Liz Fielding - British Bachelors - Tempting & New

The cool, practised mouth brushed hers lightly, even questioningly, then took possession, parting her lips with expert mastery, his tongue flickering against hers in a sensuous and subtle temptation totally outside her experience.

Her hands, instinctively raised to brace themselves against his chest and push him away, were instead trapped helplessly between them, and she could feel the tingling, pervasive warmth of his body against her spread palms, the steady throb of his heartbeat sending her own pulses jangling in a response as scaring as it was unwelcome.

Because she needed to resist him and the treacherous, almost languid wave of heat uncurling deep inside her, and the threat of its unleashed power. And knew she should do it now, as his kiss deepened in intensity and became an urgent demand.

Which was something she had to fight, she recognised, in some dazed corner of her mind, while she still had the will to do so.

Only it was all too late, because he, to her shame, was releasing her first. Putting her firmly away from him. And, as he did so, she realised the car had stopped, and that Charlie was already coming round to open the passenger door for her.

She stumbled out, drawing deep breaths of the cool night air, her sole intention to put the Vicarage’s solid front door between herself and her persecutor.

Except he was walking beside her, his hand inflexibly on her arm.

As they reached the porch, he said softly, ‘A word of advice, my sweet. When you eventually decide to surrender your virginity, choose a man who’s at least sober enough to appreciate you.’

She tore herself free and faced him, eyes blazing, nearly choking on the words. ‘You utter bastard. How dare you speak to me like that? Don’t you ever bloody touch me—come near me again.’

He tutted reprovingly. ‘What language. I hope for your sake that none of the morality brigade are listening.’

She spun on her heel, fumbling in her bag for her key, sensing rather than hearing the departure of the car down the drive. Trying desperately to calm herself before facing her father.

As she closed the door behind her, she called, ‘Hi, I’m home.’ But there was no reply and once again there were no lights showing.

It seemed that she had the house to herself. And with that realisation, the tight rein on her emotions snapped, and she burst uncontrollably and noisily into a flood of tears.

CHAPTER SIX

TAVY SPENT A restless, miserable night, and responded reluctantly to the sound of the alarm the following morning.

Clutching a handful of damp tissues, she’d stared into the darkness trying to make sense of Patrick’s extraordinary behaviour, and failing miserably.

But the chief barrier between herself and sleep was her body’s unexpected and unwelcome response to Jago Marsh’s mouth moving on hers. The warm, heavy throb across her nerve-endings, the stammer of her pulses, and, most shamingly, the swift carnal scald of need between her thighs—all sensations returning to torment her.

Reminding her that—just for a moment—she had not wanted him to stop...

She’d been caught off guard—that was all, she told herself defensively. And she would make damned sure that it never happened again.

When she got to the school, Mrs Wilding was waiting impatiently. ‘Oh, there you are, Octavia,’ she said as if Tavy was ten minutes late instead of five minutes early. ‘I want you to sort out the library this morning. Make sure all the books are catalogued, and shelved properly. List any that need to be replaced and repair any that are slightly worn.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I shall be going out.’

Tavy could remember carrying out the self-same operation, fully and thoroughly, at the end of the previous term, but knew better than to say so, merely replying, ‘Yes, Mrs Wilding.’

As she’d suspected, the library was in its usual neat order, and there was nothing to add to the list of replacements from the last check. Although she could do something brave and daring like creating a parallel list of books, and suggest that the library should be treated to a mass buying programme.

Some hopes, she thought with self-derision as she returned to her cubbyhole. Mrs Wilding liked the idea of a library because it sent a positive literacy message to the parents, but did not regard it as an investment.

She reprinted the original list, then sat staring at the computer screen, wondering how to occupy herself. Apart from the cheerful sound of Radio Two emanating faintly from Matron’s room, the place was silent.

Her hand moved slowly, almost in spite of itself, clicking the mouse to take her online, then keying in ‘Descent’.

She drew a breath, noting that the entries about them seemed endless. She scrolled down the page and Jago smiled out at her, sitting on a step, a can of beer in his hand, next to a fair-haired guy with a thin, serious face, both of them stripped to the waist and wearing jeans.

For a moment she felt something stir inside her, soft, almost aching, and clicked hastily on to ‘The Making of Descent’. She read that while Pete Hilton, the fair serious one, and Jago had met at public school and started writing songs together, they’d only made contact with the other members of the band, keyboard player and vocalist Tug Austin and drummer Verne Hallam when they’d all subsequently enrolled at the Capital School of Art in London.

They’d started playing gigs at schools and colleges in London, their music becoming increasingly successful, allied with a reputation for drinking and wild behaviour, and leading them to be thrown out of art college at the start of their third year.

At first they’d called themselves Scattergun, and it was only when they’d been offered their first recording contract that they changed their name to Descent, soon scoring their first huge, groundbreaking hit with Easy, Easy.

Tavy went on reading about the tours, the sell-out concerts, the awards, all accompanied by a riotous, unbridled lifestyle, fuelled by alcohol and, it was hinted, drugs, that apparently became the stuff of legends. Or horror stories.

There were more pictures too, involving girls. She recognised a lot of them—models, film and TV stars, other musicians. The kind who made the covers of celebrity magazines. But not usually half-dressed, dishevelled and hung-over. And many of them entwined with Jago.

The narrative was punctuated by scraps of Descent’s music, raw, raunchy, ferocious, and available with one click.

It was, she thought with shocked disbelief, like discovering there were actually aliens on other planets.

Making her realise just how sheltered her life in Hazelton Magna had been from the overheated world of rock music, reality television and instant celebrity. Making her see why Jago’s arrival could well be regarded locally as an unwarranted invasion. How, in spite of her regrettable incursion into his grounds, he was the real trespasser.

She wanted to stop reading, but something made her continue. Some compulsion to know everything, as if that could possibly make her understand the inexplicable.

‘Sometimes the demons you find there make the return journey with you...’

His words. And she shivered again.

The band, she read, had broken up three years earlier, citing ‘artistic differences’. But they had reunited a year later, with a UK tour planned. But this project had been cancelled following Pete Hilton’s sudden departure, caused, it was rumoured, by a fight with Jago Marsh. After which Descent had come to an abrupt end, the other band members dispersing, said the article, ‘to pursue other interests’.

Like buying neglected country houses, thought Tavy, returning dispiritedly to the computer’s home page. And her researches had done nothing to allay her fears or quell her inner disturbance over Jago Marsh. On the contrary, in fact.