She was surprised and pleased when Oliver drew in a ragged breath. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Sinking her fingers into the thickness of his hair, she kissed him with eager enthusiasm, unable to get enough of him. When he sucked on her tongue, drawing her into the hot sweetness of his mouth, it was so erotic and inflaming that she feared she would explode, need tightening almost painfully inside her. Pulling back a few inches, she looked down, her fingers shaking as she began to inch up the fabric of his T-shirt, exposing a flat stomach with a narrow trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. She pushed the fabric higher, revealing a toned abdomen and broad chest…olive-hued skin, supple flesh and hard muscle. Helping her, he pulled the T-shirt over his head and for a moment she just studied him, heat prickling along every nerve ending. He was beautiful. There was no other word to describe the masculine perfection of him. Hesitating, she spotted the dark ring encircling the bicep of his left arm.
‘You have a tattoo.’ Surprised, she investigated the narrow barbed band usually hidden by his clothes.
‘I have two,’ he told her.
Her gaze met his, seeing the amused mischief in his dark brown eyes. ‘Where’s the other one?’
‘You can look for it another time.’
Disappointed, she frowned at him. ‘Why not now?’
‘Because my control is finite,’ he warned her with a wry smile. ‘And if I’m going to survive this next lesson, no way are you going anywhere near my other tattoo.’
Her heart skittered, her mind racing as she wondered just where it was. ‘Oliver…’
‘No, babe. Not now.’ He shifted as if uncomfortable, again making her aware of his arousal. ‘Today we both keep above the waist.’
Capturing her wrists, his gaze holding hers, he slowly brought her hands to his chest. She closed her eyes, savouring her first feel of him, warm and firm, his heartbeat under her palm as rapid as her own. Her lack of expertise didn’t appear to bother him and he deftly tutored her, guiding her natural responses, showing her how he liked her to touch him. Soaking up every new experience, each new texture, she brushed her fingertips over the brown orbs of his nipples, shocked at his reaction, his stifled groan, the way his body tightened.
‘That feels good,’ he told her huskily, allowing her to explore him at will but stopping her if she tried to dip below his waist. ‘May I touch you, too?’
Her whole body quivered with nervous anticipation. Unable to find her voice, she nodded, her breath catching, her heart racing as Oliver slowly but surely undid the buttons of her shirt one by one. The backs of his fingers brushed against her skin, setting off little fires of sensation. Shaking, she bit her lip as he peeled the shirt away, sliding it down her arms, his breath catching as he took in the sight of her full breasts encased in a green lacy bra. She enjoyed wearing nice underwear. Like growing her hair long, it was a throwback to her youth and her father’s control, a way of thumbing her nose at him, refusing to let him dominate everything in her life. The clasp at her back parted with a deft flick of Oliver’s fingers and a mix of embarrassment, fear and excitement churned inside her as he slowly drew the straps down her arms, baring her to his view.
‘You’re perfect, Chloe,’ he praised, his voice raw.
As his fingertips skimmed her ribs, his tanned skin looked exotic against the creamy paleness of her own. He leaned in to kiss her, lingering a while before his lips grazed away from her mouth to trail down her throat. His hands rested on her sides, while her own grasped his shoulders as she trembled, on the brink of something she didn’t understand, yearning for his touch, yet scared, too.
‘Oliver?’
‘Slow and easy, babe,’ he whispered, his voice seductive, low and husky, his breath warm against her skin as he nibbled round her neck. She started as his tongue tip tickled across the web of faded scars that fanned down to her shoulder. ‘Did your father do this?’
Too lost in the moment to care what else she was revealing, she curled into his touch. ‘He hit me and I fell through a glass door,’ she whispered, feeling the sudden tension in Oliver’s body, aware of his simmering anger on her behalf before he took a steadying breath and gentled again.
He raised his head to meet her gaze. ‘Chloe…’
‘Let’s not talk about it now.’ She didn’t want to spoil this incredible moment with thoughts of her father.
