Musical Beds (Food Of Love 2)

How lovely it felt, the way a simple meeting of lips could unravel your whole body, from head to toe. His arms were that perfect blend of strong and yielding, and his kiss held just a delightful hint of shyness, uncertainty.

This was not the arrogant, you-know-you-want-me kiss she had grown to expect from Milan, not by a long shot. Thi

s kiss begged, in the tenderest terms, ‘Please want me as much as I want you.’

She gave him the response he needed, moulding her body against his and letting her tongue dart along his lips, seeking a deeper connection, which he was only too happy to provide.

Then his shyness evaporated, and they were able to kiss on equal terms.

Could it be as simple as this? Two people who liked each other and found each other attractive, enjoying a passionate kiss? Had it ever been that simple before?

He’s too young. The thought flitted treacherously through her mind, but she banished it with her tongue’s determined machinations.

They sank deeper into sensation, Ben finding an old piano stool to sit on while he held Vanessa on his lap. Now the separate strands of desire were curling and twining, meeting in a solid knot of need, deep in her core. Did she dare?

She clung on to him, her fingers in his hair, willing him to move his hands away from the safety of her waist and neck.

But he accidentally kicked over a tambourine and the jingly clatter threw them off course, the kiss breaking in a mild panic.

“Shit! Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She smiled so widely she thought her cheekbones might seize up. “It’s okay.”

“Is it? I haven’t, you know, gone too far, or…?”

“Not yet. But I hope you will.”

“Oh, God. I can’t believe this is happening.”

He bumped his forehead against hers and held her all the tighter.

“Must admit, I feel pretty similar.”

“I mean, you, the woman I’ve been so in awe of and so?”

She put a finger to his lips.

“Tell you what,” she said. “Instead of the stream-of-consciousness blether, shall we go back to my place? It’s a lot less dusty and I’ve got good coffee.”

“Ohhh. Van. Ohhh. Really?”

“Really.”

Chapter Four

The Tube ride home was both wonderful and embarrassing. Vanessa felt as if she’d walked through a warp in the space–time continuum and had found her teenage self again. He stood behind her on the down escalator, his arms clasped around her, chin resting on her head. She wanted to smirk and wink at all the grumpy-looking commuters passing her on their way up, flaunting her new status as desired goddess-woman. They had to be jealous of her. Especially the younger women. She had whipped a prime specimen of manhood from under their pert little noses. It was like winning a massive national prize, raising the FA Cup aloft.

I win at life!

Then, on the train, he wanted to resume snogging as if they were still alone. She was tempted, very tempted, but conscious of her age and not wanting to appear ridiculous, so she turned her face away and muttered, “I’m not a teenager, darling.” She gave his hand a compensatory squeeze to let him know she wasn’t losing interest in him then whispered in his ear, “I’d like nothing more than to snog the face off you right now. But not on the Tube, please?”

“Sorry,” he whispered back. “Just can’t keep my hands off you.”

She let him sling his arm around her and offer his shoulder as a resting place for her head. This compromise suited them both and they sat like that, hand in hand, for the short ride to her station.

The distance from there to her flat was only about five hundred yards, but it took them a long time to reach it, since Ben stopped her every few paces to hug her close and kiss her lips, or forehead, or cheek, or neck.

“Don’t you want to come to my place?” she laughed, fending off the eighth such advance. “I might think you’re trying to put off the evil hour.”