Free Never Forget Me by Marguerite Kaye Page A

much more? His mouth enveloping her nipple, sucking, licking, making her shiver, making the knot inside her tighten.
    She could feel the hardness of his erection pressing into her thigh. His kisses became more heated. He slid his hand down, under the waistband of her knickers. She tugged his singlet free of his trousers to run her hands up the knotted length of his spine, revelling in the way his muscles flexed beneath her trembling touch.
    His hand cupped the heat between her legs. ‘More,’ she gasped, not meaning to say the word aloud, even though she was thinking it. He slid his finger inside her so easily. Deeper. Then he touched her, a sliding, stroking touch that made her lose all sense of everything except what he was making her feel. His mouth on hers. Her hands on his skin, clinging, digging into him, and his fingers sliding, stroking, until she could bear no more, and it was as if she was tearing apart. Her climax ripped through her. When she finally opened her eyes, it was as if she was another, quite different Flora.
    He was gazing at her, dark eyes, flushed cheeks, unreadable expression. ‘Geraint?’
    * * *
    He rolled away from her and got hurriedly to his feet. Dazed in the aftermath of her climax, she stared at him as he tucked his singlet hurriedly back into his trousers, picking up her gown, holding it out for her to step into. ‘It’s gone too far, Flora. Much too far.’
    His voice sounded curt. As he turned her around to fasten her dress, she flinched. Fool. What a bloody stupid fool he was. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘Don’t say that.’ She turned on him, her face stricken. ‘Don’t apologise. It makes it worse.’
    She was searching for her shoes under her mackintosh. It had grown dark outside, though it couldn’t be much after four. He stooped to help her. ‘Here.’
    She snatched the shoes from his hands and tried to put them on, hopping on one foot, and when he tried to help her, she pushed him away. ‘Leave me alone.’ She dropped onto the wooden bench, staring dejectedly into space.
    He took her shoes and knelt before her to put them on before sitting down beside her on the bench. ‘Flora, it’s not that I don’t want you, you must not think that. I have never, ever wanted anyone as much as I want you, but it would be wrong. You know that. We both do.’
    She refused to meet his eyes. ‘Flora, it’s because I care for you that I stopped.’
    Finally, she looked at him. ‘Do you?’
    ‘More than I realised. More than is right.’
    ‘Right? Please don’t tell me that it’s because of who I am, Geraint. Please don’t tell me that it’s because we are from—what did Sheila call it?—different sides of the fence.’
    * * *
    ‘Is that what Sheila said? She’s right, but it’s not that. Not just that.’ Geraint got to his feet and picked up his tunic. Sitting next to Flora was distracting. His body still yearned for satisfaction. The more clothes, and distance, he could put between them the better. ‘You’re still a virgin, Flora,’ he said bluntly. ‘I won’t take that from you when there can be no future for us. That honour will go to your husband, the lucky man. And don’t tell me that it doesn’t matter, because I know damn well it will. I won’t compromise you.’
    ‘You make me sound like some sort of Victorian heiress, for goodness’ sake. We are in the twentieth century, not the nineteenth.’
    ‘But some things still matter, and that’s one of them. Another thing that matters is this damned war. I’ll be going to the front sooner or later, and the chances are, if I come back at all, I’ll not be the man I am now. Even if things were different, even if we did want the same things from life...’
    ‘I have no idea what I want.’
    ‘But you’re finding out.’
    ‘Thanks to you.’
    He shook his head. ‘You’re doing it all yourself. You can do so much more than you think, Flora. This war could be the making of you, if you wanted it to be.’
    ‘But you