After a pause, Oliver nodded, but his reluctance was clear and she knew they would have to talk at some point. Later. Much later if she had her way. She sighed as his fingers began to whisper over her skin, feather-light touches that teased and tingled and aroused.
‘Your skin is impossibly soft, so warm and silky and smooth,’ he told her, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. ‘I love touching you.’
When his thumbs brushed the undersides of her plump, firm breasts, Chloe thought she would never breathe again. Then his hands covered her flesh fully for the first time and she was sure she had died and gone to heaven. She bit back a cry, her fingers tensing on his shoulders as she instinctively arched to his touch.
‘Any time you say stop, Chloe, I’ll stop.’
His murmured promise registered through the hazy fog of pleasure enveloping her, but she didn’t want him to stop. Not yet. Not when this felt so fantastic. She closed her eyes, unable to focus on anything but the caress of his hands as he shaped her, his questing fingertips exploring nipples that had peaked to hard, sensitive crests. A moan escaped. She had never known anything like this. She couldn’t believe the way her body was reacting, the way her breasts felt fuller and heavier, every sensation spearing deep inside her. And when Oliver touched her with his lips, lightly lapping his warm tongue around and over one nipple before he gently suckled it inside his mouth, she jolted, her body writhing in his arms.
It was so overwhelming, so new and scary and wonderful, that she pulled back. ‘Stop.’ Her voice was thready, mixed with confusion and doubt, yearning and desire.
Oliver immediately withdrew, and at once she regretted that the word had been pulled from her so unexpectedly. She hadn’t meant it. Not really. Now she missed his touch. Surprising them both, she wrapped her arms around him, relishing the closeness, the feel of her breasts pressed against his bare chest. His hands stroked her back and she buried her face against his neck, breathing in his masculine scent, unconsciously rubbing herself against him.
‘Chloe.’
She ignored the warning in his rough voice. This felt so good. The ache she had told him about had intensified between her legs and she instinctively pressed herself against his hardness. Oliver groaned and put some distance between them.
‘Enough now, babe.’ He sounded tense, and she raised her head to look at him, seeing colour flush across his cheekbones, strain etched on his handsome features.
‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘Hell, no. But this is getting out of hand. It’s too soon for you…and my control is at breaking point.’
Intrigued, she smiled at him. ‘Really?’
‘You’re wicked!’
That seemed not to be an entirely bad thing as he was laughing. However, he gently but firmly eased her away from him, drawing her shirt back up her arms, unsteady fingers refastening her buttons before he pulled his own T-shirt back over his head. All too soon, he was lifting her off his lap and rising to his feet.
‘I think it’s time I said goodnight.’
Chloe heard the regret in his voice, felt her own sense of sinking disappointment, but at the same time she knew he was right. She wasn’t yet ready to ask him to stay. There were things she had to come to terms with inside herself before she was free to move on, and she knew she had to open her past to Oliver and confide in him before she took the irrevocable step of letting him take her to bed.
Her body alive and buzzing, she walked him to the door, enjoying a last, lingering, passionate kiss before he left. Sighing, Chloe locked the door and leaned back against it, unable to
comprehend how her life had changed so drastically in the few short weeks since she had met Oliver.
Slipping into bed some time later, she lay back against the pillows, disinclined to pick up her book. Would Oliver ring as he had done every night for the last week? How did he really feel about her? She couldn’t believe how selfless he was, how patient, but was that because he really cared or because he wasn’t that affected? He’d certainly felt aroused that evening.
Just thinking about touching him, having him touch her, sent a wave of heat washing through her. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to go further—what would have happened if she hadn’t had a second of nervous panic at the overwhelming but unknown sensations and stopped him. Her body still tingled, her breasts felt sensitive, her blood was still zinging through her veins, but she felt a restless tension, an ache deep inside that needed fulfilment.
She was so lost in reliving all the new experiences that she jumped when the phone rang. Smiling, she snuggled down and reached for the receiver, welcoming the prospect of hearing Oliver’s voice one more time before she slept.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘COME in young man. Let me get a look at you.’
