Sara Craven Tribute Collection - Sara Craven

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thought, as she started, dazedly, to pat herself dry under his unwavering scrutiny. She was already running a high fever. Her legs were shaking so much that she thought she might collapse and her blood was on fire. And he had to know this.

      When she had finished, she paused, her eyes asking a question. He nodded, as if she had spoken aloud. He took the edges of the bath sheet, using them to pull her gently towards him. His arms enfolded her and his mouth came down on hers in a slow, deep kiss that sent her already reeling senses into free fall.

      When he raised his head, his own breathing was ragged. He drew the edges of the bath sheet apart and began to kiss her body, his lips drifting soft as thistledown from her throat down to her breasts, then travelling over her ribcage to the faint concavity of her abdomen.

      He sank down on one knee, his hands holding her hips as the trail of kisses continued downward. When he reached the division of her thighs, and parted them, she gave a little startled cry as she felt his mouth on the burning core of her, the silken eroticism of his tongue as he pleasured her tiny secret bud.

      She wanted to tell him that he must not do this—that he should stop. But she could not speak.

      She was conscious of nothing but the exquisite sensations rippling through her as he continued his intimate caress. Every atom of her being was focused almost painfully on her growing delight. And then, almost before she was aware, her body imploded into orgasm, the pulsations so strong she thought she might faint.

      There were tears running down her face. He wiped them away with the edge of the towel, then picked her up in his arms and carried her towards the door.

      ‘Where are we going?’ Her voice was a breathless squeak.

      ‘Back to bed.’

      ‘But we were going to have breakfast.’

      ‘I think now that is going to be—very much later.’ He bent and kissed her mouth, fiercely, sensually. ‘Don’t you agree, mia cara?’

      Flora pressed her lips against the triangle of hair-darkened skin revealed by his unfastened shirt. ‘Yes, Marco.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Oh—yes—please.’

      A LONG time later, lying in his arms, Flora said dreamily, ‘I think we’ve missed breakfast—but it could always become lunch.’

      Marco tipped up her chin and looked down at her, brows raised austerely. ‘You mean I am not enough for you? You want food as well?’

      She gave a soft giggle. ‘I think I need to keep my strength up—if this is how you mean us to spend our time.’

      She felt the arm that encircled her harden with sudden tension, and realised, with shock, that she’d spoken as if they had a real relationship. That she’d made unwise assumptions about a future which almost certainly did not exist.

      She turned away quickly as her face warmed in helpless embarrassment. ‘Anyway—I—I’ll get us something to eat…’ she added with determined brightness.

      She pushed away the covering sheet, then hesitated as she remembered that her robe was in the bathroom.

      It was ludicrous, she thought with bewilderment. This was the man with whom she’d been intimately entwined for the best part of twelve hours, who had explored and kissed every inch of her body, and yet, in the space of a drawn breath, everything had changed. And suddenly she was reluctant to walk around naked in front of him.

      Lack of inhibition was different when it was fuelled by passion. She’d given herself to him again and again in unthinking delight. Learned to bestow pleasure as well as receive it.

      But now reason had intervened.

      And it was still nothing more than a one-night stand, no matter how she might try to justify it. There’d been no commitment of any kind between them. It had been—just sex. A transient pleasure. And now the sex was over she felt awkward and bewildered—unsure how to behave.

      Because Marco, in so many ways, was still a stranger to her, she acknowledged unhappily. Someone who had walked into her life a few days ago and who would soon be leaving in the same casual way.

      And it was naïve of her to have supposed—or hoped—that anything that had happened had any real importance in the great scheme of things.

      As a lover Marco was gifted, patient and imaginative, luring her into areas of sensuousness she had not know existed.

      But she knew that no amount of pleasure would ever be matched by the pain of watching him leave.

      It’s so easy for a man, she thought sadly. He can just get dressed and go. Whereas I—I’ve slept with Marco once, and now I want to make him a meal. Next I’ll be wanting to have his baby.

      Behind her, Marco moved. ‘Is something wrong?’ He brushed his lips gently across the small of her back. ‘You are not having—regrets?’

      ‘No—of course not.’ She spoke bravely, not looking at him. ‘I was just wondering—where I’d left my dressing gown.’

      She heard the smile in his voice. ‘Does that really matter?’

      She said shortly, ‘It does to me.’

      There was a silence, then he said slowly, ‘Cara, are you trying to tell me you are—shy?’

      She bit her lip. ‘Is that so extraordinary?’

      He said, ‘A little, perhaps, considering what you and I were doing to each other a little while ago.’ He paused. ‘Would it make things easier for you if I promised to shut my eyes?’

      ‘Yes,’ she agreed with a touch of defiance. ‘Yes, it would.’

      He sighed. ‘Just for you, then, mia bella.’

      Flora slipped out of bed and made for the door. As she reached it something prompted her to look back over her shoulder.

      Marco was propped up on an elbow, watching her with undisguised and shameless appreciation.

      ‘Oh,’ she choked furiously, and flew to the bathroom, followed by his laughter.

      By the time she had prepared lunch, adding fresh fruit and a dish of black olives to the food he’d provided, and choosing a bottle of wine, she was feeling altogether more composed.

      While he’d been in the bathroom she’d snatched the opportunity to dress, in a brief blue skirt and white tee shirt, and give her hair a vigorous brushing.

      She looked different, she realised with a sense of shock as she glanced at herself in the mirror. There was a new glow to her creamy skin, a woman’s shining secrets in her eyes. She was no longer the innocent of twenty-four hours ago, and everything about her proclaimed it.

      All she needed to do now was develop a persona to go with her new-found sexual sophistication, she thought wryly. Find something hip and flippant to accompany her smile when she waved Marco goodbye. Proving beyond doubt, she hoped, that she’d always known this was a strictly casual encounter.

      When she was alone she ate at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, but for guests she kept a folding table in the walk-in cupboard in the hall. She’d set this up in the corner of the living room, with the directors’ chairs which accompanied it.

      She was just opening the wine when Marco came to the door.

      ‘Bello,’ he approved softly. ‘A feast.’ He indicated the towel draped decorously round his hips. ‘See, I am sparing your blushes, cara.’

      Flora bit her lip. ‘You must think I’m awfully stupid…’

      ‘You are wrong. I find you a delight.’ He held out a hand. ‘Come to me.’

      She went over to him and he drew her close, resting his cheek against the top of

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