She was out of bed before she realised she was naked, and worse, that she had no recollection of how she had got there. As she stood in the middle of her bedroom floor, trying to ignore the nauseous feeling in her stomach and the awful taste in her mouth, she heard someone knock on her bedroom door. She only just had time to dive back into bed and to pull the covers up to her chin before Oliver walked in.

  Her mouth dropped open as she saw him. He looked so calm, so unaffected by what had happened.

  ‘The plumber has deputed me to tell you that the water’s off and likely to remain off for most of the day,’ he told her cheerfully, before putting a mug of coffee beside the bed. ‘I brought this as a peace offering.’

  No water. But she had to get showered and dressed and off to work. She had several appointments, including one with Dan Pearce.

  Watching the expressions haunting her face, Oliver silently cursed. He should have woken her earlier, talked to her, but he had wanted to create the right setting, the right mood in which she would listen to him.

  ‘Charlotte, about last night.’

/>   Charlotte’s head came up. She glared at him, filled with self-contempt and loathing. Oh, God, what had she done? Now he was going to tell her that last night had been a mistake, that it was something they should both forget. Her stomach churned. She was going to be sick, she recognised helplessly.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she told him through tight lips. ‘And, unless you get a kick out of watching people be sick, I’d rather you went away.’

  ‘Sick? You feel sick? Wait.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Charlotte told him grimly, frantically wrenching the sheet off the bed, and somehow managing to wrap it around herself as she almost fell out of bed and ran for the bathroom.

  Of course there was no water, other than that already in the taps, and, grimacing to herself as she tried to clean her teeth with half a glass of water, she wondered what on earth this already doomed day could possibly have in store.

  Back in her bedroom, the smell of the coffee nauseated her, but she forced herself to drink it, while she dressed in clean clothes, wondering desperately why on earth the expensive French scent Sheila had given her for Christmas did nothing to blot out the subtle smell of Oliver’s body on her own.

  She had half expected him to be waiting for her downstairs, wanting to reinforce the fact that last night had been some kind of mental aberration on both their parts and, as such, best forgotten.

  Forgotten… She groaned to herself as she walked into the kitchen. How could she ever forget…when she had made such a fool of herself…? How could she have ever been stupid enough to think that…?

  That what? That his desire had matched her own, that he had wanted her in all the ways she had wanted him, that he loved her in the way she loved him.

  Fool indeed. And she had no one to blame for that folly but herself. She had been the one to initiate their intimacy, to let him see that she wanted him, to invite him virtually to make love to her…