Hiding a smile at the barked command, Oliver walked further into the neat-as-a-pin living room of the bungalow in Gull Close, situated on the other side of the river from Bridge Street. Occupied by Gertrude Stanbury, the former headmistress of the local school, whom everyone had warned him was a tyrant, the home had a small garden beyond the open patio doors and a view of the water. Squatting down to eye level with the rotund figure propped on the sofa by a multitude of pillows, and one each under the knees that were giving her such trouble, he introduced himself.
‘Hello, Ms Stanbury, I’m Dr Oliver Fawkner, the new GP.’
‘Humph.’ One small arthritic hand shook his with a surprisingly strong grip, while sharp grey eyes gave him the onceover. ‘You need a haircut. Never would have tolerated that in my school. But you’re a handsome devil, I’ll say that for you. Are you any good as a doctor?’
The smile he had been trying to hold in escaped. ‘Thankfully my other patients seem to think so,’ he told her, still holding her hand, taking immediately to the bullish, white-haired lady who was clearly sharp and shrewd and, if the glint in those eyes was anything to go by, had a sense of humour lurking under the surface bluster.
‘I suppose you’re here to prod and poke me about.’
‘And to tell you that we’ve heard from the hospital. Your operation for the first knee replacement has been brought forward to the third week in September.’ Gently, he checked the sixty-seven-year-old over, pleased to find her blood pressure was stable. Aside from the arthritis, which severely reduced her mobility and caused her considerable pain, she appeared to be in good health. ‘The consultant will write to you directly but you can always call on us if you need more information or if there is anything else we can do.’
The tyrant-in-disguise patted his hand. ‘I’ll be glad to get it over and done with.’
‘Once you are home again, Lauren Nightingale will be by to help you with some gentle physiotherapy to get you moving and mobile until they can do the second knee,’ he explained, sitting back on his heels, taking his time to ensure there was nothing else she needed.
‘Talented girl, Lauren,’ she muttered with a frown. ‘Always good at art. Clumsy as a mule, though, and as stubborn with it. No doubt she’ll try and bully me.’
Oliver chuckled. Gertrude Stanbury was priceless! He could just imagine her as the formidable headmistress ruling her school with an iron hand and caring heart. ‘Lauren’s very good at her job. She’ll take care of you. Now, is there anything else I can do for you today? How’s the pain?’
‘Bloody awful. How do you think?’ the woman riposted, but her eyes gleamed and he could tell she was enjoying having someone to spar with.
‘I’ll take a look at the medications you’re on and see if there’s anything else that will make you more comfortable until the operation.’ Taking both her hands in his, he turned them over and carefully inspected them. ‘Any more deterioration with your hands or wrists?’
She looked down, hiding her eyes, but he’d seen the flash of worry in them. ‘I get by.’
‘We want you to do better than that. I’ll investigate some alternative ideas to help you keep active and reduce the pain,’ he promised, jotting himself a note on her file. He’d mention it to Lauren, too.
‘Would you mind bringing me a fresh jug of chilled water?’
The question was polite but the command was clear nevertheless. ‘No problem.’ Smiling, Oliver rose to his feet and took the empty jug from the table nearby.
‘My daily will have left another one ready in the fridge. Bring yourself a glass. I want to talk to you.’
Checking his watch, Oliver headed to the kitchen. He had one more house call to make before returning to the surgery for his afternoon list and a mountain of paperwork, and while lingering with Ms Stanbury would mean he’d miss lunch, he didn’t mind. Having discovered from Lauren that the girls were planning a night out to see some film or other, he’d persuaded Chloe to go and enjoy herself. He’d miss her like crazy, but it was important that she keep up with her own circle of friends.
After last night, when he’d nearly lost the last remnants of his composure, it might be a good idea to cool things for an evening to give him a chance to shore up his ragged self-control before faced with the temptation of Chloe in the flesh again. At least he could look forward to talking with her on the phone at bedtime. Tomorrow, Friday, he was planning a beach picnic after work and the weekly midwifery meeting. If sea conditions permitted, he could do some surfing while Chloe relaxed, then they could eat and talk before he walked her home.
