The Beach Hut Read Online Free PDF Page B

it was exposed - her collarbone, her shoulder, the back of her neck, her breast - oh God, she never knew that was what it was going to be like. She shivered as he continued his exploration, unable to believe what was happening, thrilling at the sensation of his lips on her skin.
    ‘I’ve never—’ she managed to gasp.
    ‘Sshh,’ he replied. ‘I know.’
    He calmed her, stroking her with firm, confident hands. She sank back into the comfort of the mattress as his fingers brushed the inside of her thighs. Instinctively she pushed herself towards him - she wanted to feel his touch, something inside was screaming out for contact. She’d never felt an urge as strong as this before - she’d experienced mild flutterings and pinpricks of pleasure when she’d danced with boys in London. Never this overwhelming, almost desperate need . . .
    When he finally touched her she gave a little gasp of shock, and then relaxed. It was alien to her, to have someone touch her there, but it felt so right, so delicious, and she didn’t feel self-conscious, not at all. He stroked her for what seemed like hours, and she purred with the pleasure of it, something immense building up inside, a sweet pain piercing her, drilling right into her core.
    Suddenly he stopped. She opened her eyes in indignation, but he rolled on top of her, spreading her legs so he could push himself inside her. And that felt even better, as if she was being totally possessed. She thrust at him to recapture the sensations, and he moved with her, and back it came, the pulsing, melting whirlpool . . .
    Her legs tightened round him as her first orgasm crashed through her.
     
    They lay for what seemed like hours, their arms wrapped around each other, not speaking. Occasionally he brushed his lips against her, as if to reassure her, but they were both in their own world, filled with wonder. She breathed in the smell of him, felt his sweat on her skin, unable to believe how relaxed she felt, lying naked next to him.
    Eventually he peeled himself away and she suddenly felt cold, as stark reality seeped into the room. What now? Did she just go back to her typing? Or would he expect her to leave?
    ‘We’re going to have such fun, you and me,’ he whispered, and she felt a smile spread over her face and her uncertainty vanish.
     
    Somehow she knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but she was ready for it. She was totally entranced. Spellbound. By his talent, by his wisdom, by the knowledge he instilled in her and the feelings he had awoken. She was totally in his thrall.
    When she came to work each day, she never knew what mood he was going to be in or how he was going to treat her. Sometimes he barely acknowledged her existence, and she might as well not have been there, in which case she went upstairs and carried on with her typing, happy to wait until he thawed. Sometimes he greeted her effusively and just wanted to talk. Other times he grabbed her, kissed her, pulled her down onto the floor. And he could switch himself off as quickly as he turned himself on. Blowing hot and cold was an understatement. He went from wintry, Arctic disregard, when his eyes barely seemed to see her, to the blazing heat of ardent passion, when all that seemed to matter was her.
    It was funny, but the uncertainty heightened everything for her, somehow. Of course she was disconsolate if she went back to her family in the evening having barely exchanged a word with him, but it made it all the more exciting when she became the centre of his universe the next day.
    She dreamt of becoming his muse. She dreamt of articles in the paper, about him declaring that he couldn’t write a word unless she was near him, how she inspired him. She dreamt of a house in London, with a yellow drawing room, and dinner parties, with her drifting in wearing the latest creations from the latest fashion house. Mr and Mrs Shaw. Jane Shaw. Terence and Jane Shaw, synonymous with glittering social gatherings and the very