Beside himself, he slapped her bottom hard before wrestling her to the floor, wrenching her skirts aside and giving her the hard, hot, bone-shaking ride of her life, vowing all the time that she would only ever belong to him.
They must escape from the pirates in the end, Felicity supposed, removing her sticky fingers from between her legs, but somehow the fantasy never got any further than that. The clock said 11.03. And now she could sleep.
She decked the halls with boughs of holly, and mistletoe – plenty of mistletoe – before placing lights in the front window and putting a clove and cinnamon candle on to burn. “Falalalala,” she hummed to herself, watching the clock, nearly two, nearly time, nearly Richard Time.
“He won’t come,” she told herself severely. “Don’t get your hopes up. You know what that leads to.”
At five to two, she decided to go out.
If he came, if he was serious, he would wait. If he didn’t … she would have achieved something. Though really, she had no reason to go out.
“I need wine,” she decided. “That’s a good reason to go out.”
She grabbed her coat and scarf and half-skated along the icy uneven pavements towards the small market in the square. The sky was iron grey, presaging a heavy snowfall, and the stallholders clapped their gloved hands and shifted from foot to foot, blowing out copious wafts of white steam into the air.
Felicity bought a bottle of red wine and some spices r mulling it at home, figuring that it was a day for making sure you were warm all over, inside as well as out. She deliberately dawdled back through the village, intending to be as late as possible, contemplating a detour into one of the chichi little craft shops to further draw out the agony – until she saw, in the distance, a huge tree leaning against the wall of her cottage. A Christmas tree, probably slightly too big to even fit inside the bijou living room – was this something to do with Richard?
She picked up her pace, ignoring the craft boutique and skidding onwards, through the first flakes of snow, until she arrived at her front stoop. Yes, it was a Christmas tree all right, its top branch pointing up almost to the bedroom window – but where was …?
“Ah! Where were you?” Richard rounded the corner between her cottage and the farm next door, hacksaw in hand.
“I thought wine …” said Felicity, holding up the bottle, staring at the rusty-toothed implement in her ex-lover’s hand. “Whereas you thought the occasion called for … a hacksaw.”
Richard laughed. “I think I miscalculated the dimensions of your cottage,” he said. “We had a few trees left over on Breaker Island, so I thought you might like one. But it’ll never fit inside there. Come on, let’s take it round the back and cut it down to size.”
Felicity hugged her arms to her chest, glowing with more than the cold. Richard, here, for her, and doing everyday manly things like sawing wood – because he wanted to do this for her. It was better than a dream.
Tiny dots of snow kissed his eyelashes and cheeks as he sawed through the excess branches, gripping the tree firmly in a leather-gloved hand. “Why don’t you get inside and do something with that wine?” he suggested, but Felicity did not want to miss a second of him. The wine could wait.
“I want to help you,” she demurred, meaning “I want to look at you”. Richard seemed to understand, half-smiling roguishly at her and finishing his tree surgery with a flourish.
“Thanks for your help,” he teased, lifting the tree and manoeuvring it through Felicity’s tiny kitchen door. “Don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
“Oi!” Felicity laughed, setting the bottle on the worktop and following him into the living room. “I’m not sure I’ve got a pot or bucket for that thing.”
“Leave it to me,” he said. “For God’s sake, sort out the wine, woman. And do you have anything to eat? I came straight from work without having lunch.”
“I’ve got sausages. Can do sausage sandwiches. Oh, and mince pies. And lots of Christmassy stuff – if it isn’t too early to crack it open.”
“If the snow keeps up, you might need to ration the provisions.” Richard grinned, looking about for the best spot to pot the tree. “Let’s go with the sausage sandwiches, shall we?”
