Witch's Harvest. Sara Craven
was demanding from her, and for a moment her inhibitions rushed back to engulf her. It suddenly occurred to her that everything was moving too far too fast. She wasn’t ready for this, any of it. Because no matter how wantonly her body might be reacting to the almost calculated expertise of his lovemaking, in her mind she was still Abigail Westmore, spinster.
Impatient at her hesitation, Vasco captured her hand and carried it to his body in silent exhortation. Momentarily she was stunned, shattered by her own ignorance and inexperience. Then, shyly at first, then with increasing confidence, her caresses paid homage to the strength and power of his maleness, while he murmured his enjoyment against her body.
She had at some point stopped thinking, it seemed. In place of the composed, rational being she’d taken for granted was some wild, mindless creature, wholly at the mercy of her sensations and instincts. Touching, she knew dimly, was not enough. Her body burned and ached for more, and as if he sensed her passionate desperation Vasco moved, poising himself to claim her.
His mouth took hers hungrily, almost violently, and at the same moment his body pushed into hers in stark, compelling demand.
Suddenly, horrifyingly, Abby was in pain. She cried out against his lips, her eyes dilating in panic and confusion, trying to wrench her wincing body away from him.
She thought he would stop. But he did not. Instead, his hands slid under her hips, lifting her slightly towards him as he thrust forward, subjugating her completely. She tore her mouth from his, moaning, biting at her lip.
‘Idiota! Why didn’t you tell me?’ His voice was husky. ‘Be still, or there will be more hurting.’
He made no attempt to move, either to withdraw, or further his possession of her. Instead he held her in his arms until the hurt-frightened trembling subsided, and she was quiescent under the imprisonment of his body.
Then, without giving her time to protest, he began to kiss her again, tiny, fleeting caresses on her face, throat and breasts. The motion of his body inside her was gentle too, coaxing her to join him in some universal rhythm.
She could feel this strange beguilement reaching for her, enfolding her, seducing her against her will, and beyond all control. But she had to fight it. Had to, or she would be lost for ever. Her mind saw this with a cold clarity. This new subtlety, this appearance of tenderness meant nothing at all. He was using her, that was all, manipulating a situation her own naïveté had created.
He didn’t care about her, and why should he? She was merely a convenient body to be enjoyed, and that wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.
A voice she hardly recognised as her own said, ‘Stop—please!’
‘Deus, querida!’ It emerged as a groan of disbelief. ‘You cannot mean it?’ His eyes met hers in a kind of anguish. ‘Are you in pain still?’
‘Yes.’ Her face was set and stony as she looked back at him.
He said something softly in his own language, and for a moment his hand stroked her hair back from her damp forehead. The unexpected caress almost unnerved her. It made her want to cling to him, to tell him everything she felt for him in her heart, and that was impossible.
She saw his dark face tauten, felt his possession of her quicken, deepen almost to savagery, heard a hoarse cry of satisfaction torn from his throat, and then it was over. Vasco collapsed beside her and lay breathing raggedly, his face buried in his folded arms.
Abby lay still, staring up at the ceiling. She felt bemused, cheated, every inch of her body crying out for the fulfilment she had denied it. The risk of self-betrayal now seemed small, compared with the agony she was currently experiencing, but it was still real, and his continuing presence beside her was a threat to her self-command.
Swallowing past the knot in her throat, she put out a tentative hand and touched his sweat-dampened shoulder.
‘Will you go now, please?’
There was a silence, then Vasco lifted himself up on to an elbow and stared at her, the dark brows twisted in a frown.
‘We need to talk,’ he said brusquely.
‘No!’ The sound was almost violent, and Abby made a grab for an appearance of composure at least, when she saw the astonishment in his eyes. ‘There’s—really—nothing to talk about, and I want you to leave. Now.’
For a long moment he watched her broodingly, then the bronze shoulders lifted almost negligently in a brief shrug. ‘As you wish.’
He threw back the covers and got out of bed.
For a few heart-stopping seconds Abby’s eyes drank in every strong, supple line of his magnificent body, then she turned resolutely on to her side and lay, eyes closed, listening to the small sounds of him dressing.
Then there was silence, with Abby desperately conscious that he was standing beside the bed, looking down at her. She lay rigidly, eyes clamped shut, nails curling into the palms of her hands.
Let him think she was asleep, she prayed soundlessly and absurdly. Let him—just go.
At last she heard him sigh, and move away towards the door. Then his voice, quiet and almost mocking. ‘Adeus—handmaiden.’
She didn’t reply, or give the smallest sign that she was aware of his departure. Only when she heard the flat door open and close behind him did she dare relax, and allow herself the luxury of her first slow, bitter tears.
She awoke late the next morning, and lay for a long time, trying to summon the energy to get up and tackle the usual weekend chores.
The other tenants were away, spending the weekend with their parents as usual, so Abby was able to spend a long time in the bath, washing her skin and her hair as if she was taking part in some ritual cleansing ceremony. As she dried herself, she inspected herself almost clinically in the mirror. It seemed impossible she should look the same after what had happened, yet she did, apart from the shadows under her eyes, and a few reddened patches on her body where Vasco’s rougher skin had grazed her.
They would fade soon, she told herself vehemently. Then there would be nothing to remind her what an abject, appalling fool she’d made of herself.
For once she didn’t bother to get dressed. She just put on her robe, while she started straightening her small domain, starting with her sleeping quarters. She dragged the sheets and covers from the bed, turned the mattress, and re-made the bed completely and immaculately, before embarking on a thorough dusting, polishing and vacuuming. She had to push herself to do it, but it seemed the only way in which she could exorcise Vasco’s presence from the room. And she needed to do that if she was to preserve some kind of sanity.
Last night had been madness, from that first moment when she had walked towards him across the crowded bar. In some secret compartment of her mind, she’d known what would happen. She’d wanted it to happen—had created it perhaps from her own need. And now she had to block it out. Forget it.
She knew she ought to go out and buy food, but she couldn’t face the thought of the bustling shopping centre, and the cheerful repartee of the shopkeepers who had become used to her regular custom. She would manage on whatever there was in the tiny fridge.
By evening the flat shone, but it had been the longest day she had ever spent, and the walls were beginning to close in on her claustrophobically.
She heated herself a tin of soup in the communal kitchen, and toasted a bread roll to go with it. She was tempted to eat there too, but the silence seemed oppressive, and eventually she carried the tray back to her flat, and had her meal by the fire. She turned on the television and sat through a raucously cheerful quiz show, before turning to a disaster movie on another channel. But the trials and tribulations of the assorted misfits threatened with total annihilation by an impending tidal wave seemed minor, compared with her own problems.
‘Serves them right,’ she muttered.
She was going to turn the set off, when the doorbell rang, and she stiffened.