Page 22 of Love in Tune

‘Yup.’ Honey pulled the artfully arranged pins from her hair and mussed it loose with her fingers, shoving the hairpins into the pocket of her denim skirt.

‘So what did you get wrong, Honeysuckle? Are you dressed like a nun or something?’

‘Piss off. I made an effort. I wore matching undies and everything, even though he was never going to find out.’

‘You mean your knickers actually say Friday?’

‘Ha bloody ha, Hal. No. I mean I tried to look nice for him and he didn’t even notice.’

She leaned against the wall, suddenly weary with the whole thing.

‘You smell good,’ Hal said quietly. ‘And I’m willing to bet you look good, too.’

Honey swallowed hard. Here he went with his ten per cent of brilliance, and here she went going jelly-kneed on him again.

‘I tried pretty hard,’ she said. ‘This skirt’s a twelve, and in a perfect world I’m a thirteen.’

She swayed a little on her feet, and for no reason other than her wine-emboldened hands insisted, she reached out and for the second time in her life, touched his jaw.

He let her, and then stepped closer and let her lift his hand and lay it against her cheek too.

If Deano had stripped her naked and screwed her on the sticky carpet of The Cock Inn he couldn’t have possibly fired off more sparks of sexual awareness than the simple touch of Hal’s palm against her face. Honey felt it right down to her bones.

‘A thirteen, huh? I didn’t know they did that size,’ he murmured, and she could feel his smile in her hand. It was a rarity, and all the more special for it.

‘They don’t, but I wish they did,’ she said, laying her other hand flat over the steady thud of his heart. She had no clue what she was doing. Instinct and chardonnay-lowered inhibitions were in charge of the situation, and she was close enough to Hal to know that whisky was involved in the equation too. He wasn’t drunk, but he certainly matched her on the scale right now.

She turned her back against the hallway wall and Hal moved with her, his body so close she could feel the heat of him.

‘Did Deano walk you home at least?’ he said. His hand was still on her jaw, and he let his thumb graze along her bottom lip, and then back again more slowly. Honey knew he must have been able to feel her holding her breath.

‘No,’ she whispered with the tiniest shake of her head, bunching the cotton of his t-shirt in her fingers to tug him nearer.

‘Not much of a gentleman, is he, our Deano. Did he kiss you goodnight?’ Honey could almost taste the late-night whisky on his breath, and wondered if he could smell the wine on hers.

‘No,’ she said again. ‘Deano didn’t kiss me, Hal.’

‘What a prick. All good first dates should end in a goodnight kiss,’ he said, and Honey closed her eyes as he lowered his head to hers and covered her lips with his own. Her arms slipped around his neck as his hand slid into her hair, cupping the side of her head as his mouth started to move, slow and warm, the hint of his tongue delicious against hers. She heard a low moan and wasn’t certain if it was hers or his, and moved her hands in his dark hair to hold him to her. Not that Hal seemed to be considering escape; his fingers moved restlessly beneath the edge of her top, scorching the skin of her back until she wanted to rip her own clothes off and feel his hands everywhere.

She was suddenly so glad that Deano wasn’t over his ex; so glad he hadn’t kissed her tonight, because then she’d have missed out on Hal kissing her breathlessly in their hallway, missed the sexiest couple of minutes of her life. He opened her lips with his own and explored her with his tongue, the hard warmth of his body pressing her into the wall as his fingertips massaged the hollow at the base of her spine. He tasted of scotch, and he felt like heaven under her hands. She learned things about him that only kisses can tell you. She learned that he’d be a skilled, considerate lover, and that he could kiss her in a way that made every inch of her body yearn to be naked against his. The man had skills that should be illegal. And then he took the kiss to a deeper level, open mouthed and so laden with pure lust when he licked inside her mouth that all she wanted was his mouth on hers all night. She pulled his t-shirt up and stroked his back, loving the way it made him groan against her lips. His skin was as smooth as silk sheets and as warm as fresh toast beneath her palms, firm and defined and utterly, utterly beautiful to touch. She wanted to touch him all over.

‘Let’s go inside,’ she whispered against his lips. ‘Take me to bed, Hal. Your bed. My bed. I don’t care which.’

His hand stilled in her hair, and his heart banging against hers told her that he was as turned on as she was. His mouth slowed to a barely there trace, lingering, tasting her lips as if they held the last drops of precious champagne.

And then he broke the kiss, still holding her, shaking his head a little as if trying to clear it, or worse, as if he were ashamed.

‘I don’t play the piano, Honey,’ he said, his lips moving against her ear. ‘I’m not the man.’

‘I don’t care, Hal. I don’t even want a pianist,’ she said, clinging to him, hating that she could sense his withdrawal from her. ‘I think it should be you. You’re the man I need. No one’s ever kissed me like that.’

‘Then you’ve been kissing the wrong men,’ he said gently, his hands finding her shoulders as he stepped back. ‘Go inside, Strawberry Girl. Go to bed. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I won’t do it again.’

She didn’t need to be able to see his eyes to know that he was lying. He’d wanted that kiss every bit as much as she had.

‘There,’ he murmured, propelling her gently across the tiles. ‘You’ve been walked home and kissed goodnight. Consider your date officially rescued.’

She watched him disappear through his door, knowing with certainty that she’d spent ninety-five per cent of the night with the wrong man.

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