Felicity felt light-footed as she twirled around the kitchen, putting sausages under the grill and slicing thick hunks of bread. He didn’t seem the kind of man that would relish dainty triangular sandwiches without crusts. No, a big doorstep wedge for Richard, thickly buttered and with lashings of ketchup on the sausages. By the time the meal was ready, Richard had potted the tree and installed it in a nook between the fireplace and the front window. Pine needles scattered every surface of the room, but the heavenly fresh scent of them was enough to light a festive flame in Felicity’s heart.
“You kept this candle burning while you were out,” said Richard, frowning at the source of the clove-and-cinnamon scent that dovetailed so deliciously with the forest pine. “Jesus, Fliss, you always had your head in the clouds. It’s a wonder yu’re still alive.”
“Shit!” Felicity clapped a hand to her mouth. “I completely forgot.” She gave Richard a sheepish look. He had always been taking her to task about things like this back in those far-off days when they were lovers. She was not as scatty or impractical now as she had been then, but she still had her moments.
“It’s a good thing I’m here, isn’t it?” said Richard softly, taking the plate of sandwiches from her and putting it aside on the coffee table.
She could not answer, full of a complex of emotions, not one of which could claim the upper hand. Indignation at his assumption that she was helpless, which could be traced back further to an unhealed anger at his leaving her in the first place, all those years ago, but also a kindling spark of desire for the protection he seemed to offer, even as she felt she should repudiate it. She wanted him, but she did not want to want him quite so much as this. She should hold back, keep her heart safe.
“For now,” she said, almost inaudibly, but he heard her, and took her by the wrist and pulled her down to where he knelt, on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire, framed by the green fronds of the tree.
“I know I hurt you,” he said, holding her hands in his, keeping her captive in his clear grey gaze. “I know you probably want to shy away. Protect yourself. And I can’t blame you. But will you give me a chance to give you a Christmas you’ll remember? And perhaps, who knows, perhaps something more?”
This was good. No extravagant promises, of the kind he used to make; no offering of the moon on a plate. Just an honest statement of intent, and one she found intoxicating. The perfect Christmas, with a warm fire, warm mince pies and cream, and a hot man to curl up beside – who could turn that down? Certainly she would have to be made of sterner stuff than Felicity Partridge.
“A Christmas to remember,” she repeated, and she put her head against his shoulder, allowing him to fold his arms around her and hold her for a long time, until the sausages grew as cold as the grate, and the fire really needed to be lit.
“Should light that fire,” said Felicity half-heartedly, feeling she could live forever with her face breathing in the manly musk of Richard’s scarf and the skin beneath.
“Should eat that sandwich,” sighed Richard, lost in the nostalgia the scent of Felicity’s hair had evoked. “But I’d rather …” He unwrapped one arm, freeing the hand to break the seal of her cheek and his shoulder hollow and angle her chin upwards, so she had to look at him. And where the eyes led, the lips had to follow. There seemed no other option but to fall into kissing, to collapse sideways on the sheepskin and bury themselves in the intimate excavations of lips, teeth, tongues, hands, fingers. Still wearing heavy coats and gloves, the pair of lovers strove to dig deep, under the zips and buttons that held them apart, until Richard raised his tousled head with a laugh and suggested moving upstairs.
“If you want to,” he stressed.
“I do. Can’t we light the fire though? It will be nice to come down to.”<
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“Tell you what. You go upstairs. I’ll eat this sandwich – think I might need the calories. And I’ll light your fire. Wait for me. Have some wine or something. I won’t be long.”
Felicity left him fumbling with the firelighters, hotfooting it upstairs with the bottle and two glasses. Up in the small room, with its dense floral prints and lily-of-the-valley scent – so unmanly! – she took a moment to peer out of the casement window at the street outside. The snow was settling now and everyone who passed had scarlet cheeks and ten layers of clothing on. The skies were so dark that some villagers had lit their tree lights and colourful twinkling could be seenthe manlmany of the windows. Even the castle ruins, high on the hill, had a string of rainbow-hued bulbs hung between the crumbling remnants of the gatehouse. Perhaps, after all, this was some kind of fairy-tale alternative reality. Anyone would forgive her for thinking so. Too good to be true, too good to be true – the words beat a dispiriting tattoo in her head.
