Hers For One Night Only?. Carol Marinelli

not to think similar thoughts. ‘I’ve got a virus.’ She swung her face to him. ‘My computer, I mean, not…’ What was wrong with her mouth? Bridgette thought as she turned her burning face to look out of the window. Why did everything lead to sex with him? ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘you should watch it.’

      There was a roundabout coming up, the last roundabout, Bridgette knew, before her home, and it felt like her last chance at crazy, their last chance. And, yes, it was two a.m., but it could have been two p.m.; it was just a day that was running out and they wanted to chase it. She stole a look over at his delectable profile and to the olive hands that gripped the steering-wheel—it would be like leaving the cinema in the middle of the best movie ever without a hope of finding out the end. And she wanted more detail, wanted to know how it felt to be made love to by a man like him. She’d been truthful when she’d spoken to Jasmine—a relationship was the very last thing that she wanted now. Maybe this way had merit…‘We should watch it.’

      ‘Your computer’s not working,’ he pointed out.

      ‘Yours is.’ The flick of the indicator signalling right was about half the speed of her heart.

      ‘Bridgette…’ He wasn’t a bastard—he was incredibly, incredibly nice, because they went three times round the roundabout as he made very sure.

      ‘I don’t want you to regret…’ He was completely honest. ‘I leave in two weeks.’

      ‘I won’t regret it.’ She’d firmly decided that she wouldn’t. ‘After much consideration I have decided I would very much regret it if I didn’t.’ She gave him a smile. ‘I want my night.’

      She did. And he was lovely, because he did not gun the car home. It was so much nicer than she would ever be able to properly remember, but she knew for many nights she would try.

      She wanted to be able to hold on to the moment when he turned and told her that he couldn’t wait till they got all the way back to the city for the one kiss they had previously agreed to. She wanted to remember how they stopped at a lookout, gazed out at the bay, leant against his bonnet and watched the glittering view, and it felt as if time was suspended. She wanted to bottle it somehow, because she wasn’t angry with Courtney at that moment, or worried for Harry. For the first time in ages she had a tiny glimpse of calm, of peace, a moment where she felt all was well.

      Well, not calm, but it was a different sort of stress from the one she was used to as he moved his face to hers. Very nicely he kissed her, even if she was terribly nervous. He let her be nervous as he kissed her—till the pleats in her mind unfurled. It was a kiss that had been building all night, a kiss she had wanted since their introduction, and his mouth told her he had wanted the same.

      ‘I was going to stay for one drink…’ His mouth was at her ear, his body pressed into hers.

      ‘I was just leaving,’ she admitted as his face came back to view.

      ‘And now look at us.’

      So nice was that kiss that he did it again.

      ‘You smell fantastic.’ She was glad, to be honest, to have only him on her mind. He smelt as expensive as he looked and he tasted divine. She would never take this dress to the dry cleaner’s, she thought as his scent wrapped around them, and his mouth was at her neck and under her hair. He was dragging in the last breaths of the perfume she had squirted on before going out and soaking in the scent of the salon’s rich shampoo and the warm fragrance of woman.

      ‘So do you,’ he said.

      ‘You taste fantastic,’ Bridgette said. She was the one going back for more now.

      ‘You too.’

      And he liked the weight of responsibility that cloaked him as he pressed her against the bonnet and his hands inched down to a silver hem. He could feel her soft thighs and wanted to lift her dress, but he wanted to know if her legs too were freckled, so he ended the kiss. He wanted more for her than that, more for himself than that.

      Just tonight, Dominic assured himself as she did the same.

      ‘What?’ He caught her looking at him as they headed for his home, and grinned.

      ‘Nothing.’ She smiled back.

      ‘Go on, say what you’re thinking.’

      ‘Okay.’ So she did. ‘You don’t look like a paediatrician.’

      ‘What is a paediatrician supposed to look like?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Bridgette admitted. ‘Okay, you don’t seem like a paediatrician.’ She couldn’t really explain it, but he laughed.

      They laughed.

      And when she told him that she imagined him more a cosmetic surgeon, with some exclusive private practice, his laugh turned wry. ‘You’re mistaking me for my father.’

      ‘I don’t think so,’ Bridgette said.

      And he pulled her towards him, because it was easier than thinking, easier than admitting he wasn’t so sure of her verdict, that lately he seemed to be turning more and more into his father, the man he respected least.

      It was three o’clock and she felt as if they were both trying to escape morning.

      There wasn’t a frantic kiss through the front door—instead the energy that swirled was more patient.

      It was a gorgeous energy that waited as he made her coffee and she went to the bathroom and he had the computer on when she returned. They did actually watch it together.

      ‘I showed this to Jasmine—’ there were tears rolling down her face, but from laughter ‘—and she didn’t think it was funny.’

      And he was laughing too, more than he ever had. He hadn’t had a night like this in ages—in fact, he couldn’t recall one ever.

      Okay, she would try to remember the details, how he didn’t cringe when she pretended his desk was a piano; instead he sang.

      It was the most complicated thing to explain—that she could sing to him, that, worse, he could take the mug that was the microphone and do the same to her!

      ‘We should be ashamed of ourselves.’ She admired their reflection in the computer as they took a photo.

      ‘Very ashamed,’ he agreed.

      She thought he was like this, Dominic realised, that this was how his usual one-night stands went. Didn’t she understand that this was as rare for him as it was for her? He hadn’t been like this even with Arabella.

      He didn’t just want anyone tonight; he wanted her.

      It was an acute want that tired now of being patient and so too did hers. As their mouths met on time and together, he kissed her to the back of the sofa. It felt so seamless, so right, because not for a second did Bridgette think, Now he’s going to kiss me. One moment they were laughing and the next they were kissing. It was a transition that was as simple as that.

      It was his mouth and his taste and the slide of his tongue.

      It was her mouth and a kiss that didn’t taste of plastic, that tasted of her tongue, and he kissed her and she curled into it. She loved the feel of his mouth and the roam of his hands and the way her body was craving his—it was a kiss that was potent, everything a kiss could be, distilled into one delicious dose.

      He took off her dress, because he wanted to see her, not the woman in silver, and his eyes roamed. They roamed as he took off her bra and he answered his earlier question because her freckles stopped only where her bikini would be. There were two unfreckled triangles that wanted his mouth, but he talked to her as well and what she didn’t know was how rare that was.

      He left control behind and was out of his mind.

      He wanted her in France, he told her as he licked her nipple.

      Topless and naked on the beach