An Affair To Remember: A Ludlow Hall Christmas (4 page)

Happily existing in a blissful and contented place, Elena watched Marc inhale his tea and struggle not to spill it as he coughed up a lung.

Calmly, she handed him a couple of tissues plucked from the box on the coffee table.

"Christ," he said, as he mopped his streaming eyes.

Somewhere, fluttering on the extreme edges of a mind living in a happy haze of alcohol, somewhere where common sense lived, Elena knew that how she felt in this moment, in that wondrous sense of
rightness,
that this strange new world she was living in, was in fact, all wrong.

And she couldn't give a hot damn.

She waited until his eyes claimed hers.

"I dream about you all the time," she said with brutal honesty.

The poor man shook his head, his blue eyes wide and sincere.

"Elena, sweetheart. I don't think you should be telling me this. It's not you speaking, it's After Shock. And it's named that for a reason."

Aww, poor baby, he was worried she'd embarrass herself?

What a
nice
guy.

Well, Elena couldn't care less.

For some strange reason it was really important, crucial even, for her to tell him how she felt.

So she leaned over to pat the hand that was resting on the arm of the sofa.

She studied that hand now.

The man had lovely hands with long fingers and short, clean nails.

From his wrist, he also had a sprinkling of fine dark hair peeping out of the cuff of his white cotton shirt.

She wondered if he had a snake of dark hair leading to the impressive bulge between his legs, too. Her eyes rested on that bulge as the tingling between her legs clicked up a notch.

"I love After Shocks. And let me tell you something else," she said.

Her eyes slid up his body to his face.

His Adam's apple bobbed twice.

"What's that?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

She blinked into his eyes.

"In my dreams you and I are in this very room. My panties are at my ankles, you bend me over the arm of the sofa and take me hard and fast until I scream. Do you think you could do that, Marc?"

Yes
.

His dick was screaming that it could most definitely do that.

Right
now
in fact.

If only she wasn't pissed and didn't have a clue what she was saying.

Jeeeeeezus.

It appeared a couple of After Shock's were better than truth serum.

Unable to listen to another word, Marc leapt to his feet.

"Okay, that's enough. Drink up your tea like a good girl and we'll get you up to bed."

"I've finished my tea. Are we going to bed to fuck?"

It cost him, but Marc ignored the question as he whipped the mug out of her hand and placed it on the tea tray.

It terrified him that his hand was shaking.

As he moved around the coffee table to take a hold of her slim wrist, Marc found his arms full of a very warm and very willing woman. Her arms were around his neck, those wonderful breasts now plastered against his chest and her pelvis slid against his in a way that made him grit his teeth and just hang on. No matter how hard he tried, his dick went so hard he closed his eyes.

"Oh my. You
are
happy to see me, big boy."

Oh God, baby Jesus, Christ help him.

He trembled.

She laughed.

A throaty, sultry sound that made him groan out loud.

When her hand slid down his front to rest on his throbbing shaft and squeeze, his eyes rolled back in his head.

Marc hadn't lived thirty-four years without women touching him like this. Of course they had. But he'd never, ever, experienced the force of nature that was Elena Kennedy. Her touch, the purr in her throat, the way she smelled, did something to him that was beyond pleasure, beyond pain.

If only she was sober.

If only she was in her right mind.

But she wasn't, he reminded himself desperately.

He was a good man.

And good men did not take advantage of a woman under the influence, no matter what she said, no matter what she did and no matter what his dick demanded.

She was licking his neck now, still rubbing herself up and down his body like a cat in heat. This needed to end, right now.

Without a word, he scooped her up in his arms, marched through the door, up the narrow stairs (not without difficulty) and through a process of elimination found her bedroom.

Her little yelp of delight when he tossed her on the bed seriously tested his resolve.

Annoyance with her, and with himself, was beginning to churn and burn hot and bright in his gut now. And that annoyance was winning the battle with a brutal arousal.

