The Awakening of Poppy Edwards Read Free

was nervous, too. He didn’t seem to me to be the type of man to be nervous—quite the opposite. But when he kissed me—like I said, he seemed on edge.
    How to describe a kiss? I can say it was perfect, and it was, but my idea of perfect probably isn’t yours. His mouth fit mine. It felt—right. He kissed just right. Not stagy. Not a screen kiss, all posture and fluttering hands. Gentle, like I said. But not reassuring, you know, not the kind of kiss where you think there’s nothing else. I was very sure there was more—and I wanted more. That kiss had an edge to it. An appetizer of a kiss.
    He slid his hands under my dinner jacket. He didn’t grab, he stroked, as though he was trying to find out my shape under my shapeless clothes. I liked that. I liked the way we were both wearing the same thing, but he looked so different in his. His suit fit him. An expensive, made-to-measure job. Mine wasn’t even off-the-peg; it was out of the prop department. And it didn’t fit at all. What it did, though, was make me feel so much more female beside him. A real cliché, I know that, but there’s a reason why such things become clichés.
    He liked it, too, the way we looked. And he liked looking. I didn’t usually. I see far too much of myself on-screen to want to look when I don’t have to. There was a mirror on the wall. One of those fancy ones, all jagged edges decorated with coloured glass. He stood me in front of it and put his arms around me, opening my jacket. My body was pressed back against his. I could feel he was hard. He was much taller than me. Much broader. The contrast between the two of us and the way were dressed the same—it was arousing. Odd, but arousing.
    He slid my jacket off and began to unbutton my waistcoat. I watched his hands on me in the mirror. His mouth on my neck. His breath on my cheek. My waistcoat slid to the floor. He opened his palms and cupped my breasts through the starched front of my shirt. Tanned hands. White shirt. My nipples were as hard as he was. Throbbing like he was. As he stroked them, I rubbed my behind against the ridge of him, and watched his eyes close in response.
    He pulled my shirt out of my trousers. They call them pants over here. Even after five years, that still sounds terrifically rude to me. He touched me, with just the silk of my chemise between us now. His hands sliding flat over it, spanning my waist, up to my breasts again, teasing them into such an agonising delight. Then one hand down, sliding past the wide waistband of my trousers, under the silk of my knickers, and it was my turn to close my eyes. Just for a second. Then I opened them. I wanted to watch.
    I was amazed at how wet I was. He slid into me so easily. Stupid, but my knees really did buckle. His hand on my breast supported me. Then the assault began. On my nipple and inside me, sliding, stroking and teasing. And I watched, fascinated, as if it wasn’t me. My face was flushed; my eyes seemed huge. His were fixed on me, watching, intent, as he touched me, as if he knew exactly how to touch me, just as he’d known exactly how to kiss me.
    I wanted it to go on forever, that hot wet slide, that mesmerising stroking, so soft, so sweet, such a contrast with the sharper tightening when he teased my nipple, and the spark seemed to run all the way down through my belly to the spot between my legs, which started to throb. More insistent now. Did he read it in my face, that I wanted that? I don’t know. I was watching, but I wasn’t thinking as he touched me, stroked me, making me pant and clench and heat, as though I was melting around the hot core of me that he touched, and when I came my eyes closed and I heard myself, a harsh cry, and I felt him picking me up, and I clung onto him like some helpless maiden, the kind that’s always getting rescued from train tracks in the movies.
    He set me down on the bed. ‘Have you got…?’ I asked, and he nodded, leaving me briefly to get the preservative from