But she had to stop thinking like this. Just because one chance taken didn’t work out, did that mean that all other chances had to be left in the dust? No. It was almost a new year; it was time to be brave.
She took off her coat, scarf and gloves and then sat on the bed, wondering what would be appropriate now. Should she take off her boots? Her jumper? Everything? No, that would be too much! He should work for it, just a little. She grinned and poured the wine, sipping at her glass, lying back against the pillows and watching the flakes fly outside. Downstairs, Richard would be tearing into the sandwich. She hoped he was ravenous for more than food.
Her hopes were not disappointed. She dashed her glass down on the bedside table as soon as the thunder of his boots on the stairs became audible. A few drops of wine spilled on to the snow-white cloth beneath the table lamp. Damn! But this was just too exciting. He is coming. He is here.
He threw open the door, his teeth bared in the widest wolf grin she had ever seen, his hair all over the place, warm outer clothing all discarded downstairs.
“You look comfortable,” he said, his breath short, eyes glowing. “Mind if I join you?” He pulled off the big work boots, chucked them outside to the landing, then, not waiting for Felicity’s answer, took a dive on to the bedspread, leaping on top of her so that she squealed into giggles.
“God, you’re gorgeous!” he exclaimed, like a greedy boy with a fistful of sweets, wanting to eat them all at once. He could not decide where to put his hands or his lips, putting them everywhere, seemingly all at once, catching the squirming Felicity between strong legs and holding her down so escape was not a possibility. Determined fingers swarmed up beneath her jumper and tugged at the waistband of her jeans; they found the outer edges of her bra and the lace of her knickers as if following a scent. It had been so long since she had felt a man’s large, hot hand on her skin and Felicity cursed the hours wasted, waiting. She should have come and got this sooner, much sooner.
“Missed … this …” he gasped between starved kisses, “so … much. Missed you … so much …” She was clutching at his hair and at the perfectly shapely curve of his behind in those tight jeans he always wore, her small fists kneading the taut flesh, wanting to sink into it, to possess it, to drive it into her.
“D’you still fancy me, then, Fliss?” he muttered into her ear, having now managed to yank her jumper up over her bra and unbutton her jeans.
“Ah, God, I always did,” she moaned. “Never fancied anyone more.”
“Same here,” he averred, rearing up a little so that he could lift the jumper clean off over her head. “My Fliss.” He sank back down, his head bending over the cups of her bra, wrenching them down over hard pink nipples with his teeth. “The taste of you, oh God.” He began to suck at the tempting buds that stood so stiff for him, nuzzling her collarbone with his sweep of hair, so that she felt tickled and devoured and aroused and wild with want for him. She lifted her pelvis, wanting to cram herself into the hard knot beneath his jeans, rubbing and rotating, both hands now squeezing his bottom as if it were particularly springy dough. She reached blindly for the fly of his jeans, scrabbling at the metal buttons, pulling them from the buttonholes one by one. He nipped at a nipple, making her yelp, then sat up, a magnificent tower of man growing upwards from her hips, streing out his arms, throwing back his head and growling.
“Did you want something, Fliss?” he asked with a dangerous glint, bringing his face back down towards her. “Is there something I can give you?”
She squeezed her hands inside the unbuttoned jeans, feeling the heat and weight and iron hardness there.
“This will do nicely.” She grinned, trying her hardest to dint the stiffness, and failing. “Along with the rest of you.”
“Sold,” he hissed, with a nip of her ear lobe that made her squeak. He made short work of removing her bra, then the jeans were wrenched off, with quite a struggle, until Fliss had only a cotton thong and a pair of woolly socks protecting her modesty.