Without a lick of conscience, he started to rummage through a beautiful antique set of drawers. Her silk underwear was predominately in neutral colours, expensive and incredibly feminine with lace and ribbons. The thought of her wearing the sheer bras, the panties, under her crisp and tailored uniform every day, nearly made him come in his pants.

"Ooooh Maaaarc," the siren sang his name in a way that made him close eyes.

Not a religious man, Marc prayed.

And he promised himself that tomorrow he'd make her pay for this.

He slammed the drawer shut and opened the next to find a pair of white flannel pyjama bottoms with pink teddy bears. Perfect. Because he knew there was no way in hell he'd have coped with something in silk or lace. It would have fucking killed him. He grabbed the flannel pyjama bottoms as a man might grab a life belt in a stormy sea. In the next drawer, he found an oversized pink T-shirt. Even better, so he grabbed that, too, and turned around.

And stopped dead, his heart thudding like a pneumatic drill against his ribs.

He broke out in a cold sweat.

Oh. My. God.

One long leg was stretched up to the ceiling, her toe pointed like a ballet dancer as she tossed the black hold up silk stocking to the floor. Slowly, so slowly, she brought the leg down. The woman had fabulous stomach muscles. She bent the other leg as her hands slid up, up her thigh, to slide off the other stocking. She turned her head to watch his face and licked her lips. When she tossed the stocking towards him, he couldn't look away. Then she pulled the hem of her dress up to her waist, wiggled down the bed and placed her thumbs either side of tiny panties of sheer black silk. The Brazilian between her thighs made him blink as both legs were bent at the knees, as she pulled down her panties exposing the swollen pink lips of her sex. In a smooth move, she whipped off her panties before stretching both legs to the ceiling and pointing her toes.

And Marc knew that if he didn't get out of there, right now, he'd do something that would shame him as a man and make her hate him for ever.

He moved fast and flipped her over onto her belly.

Unfortunately, the move made her think they were going to do something kinky because she was on her knees with her bare ass in the air.

His hand itched, really itched, to spank that tight little bottom.

He actually closed his eyes and visualised the scene.

But that could wait for another day.

Clenching his jaw so hard he was lucky not to shatter his molars, he pulled her legs down and quickly dressed her in her teddy bear pyjama bottoms. He should have felt better. But as he turned her over and whipped her dress over her head and arms, her magnificent breasts were released. Gorgeous, was all he could think. But although Marc whimpered, he battled on and the way bitter disappointment filled those big hazel eyes and made them swim made him feel like a complete bastard. However, he ruthlessly ignored those big eyes as he tugged her pink T-shirt over her head. His hands were shaking as he tucked the thick comforter around her.

By this time his dick was howling between his legs, but Marc soldiered on.

He marched into her en-suite and filled a large glass with cold water from the tap.

By a process of elimination, he rummaged through feminine unmentionables in cupboards and drawers to find aspirin for the headache from hell she would surely have in the morning. He popped two from the packet before stalking back into her bedroom.

Her eyes were teary and drowsy as she sat up and took the pills and swallowed the water like a good little girl.

"I'll leave the bathroom light on in case you get up in the night. How are you feeling?" he asked in a tight voice.

Heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks.

And he was delighted to see it.

Her eyes were a little clearer, too.

"Fine. Thank you for looking after me," she said, and her chin wobbled. When her bottom lip trembled, he felt like crying himself. "I'm sorry you don't want to fuck me."

Ooooookay.

So the After Shocks had still not quite worn off.

He placed her cell on the bedside table.

"If you feel unwell, give me a call. My number's at the top of the list, on speed dial. I'm just up the path. Don't hesitate to call me."

He really should stay the night, but there was no way in hell he could be under the same roof and not take her. If Elena was throwing up then he'd definitely stay, but her eyes looked clearer and she didn't look grey and pasty. If anything she looked amazing, all rosy and glowing.

She sniffed pathetically as she settled into her pillows, tugged the comforter right up to her chin.

