Slowly still, he unzipped her fleece and slid it off her shoulders.
‘How do you take these dungarees off?’ he asked in a raspy voice as he fiddled with one of the metal clasps holding the garment up.
She deftly undid both buckles, the dungarees slipped down to her hips. Her grey top moulded her curves so perfectly he couldn’t resist. He brushed his knuckles against her breasts, revelling in the feel of the tips hardening under his touch and the sounds of her breathing. Her fingers fluttered along his spine, tickled the back of his neck, and his body hardened further. This was torture – sweet, intolerable torture but he didn’t want it to end.
He kissed her mouth again, slipped one hand under her top, and explored. Her skin was smooth and silky, her breasts so generous his mouth became dry and he let out a low moan. He wanted to see her – all of her. He wanted to touch, taste, and bury himself inside her. He lifted the T-shirt over her head, and let it drop to the floor. Next he pushed the dungarees past her hips. They pooled at her feet and she stepped out of them. With a muffled moan he bent down to kiss the hollow at the base of her throat. His fingers traced the contours of her face, trailed down her throat, her round shoulders and along her arms all the way to the inside of her wrists. He caressed the sides of her waist, cupped her breasts, and revelled in their weight and fullness in his hands.
‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered, circling the tips of her breasts with his fingers until they pebbled and darkened underneath the white bra. White heat flashed inside him, almost blinding him with desire. He wanted her naked and under him. He wanted her calling his name, touching him, surrendering. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the fresh lemon fragrance he had come to associate with her. Combined with the feminine scent of her skin, it was the most potent elixir, and he felt almost drunk and lightheaded.
‘I want to make love to you so much I’m going out of my mind,’ he whispered.
‘What are you waiting for?’ She locked her fingers at the back of his neck, pressed her body closer and made a sexy, low humming sound that drove him even wilder. Her lips trailing tantalising soft kisses at the side of his neck, she slid her hands under his jumper, un-tucked his shirt from his jeans, and made contact with his bare skin.
He drew in a sharp breath as her fingers skimmed his chest, glided on his abs, ventured lower. It was her turn to touch and tease. It was fair enough, but he didn’t know how long he could take it.
Stepping back, he got rid of his pullover, almost ripped the buttons off his shirt in his haste to undo them, and stood, shirt open to his bare chest, in front of her, every part of him aching for her.
‘Wait a minute.’ Still in her underwear, she crossed the room to close the curtains – as if anybody was likely to venture to Belthorn in the middle of a snowstorm, except perhaps that Grey Friar who was rumoured to haunt the grounds of the abbey – then walked up to the fireplace to switch the fairy lights on.
‘I don’t need fancy lights to make love to you.’
‘No, but it’s so much prettier, don’t you think?’ she asked with a shy smile.
And then reality hit him. A blast of freezing cold air spread into his heart, filled his chest, made him stumble back. What was he doing? He was a broken, ugly brute with a body covered with scars, and a grouchy temper, and she was the most delightful woman he’d ever laid his eyes on.
She couldn’t want him. Not really. Hell, she just said she needed fairy lights to make the décor more appealing. She wanted a man like that designer whose photo she had sighed over – the sharp, handsome, dark-haired designer bloke who she said had inspired her. A hard lump formed in his gut.
He stood like a block of ice and let out a hollow laugh. ‘It will take more than fairy lights to make me look pretty, you know.’
She came back to him and touched her lips to his chest, showering him with kisses as he stood still. ‘I don’t care for a pretty man. I care about you,’ she said between kissing and teasing him. Her mouth, her hands glided over his bare skin, tormenting him.
He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled away slightly. ‘Are you sure?’
She lifted her head up and laid her hand against his cheek. Her eyes were filled with heat and unfocussed, the grey irises clouded with arousal. Her lips were red and swollen, her face flushed.
She nodded, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Weak with relief, he enfolded her into his arms, enjoying the feel and the scent of her body, and the sounds of her breathing. She fitted so well against him, and nestled in his arms as if it was the most natural place to be. They didn’t speak, didn’t move. The fire crackled softly behind them, the flames painted shadows on the walls. Outside the howling of the wind had ceased, replaced by an eerie quiet.
It was the calm before the storm.
Cassie kissed the side of his mouth and slid the sides of his shirt off his shoulders, tugging on the sleeves until it dropped to the floor. Her lips kissed the jagged scars on his chest with such innocence and tenderness his heart expanded with pure joy.
A moment later innocence fizzled out when she stroked his chest with long, lingering, teasing touches. The mood changed, sizzled with tension and pleasure, and pulsed with dark, throbbing desires.
He brought his hands to her shoulders, slid the straps of her bra and yanked the triangles of fabric down to expose her breasts. Slowly he pushed her pants down, and took them off. When she was naked, he enfolded her in his arms, lifted her up and brought her to the sofa where he lay her gently down, then he looked at her and held his breath. Her blonde hair draped over the cushions, and her bare skin glowed in the light of the fire. She looked wild, tantalising, and beautiful.
And when she reached out for him and called his name, his heart did something strange and powerful, something it had never done before. It roared and thundered and proclaimed that she was his.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘I’ll never think about a feather duster in the same way ever again,’ Stefan said, trailing Cassie’s brand new blue feather duster along her leg, from her hip all the way down to the sole of her foot. She tried to roll away but the bed wasn’t big enough to escape him, or the feather duster.
He had found a brand new duster in the kitchen cupboard as he fetched a bottle of wine and two glasses, and hadn’t been able to resist taking one upstairs.
He kissed her bare shoulder. ‘Who would have thought that this innocent looking fairy had such a naughty implement in her cleaning arsenal?’
Laughing, Cassie hid her leg under the duvet. ‘There’s nothing naughty about my feather duster, at least not when I use it. You’re the one with the wicked mind.’
He dropped the feather duster to the floor, put a finger on her lips, and brushed her hair aside to kiss the curve of her neck. ‘I didn’t used to have a wicked mind. You worked your magic on me, Mademoiselle la fée chasse-poussière.’
‘What does that mean?’
He smiled. ‘It means “dust-busting fairy”, but “chasse-poussière” is also the name given to a type of sandstorm in the Sahara Desert. They’re little whirlwinds, just like you. I could also call you chasse-tristesse because you have worked wonders for my mood too.’
‘Did I?’ She didn’t look convinced. ‘Chasse-tristesse,’ she repeated. ‘I like that.’ She closed her eyes and relished the feel of his lips on her skin, the tenderness in his voice. ‘I haven’t quite finished working on you, actually. You are still terribly crabby and short-tempered at times.’