‘We know when we’re not wanted,’ said Paul, casting her a perceptive, affectionate glance. ‘Of course we’ll go into the parlour. Call us when you want us.’ And he took Emma’s hand and allowed her to lead him out of the room. Her colour had heightened, and he laughed as he closed the door behind him. For a long moment he just stood looking at her, then held forth his hands.
‘Come to me, my dearest,’ he murmured a little hoarsely. ‘Come and let me show you just how much I love you.’
The next moment he had his arms about her, his mouth covering hers in a kiss that was as tender as it was ruthlessly masterful. She felt his tongue against her lips, and parted them for it to enter, ecstasy shuddering through her at the contact with her silky flesh. His hands roved possessively, seeking, tempting, caressing all the tender, secret places, stroking her thighs, cupping her breasts; while his iron-hard body forced hers to arch, melding itself to his until it seemed they were almost as one . . . almost but not quite and at last, breathless as he held her away and said ruefully, ‘You know, my love, the next fortnight is going to seem like a year.’
She agreed, but silently. Paul, understanding of her sudden shyness, just drew her close again and cradled her head upon his shoulder.
And through the silence came the faint rattle of dishes . . . and the singing voice of a woman who was feeling particularly happy.
Spell of the Island Page 15