Lord, she was so beautiful, even if she did look pitiful.

It shouldn't have made his throat ache.

It shouldn't have made his eyes sting.

His balls were actually throbbing in time to the hectic beat of his heart.

And right there Marc made a firm pledge to the universe, to karma, to any deity or divine being who might be listening that Elena Kennedy was going to live to regret putting him through hell this night.

Elena awoke precisely ten hours after the moment she'd shut her eyes.

Her curtains were closed, but light bathed her big bed from her en-suite bathroom.

Her throat was a little dry and she had a strange taste in her mouth, but her head was clear. Rolling onto her back, Elena stared at the ceiling and tried to remember the events of the night before.

As if she was watching a movie, various scenes flickered through her mind. She dimly recalled some sort of kerfuffle with poor David. Then she remembered the buzzing in her ears and the hectic beat of her heart she'd had during the experience with David and the fact that her boyfriend Tom had dumped her. Now that Tom was no longer part of her life, Elena reckoned she should at least have felt little pang of... something. But she didn't, except that she wished she'd dumped Tom first. A natural reaction, she told herself. Then she remembered a Viking god, Odin. Oh yeah, a lovely drop-dead-gorgeous tall, dark and handsome guy. She wondered what had happened to him? Then her brow wrinkled when she remembered Scott telling not to drink something, what was it again? Oh yeah, After Shock.

Elena tended to stick to a single glass of white wine or a lite beer or soft drinks when she partied. A particularly bad experience at Uni had put her off hard liquor, she didn't have the head for it.

As she wrinkled her brow, she remembered tossing back the shot, the burn in her throat, scorching a path down her digestive tract to pool in her belly, to spread through her system. The potent liquor had brought a tear to her eye. However, it was the 'after' affect that really stood out. She'd felt absolutely wonderful. Up for anything. Ready to take on the world and everyone in it. Especially sex!

However, other memories, unrelenting, now fast forwarded her memory.

Marc Atelier taking charge of poor David at the table in the restaurant, while a beyond stupid Tom simply sat and watched the action with his mouth hanging open. Then later, much later, Marc putting his arm around her, putting on her coat, winding his scarf around her neck. The freezing cold as they'd walked home, together. Marc opening her door. Marc in her sitting room, making her sweet tea. The sort of tea her daddy made her when she'd been little and was sick. And Marc ensuring she drank the tea.

Then Elena shot up in bed, her skin suddenly clammy, as her eyes went wide with something like utter horror as she remembered quite distinctly that she'd asked Marc to... to...
fuck
her?

All she could hear was the sound of her heart thundering in her ears.

The room spun.

And she'd touched him down...
there!

He'd been so hard, so big, so terribly aroused.

Now she remembered how he'd groaned, how he'd begged her to stop.

She could smell him, taste him, hear him.

Omigod.

Unable to sit still a moment longer, Elena leapt out of bed and dragged open her curtains to find it snowing heavily beneath a leaden sky.

But she couldn't see it because her mind was merciless as it poured memories on top of memories along with feelings of lust, of need, of desire, of secrets told that should
never
, ever be told.

Dear god, had she really said those things to his face about her secret dreams, about him bending her over the sofa?

Had she
really
knelt on her bed and offered him her bare bottom?

Closing her eyes she shivered in reaction, torn between arousal and dismay and could feel the way his hands had trembled as he'd handled her as he'd stripped her dress, as he'd dressed her in her pyjamas, as he'd fought not to touch her.

What on earth had she done?

How could she look the man in the eye again?

How could she face him at work?

Elena whimpered, pressed her fingers to her mouth.

Now she really did feel sick.

But her heart wouldn't stop racing as she spun to look at her bed, to see the evidence of what she'd done. The way she'd stripped like a hooker. The stockings were on the floor, along with her panties,
proof
, and her dress. And now she stared down at her pyjama bottoms. The ones her best friend Lucy had bought her as a joke. Pink teddy bears and a huge pink T-shirt.

