Page 78 of The Importance of Being Emma
But what if he rejected me? No, he wouldn’t. Not this time.
‘I need you to undo my dress.’ I stumbled over to him — must have tripped on something on the floor — and flopped face down on the bed.
He cleared his throat. ‘And I need you to go to your room. Now.’
‘Can’t undo it myself,’ I went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Please, Mark.’
Silence. I closed my eyes and held my breath.
And then . . . warm fingers on the bare skin of my back, so gentle I could hardly feel them. Yet the very knowledge that he was touching me, in a way that he’d never done before, sent a quiver through my entire body.
‘Sorry, did I hurt you?’ he said, uncertainly.
‘No.’
‘There.’ He took his hand away and his voice became brisk again. ‘That’s the little hook done, can you manage the zip yourself?’
I made a feeble attempt to reach behind me, then let my arms drop back onto the bed.
He gave a long, uneven sigh. ‘Here, you can’t do anything if you’re hanging on to your room key for dear life, give it to me.’ Our fingers touched briefly as he took the key; I heard the jangle as he placed it on the bedside table. ‘OK, I’ll unzip you,’ he went on, ‘then you’re going back to your room.’
I felt the mattress dip slightly as he sat on the bed beside me, but it seemed like several minutes before his fingers touched my back again and started on the zip. Even then he took his time, unfastening it very, very carefully. As I listened to his soft, steady breathing, I wondered what it would take to make him lose control.
When he reached the most ticklish part of my back, I couldn’t help giggling. I squirmed away from him, vaguely aware of my dress working loose.
‘Don’t, Mark, that tickles!’
I rolled over and stopped giggling instantly. He was staring down at me, at my naked breasts. And his face too was naked, stripped of its mask, revealing such hunger . . . Oh, I needn’t have worried about rejection. From the look of him, I couldn’t escape — even if I wanted to.
Our eyes locked. I reached up and traced his lips with my fingertip.
‘Kiss me,’ I whispered.
He pushed my hand away. ‘No. Once I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop.’
Didn’t he realise? That was the whole bloody point. ‘Kiss me, then.’
‘For God’s sake, Emma, you don’t understand.’
He made a half-hearted attempt to get up, but I was having none of it. I put my arms round his neck and pulled him down towards me.
No going back now.
Chapter Ten
~~MARK~~
I followed Emma upstairs, telling myself it was purely out of a Henry-like concern to see that she reached her room safely. But I couldn’t help a sigh of relief when I saw her go through the door of 107 alone.
I continued along the corridor to my room, stripped off my jacket, shirt and bow tie and dropped them on the nearest chair. As I did so, something heavy clunked against the curved wooden back. I fumbled inside one of the jacket pockets and found the little bottle of sloe gin that Mary had given me earlier, with a coy assurance that it would help me forget all my troubles.
By this stage, I was ready to try anything. In some ways it had been a typical office party; too much drinking and people doing things they’d really regret the next day. In other ways, however, it had been a reality check — seeing Churchill’s flirtatious behaviour towards Emma well and truly reciprocated.
I poured the vibrant pink liquid into a tumbler from the bathroom, cursing when some spilled over my fingers and onto my bare chest. Too much hassle to wash it off now; it could wait until my shower in the morning. I turned down the lights, slumped in a chair, flicked through the TV channels and sipped my drink, enjoying its relaxing effects. While it didn’t make me forget my troubles, it certainly made them a lot more bearable.
As I was contemplating whether to finish the last few mouthfuls now or later, there was a knock at the door. What if this was Emma? I would be polite but firm. Discussion at this time of night was pointless — and dangerous. I switched off the TV, put down the tumbler and went to the door.
‘Polite but firm,’ I muttered to myself, ‘polite but — Harriet! What can I do for you?’
