She finally managed to tear her eyes away. ‘I’ll just...go and let you get dressed.’ She turned and bolted for the door, almost knocking herself out in her haste to open it.
Raoul watched her leave with a smile lingering on his mouth. She was an intriguing mix of sassy-smart mouth and shy schoolgirl. He couldn’t make up his mind which persona he liked best.
You like her?
He looked down at the bulge of his erection. Yeah, it seems I do.
He pushed back from where his mind was heading, a frown rapidly replacing his smile. He didn’t want an affair with anyone until he could be physically whole again. He could not bear the thought of a pity lay. He could just imagine the utter humiliation of it. Could there be a crueller punishment than to reduce a playboy to that?
He was used to taking the lead in sex. He enjoyed sex. He had a strong drive but he knew how to contain it. He was a good lover. He wasn’t selfish or self-serving; he wasn’t averse to the odd quickie up against a wall or kitchen worktop, but only if the woman was with him all the way.
His gut twisted at the thought of never experiencing that primal power again. Even if he could perform he would be confined to doing it in bed. He wouldn’t even be able to carry the woman to the bedroom. He would be old before his time.
He swore savagely as he reached for his clothes. If he still believed in God he would have cursed him, too. He had never been a violent person—not like his grandfather, who could fly off the handle at a moment’s notice—but right now he wanted to punch his fist through the nearest wall in frustration. His mood soured like milk that had been left all day in the sun. It curdled his sense of humour; it made rancid every remotely positive thought that entered his head.
You have to get through this.
How? He wanted to shout it until his voice cracked. How am I supposed to get through this?
Raoul eased himself off the table, but just as he was about to lower himself into his chair it moved out of reach. He made a grab for it but he only managed to push it further away. Anger and frustration surged like an erupting volcano inside him.
This is not my life.
I don’t want to be like this.
He considered calling Lily to help him, but pride forestalled him. Surely he could get back in the damn chair without her help? It was only a step or two away. He held on to the table for balance, willing his right leg to move the short distance. He gritted his teeth and stretched out his hand. Almost there....
Raoul took a half-shuffle, half-hopping step with his right leg but his left leg wouldn’t come to the party. It folded under him like a wet noodle and he landed in a crumpled heap on the floor, banging his forehead for good measure against the metal footplate of the wheelchair. The curse he let out cut through the air like a blade.
‘Are you all right?’ Lily called from the other side of the door.
He ground his teeth as he eased himself up on one elbow. ‘I’m fine.’
The door opened and her eyes went wide as she came in. ‘What happened?’
‘What do you think happened?’ He glared at her. ‘I thought it’d be fun to look at the ceiling from this angle.’
She crouched down beside him, her slate-blue gaze concerned as she reached out to brush his hair back from his forehead. ‘You’ve cut your forehead.’ Her touch was as gentle as a feather and it made his skin lift up in goose bumps.
‘Lucky me. A towel crease and a cut.’
She got up from the floor to fetch a tissue from a box next to the oil dispenser. She came back to him, kneeling beside him again, the tissue neatly folded into a square as she pressed it like a compress to his forehead just above his right eye.
His gaze meshed with hers.
A timeless moment passed.
Raoul could smell her fragrance—a light, flowery scent that was understated and yet utterly, powerfully feminine. Her eyes were like dark pools, fringed by sooty black lashes that curled up at the ends like a child’s. Her skin was flawless, like smooth cream or priceless fine porcelain, her lips soft and a dark pinkish-red, just ripe for tasting.
He could feel her warm, vanilla-scented breath on his face. Her breathing had quickened, but then so too had his, along with his blood. It stuttered and then roared through his veins as his latent desire took a foothold and then pressed the pedal down—hard.
He slid his left hand beneath her silky ponytail. He heard the rapid little uptake of her breath and felt her hand still on his forehead, but she didn’t pull away. Her lashes lowered over her eyes as she darted a quick glance at his mouth. He saw her moisten her lower lip, then the top one, with the tip of her tongue.
He applied the gentlest pressure to the nape of her neck to bring her closer to his slowly descending mouth.
He didn’t kiss her straight away. He played with her lips with little pushes, little rubs and little teasing tastes, letting their breaths mingle and mate. She made a soft little sound, not a gasp, not a sigh, but something in between. Her lips were unbelievably soft and warm and tasted like the first harvest of sweet summer strawberries. He felt the shy hesitancy of her touch as one of her hands came to rest against his chest.
He covered her mouth with his, applying the slightest pressure, waiting for her to come back at him with the signal she wanted more.