Omigod.

Now she raced into her bathroom to find a box of aspirin opened on the sink unit.

He'd given her two little pills and told her drink all the water in the glass.

And she'd done it.

Panic gripped her lungs and squeezed hard.

She stripped off her pyjamas, tossed them in the laundry basket and stepped into the shower.

The first sting of water was so icy she cried out loud.

Served her right, the voice of reason spoke.

As the water warmed, grew hot, she adjusted the thermostat.

And went through the motions of shampooing, conditioning, rinsing her hair. Then she slathered a foaming gel all over her body, avoiding her tingling nipples and the ache low in her belly. Even though mortification held her firmly in its grip, even though she'd no idea how she would ever look Marc in the eye again, she was incredibly aroused.

Now Elena recalled his face, his eyes, as he'd looked at her.

Maybe she'd imagined desire?

Maybe she'd imagined lust?

Maybe she'd imagined a mix of frustration and annoyance?

Maybe she needed her head examined?

Head spinning with too many hectic thoughts, she wrapped her hair in a warm towel, grabbed a large bath sheet, wound it around her body as she wandered into her bedroom and sank to the stool in front of her dressing table. She studied her face in the mirror and saw it all. Her eyes were too big for her face. She was too pale. And she was trembling with reaction.

How on earth could a dinner date with Tom have turned into this?

Her whole body was wound too tight, but she went through the motions of moisturising her face, of blow drying her short hair, of applying a little colour to her lips, her cheeks. God knew she needed it. It didn't take long. Like an automaton, she moved to her closet, dragged out ancient yoga pants, black, and an oversized sweatshirt, black, that had belonged to one of her brothers. In spite of the central heating her feet were freezing, so she pulled on thick socks and shoved her feet into ankle boots made of soft sheepskin, black.

Her eye was drawn to her cell phone on the small table at the side of her bed.

Elena bit her lip as she moved to pick it up, checked the number at the top and sure enough there was Marc's number.

Sinking to the edge of the bed, she wondered what to do for the best.

Should she phone him?

Maybe thank him for looking after her?

Maybe thank him for not taking advantage of her?

Elena tossed the phone on her unmade bed and held her spinning head in her hands as all the things, the words she'd used, spun into her mind again and again.

Eventually, Elena knew she had to get on with the day, eat breakfast, tidy the house, and then she'd decide what to do. She'd achieve nothing by sitting in her bedroom worried sick like a lemming.

With the phone clutched in her hand, Elena wandered down stairs, noticed her coat hanging on the peg in the hall, remembered Marc had hung it there. As soon as she entered her sitting room, the evidence of the night before was all there, too. The tray with tea things. The wood burner was still glowing. It needed wood, so she fed it and then turned to open her sitting room curtains to a day as grey as her mood. And felt a lot better once the cold light of day entered the room.

She picked up the tray, moved into the kitchen.

Then she opened the shutters, let in a skinny wintry light and smiled when she spotted a couple of robins playing tag as they fed from the selection of nuts and seeds in her bird feeder. As if walking in a dream, she switched on the kettle, popped a couple of slices of wholemeal toast into the toaster, rummaged around the fridge for cheese to add to the toast and milk for coffee. She'd just poured herself a mug of strong java and was standing leaning back against the smooth wood of her counter top, staring into space, when there was a brisk knock at the door.

And right away her heart took a mighty leap right into her mouth.

The thought spun into her chaotic mind that maybe she should ignore the door, pretend she was out, or still asleep. Maybe it wasn't Marc. Then Elena bit her lip, she hadn't heard the sound of a car engine. No sane person would be out driving in this weather. But Marc only lived a short distance away so he'd probably walked. Again there was a knock at the door, and this time it sounded impatient.

Taking a deep breath, Elena moved to place the mug on the counter top and realised her hands were shaking. But she straightened her spine and moved through her sitting room into the hall.

As the old song said, it was time to face the music.

Elena opened the door.