As for the weekend—well, he hoped to spend as much of that with her as possible. Whatever few lingering doubts remained about what he was getting into so soon after his return to Cornwall, he had come too far with Chloe to back off now. Aside from the ever-present physical desire, he genuinely liked her. She made him happy. The more he knew her, the more he agreed with her friends that Chloe was special. When he was with her he felt contented, whole, alive and charged with a buzz of excitement he had never known with anyone else. And he wanted to help her overcome her past.
He took the full jug from the fridge, refilled the empty one and set it in the coolest part to chill before returning to the living room.
‘Anything else I can get for you while I’m here, Ms Stanbury?’ he asked, handing the woman a glass of fresh, cold water.
‘Call me Gertie. And do sit down, young man.’
Oliver grinned. ‘Thanks. What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘Word has it you’re seeing our Chloe.’ Shrewd grey eyes assessed him. ‘I hope you’re not going to break her heart.’
‘So do I, Gertie.’ Given how deeply he was becoming involved and how little he knew of Chloe’s own feelings, he hoped she wasn’t going to break his heart either. Pushing the niggling concern aside, he met Gertie’s gaze. ‘I shall do everything I can to never hurt Chloe in any way at all.’
The elderly woman gave a satisfied nod. ‘I can see you mean it. Good. What that girl needs is someone to cherish her.’
‘Do you know Chloe from school?’ he asked, unable to resist some gentle prying.
‘Yes, indeed. She was a first-class student.’ A reminiscent look crossed her face. ‘I was so glad to discover how well she had done for herself. When she ran away…’
The words trailed off, but Oliver’s gut tightened, his attention sharpening. ‘Chloe ran away?’
Gertie paused for a moment, sipping her drink, and Oliver remained silent, tense and unsettled as he waited, impatient to hear what the woman had to say.
‘I don’t think anyone knows the extent of what went on in that house.’ A shiver ran through her and Oliver felt chilled as the implications of her words sank in. ‘I so feared for that poor child. And for her mother. C
hloe’s father was an evil man.’
‘Why did no one do anything?’ It was a struggle to keep hold of his temper and disgust at the thought of Chloe and her mother being left at the hands of such a bully.
‘There was never any evidence. Chloe’s mother denied everything, refused to leave him…Chloe herself would never talk. Too scared to, I suppose, poor mite. Everyone was frightened of him. You hardly ever saw Chloe or her mother outside the house. Thank goodness she was allowed to attend school.’ Gertrude shook her head sadly. ‘I tried to take an interest in Chloe. As I said, she was an avid learner but she had such a reserve about her and she didn’t mix well with people. She ran away when she was sixteen, after her exams. I never knew what happened to her, never expected to see her again, but she must have kept in touch with her mother somehow—I guess through Lauren.’
Sitting forward, Oliver rested his forearms on his knees. ‘When did she come back to Penhally?’
‘After her father died, four years ago, Chloe returned to care for her mother. She worked locally as a midwife, then joined the surgery when Dr Tremayne and his then partner, Dr Avanti, opened the practice here,’ Gertie continued, setting her glass aside, grimacing as she shifted her arthritic body into a more comfortable position. ‘When her mother died eighteen months ago, Chloe sold the old house and bought the cottage in Fisherman’s Row. I don’t know how many people had any inkling back then what went on behind closed doors, or what that girl’s life was like. It was well hidden. But I saw enough every day at school to be concerned. My biggest regret is that, although I tried, I couldn’t make a difference. Now…well, I am just so proud of Chloe for making a success of herself. She deserves to be happy.’
Oliver felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to tear Chloe’s father apart piece by piece—would have done had the man still been alive. Yet even from the grave her father cast a shadow over Chloe’s life, one Oliver desperately wanted to lift. He needed Chloe to trust him enough to tell him about her childhood herself. Only then could he really reach her, really begin to help her put the past behind her.
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