“Sexy as these are,” said Richard, standing at the end of the bed to ease off the rainbow-knitted footwear, “I might have to let them go.”
Felicity wriggled her bare toes, then prodded the hot crotch that stood so close to them, almost completely exposed now by the waistband that crept lower and lower, introducing red paisley boxers to the interested eye.
Richard snatched the errant foot and held it aloft.
“You need to keep a tighter rein on these toes,” he reproved. “I could have them done for sexual harassment.”
Felicity yelped as he kissed each varnished toenail in turn.
“Well, seeing as you’ve just ripped my clothes off – eep! – I’m not sure any – wah! – court in the land would – no! don’t tickle me! – convict – argh!” Richard was stroking Felicity’s sensitive instep with the tip of one torturing finger, a crooked grin playing on his face as he watched his victim thrash and writhe and howl for mercy until the covers were thoroughly mussed.
“Still ticklish then?” he said, testing the statement with another diabolical circuit of her left foot.
“Oh STOP! NO! PLEASE!”
“Nothing’s changed there in eleven years. God, I’ve missed this!”
“I … haven’t …” Felicity began to scream and Richard took pity, though he kept a firm hold of her ankle and began kissing a trail up the suffering foot and then along the calf, taking his time, enjoying every patch of skin that met his lips until, at the underside of her knee – an area that made her squirm almost as much as the foot-tickling – he knelt on the bed, for an easier route to the inevitable end of this journey.
Slowly now, past the knee and on to the succulent flesh of her thigh, kissing and licking, getting closer and closer to that small part of her that was still covered, but smelling it now, breathing in its scent of arousal, feeling its heat and moisture, so close to the target … He paused to switch thighs, subjecting the other to the same treatment while Felicity began to wonder if her white thong was transparent with her wetness by now – it certainly felt that way.
Now Richard’s mouth and tongue had reached the crease along which the elastic of her thong lay like a border between territories, a crossing to the promised land. He licked a path along it, as if looking for the secret door that would grant him access, then crossed to repeat the process on the other side. Then, unexpectedly, the flat of his tongue pressed against the central panel that covered Felicity’s drenched pussy, pushing at it, licking and nipping the cotton, soaking the entire area in their mingled juices. The rubbing of the wet material against Felicity’s clit, together with the hot pressure of Richard’s tongue, drove her mad with want and she bucked on the duvet, pushing herself into him, urging him wordlessly to dispense with the thong and eat her until she could take no more.
He half-obeyed, sliding his tongue up underneath the elastic, letting it bathe her puffy lips and clit, adding his fingers for extra stimulation, using them to wrench aside the thong and leave her naked to his ravenous mouth. One, then
two long fingers penetrated her, feeling how easy it would be for his cock to follow, how wet and hot and willing she was. He did not stop feasting on her until she came, jiggling and wiggling and clamping his head between her thighs as if they were nutcrackers, spending liberally on his wicked tongue.
“You still like that, I see,” said Richard softly, extricating himself and throwing off the rest of his clothes in a furious rush. “Remember how I used to do that to you on the heath? Just lift up your skirt, or pull down your jeans, and lick you in the open air until you came? You do remember, don’t you?”
“Pretty often,” sighed Felicity, stretching out like a satisfied cat, arms above her head, before ridding herself of the thong and presenting herself in the nude.
“And do you remember what we did in Jug Ears’ boat when we borrowed it that day? How you helped me with the steering?”
Felicity laughed and sat up on her elbow, grinning saucily at her newly rediscovered swain.
“Oh, yes, I remember that now.”
“Don’t tell me you’d forgotten.” He brought his magnificent nakedness over to the bed and sat down beside Felicity, grabbing one of her hands and moving it down to enclose his cock, which seemed to surge with energy beneath her palm. “There I was, trying my best to steer a straight course and keep us off the rocks, and you go and drop on to your knees under the wheel and take down my trousers … and … what did you do then, eh?”
The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance Page 48
