The Fiancée He Can't Forget. Caroline Anderson

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      CHAPTER TWO

      HE MADE love to her again in the night, reaching for her in the darkness, bringing her body slowly awake with sure, gentle hands and whispered kisses. She laid her hand tenderly against his cheek, savouring the rasp of stubble against her palm, her thumb dragging softly over the firm fullness of his lower lip.

      He opened his mouth, drawing her thumb inside and sucking it deeply, his tongue exploring it, his teeth nipping lightly and making the breath catch in her throat. She shifted so she could reach him, her hands running over him now, checking for changes and finding only sweet, familiar memories. He moved on, his mouth warm and moist against her skin, and she joined in, their lips tracing tender trails across each other’s bodies. They were taking their time now for leisurely explorations, the darkness shielding them from emotions they couldn’t bear to expose—emotions too dark, too painful to consider.

      That wasn’t what this night was about, Amy thought later as she lay awake beside him listening to the deep, even rhythm of his breathing. It was for old times’ sake, no-longer lovers reaching out to touch fleetingly what had once been theirs to love.

      She was under no illusions. After the wedding, Matt would be going back to London, and she’d be staying here, nursing her still-broken heart but with a little more tenderness, a little more forgiveness in her soul. He wasn’t indifferent. Clearly not. But their lives had moved on, gone in different directions, and maybe it was for the best.

      Maybe this was the way forward, for both of them. A little healing salve smeared gently over their wounds, kissing each other better.

      She shifted slightly, seeking the warmth of his body, and he reached for her again in his sleep, drawing her closer, their legs tangled, her head pillowed on his shoulder as she slept, until the first light of dawn crept round the edges of the curtains.

      He woke her gently, his voice a soft murmur in her ear.

      ‘Amy?’

      ‘Mmm.’

      ‘Amy, it’s morning.’

      ‘Mmm.’

      ‘You’re in my room.’

      ‘Mmm. I know.’

      ‘Sweetheart, everyone will know soon.’

      Her eyes flew open, and she sucked in a breath, the night coming back to her in a flood of memory and sudden awkwardness. ‘Oh, rats. Damn. Um—Matt, help me get dressed.’

      She threw the quilt off and starting searching for her underwear. Stupid, stupid … ‘Where the hell are my pants?’

      Pants? He nearly laughed. Try cobwebs.

      ‘Take the dressing gown on the back of the door—have you got your room key?’

      ‘Yes, of course. It’s—’

      In her clutch bag, which was—somewhere. She flopped back down onto the edge of the bed, dragging the quilt back over herself to hide her body from his eyes. Pointless, after he’d explored it so thoroughly, knew it so well in any case, but she was suddenly smitten with shyness. ‘It’s in my clutch bag,’ she admitted.

      ‘Which is …?’

      Good question. ‘Downstairs?’

      He groaned and rolled away from her, vanishing into the bathroom and emerging a few minutes later damp, tousled and unshaven. And stark naked, the water drops still clinging to his body gleaming in the spill of light from the bathroom door and drawing her hungry eyes. He flipped open his overnight bag, pulled out some jeans and boxers and a shirt, dressed quickly and took the room key out of the door lock.

      ‘What’s your bag look like?’ he asked briskly, and she dragged her mind off his body and tried to concentrate.

      ‘Cream satin, about so big, little bronzy chain. It’s got a lipstick, a tissue and the room key in it.’