Caroline Anderson - Anyone Can Dream

‘Steady,’ he laughed, but his voice wasn’t steady, and nor were his hands as he wrenched off the shirt and came back to lie against her, the soft, slightly wiry hair on his chest chafing against her unbearably sensitive nipples.

‘Please,’ she begged, and seconds later she felt his hand slide between them, easing her skirt aside and cupping the aching mound of her womanhood in his hard, hot palm.

She bucked under his hand, needing more, needing him, but he was in no hurry now, his fingers making slow, leisurely explorations of their own.

She felt his hand slip under the edge of her tiny bikini pants and move down again, the long, strong fingers probing, searching for something.

He found it, his touch unerring, and Charlotte felt something inside her give and shatter.

‘William,’ she sobbed, and then the sensations flooded her, blinding her, leaving her shaken and weeping in his arms.

‘Frigid my aunt Fanny,’ he said softly, and, smoothing her skirt down over her trembling thighs, he gathered her in his arms and held her till she was quiet.

Then he lifted his head and stared down into her face. ‘Your eyes are like crushed pansies,’ he murmured.

‘More like crushed tomatoes,’ she said with a sniff.

He chuckled. ‘No. You look gorgeous.’

She felt hot colour flood her cheeks. ‘I feel an idiot,’ she told him candidly.

‘Why?’

‘Why? I just—after what I did—why?’

He laughed again, his voice softly teasing, and hugged her. ‘You were beautiful. Warm, soft, all woman.’

Something occurred to her.

‘What about you?’ she asked shyly, dreading his reply.

‘What about me? I’ll live.’

‘But you …’

‘I said I’ll live,’ he repeated, but she could feel the hard ridge against her thigh and knew he was still aroused.

She wished she felt confident enough to return the compliment, but the whole experience had left her shaken and she didn’t feel she could cope with any more.

It seemed she didn’t have to. He eased his weight off her and retrieved his shirt, gazing ruefully at the ripped buttonholes.

‘Oh, well,’ he said philosophically, and tugged it on anyway. Charlotte sat up, acutely aware of her bare breasts, and struggled with the catch on the back of her bra.

‘Let me,’ he offered, kneeling down at her feet, and, reaching round her, he clipped the catch together easily.

‘You’ve done that before,’ she said, struggling for a teasing note, and he grinned like quicksilver.

‘Once or twice.’

He drew the edges of her blouse together and buttoned it, his fingers steady now, and as she looked down at his bent head a huge well of some nameless emotion rose up inside her.

‘William?’ she said tentatively.

He lifted his head. ‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

For a second he was silent, then his arms came round her and crushed her against his chest. ‘My pleasure,’ he murmured.

‘I rather thought it was mine,’ she said with a sniff.

‘Don’t be pedantic’ He winked and got to his feet. ‘Coffee?’

She nodded. ‘Please. I’ll help you.’

She followed him out to the kitchen and looked around. There was a litter of plates and dishes all over the worktops, and she moved quickly to the sink and started running the water.

Instantly his hand reached round and turned off the tap.

‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it in the morning.’

‘Oh, no, it’s the least I can do.’

A blaze of anger flared behind his eyes, and he laid his hand over hers on the tap, preventing her from turning it on again.

‘No. You don’t have to earn favours in this house, Charlotte.’

She flushed. ‘But I can’t just leave it all——’

‘Yes, you can, and you will.’

‘But——’

‘No more buts. Come on, the coffee’s done. Let’s go back into the sitting-room.’

She followed him with a sigh. If only he’d let her tidy up, then she needn’t feel so guilty about——

‘Stop it.’

‘Stop what?’

‘Trying to balance the books. You’ve had fun, so you have to pay—is that right? Is that what he did to you? If you went out and enjoyed yourself, you had to pay for it?’

She flushed, and he reached for her and pulled her down on to the sofa against his side.

‘Oh, Charlotte,’ he said softly.

She straightened away from him. ‘I’m all right,’ she said.

‘In a pig’s eye.’

‘I am—really.’

‘Is that why you’re on your own? Because you’re all right?’

She looked at him blankly. ‘You’re on your own, too. If everything’s so hunky-dory in your world, how come you haven’t got a nice cosy little wife and family?’

Something shifted in his face, some lingering regret.

‘I never said everything was hunky-dory in my world,’ he said quietly.

‘Are you divorced too?’ she asked him, and found herself dreading his reply.

He shook his head. ‘No—not divorced. My wife’s dead. She died five years ago.’

IN THE next few days, Charlotte ran that conversation through her head over and over again, but the shock of it didn’t leave her. Instead she found herself growing more and more curious about the circumstances of his wife’s death.

He had said nothing more, changing the subject and leaving Charlotte with the distinct impression that it was a topic that was strictly taboo.

She hadn’t stayed long after that, driving home to her flat and going straight to bed, to lie there and remember the warmth of his mouth, the touch of his hands, and the incredible sensations he had wrought in her.

That he had denied himself still amazed her, all these days later, and the other thing that amazed her was how easy it was to work with him in the hospital without shame or embarrassment. She had expected at the very least to feel uneasy, but he was his usual warm, open self, and any fears she’d had were soon laid to rest. In fact he was so busy putting her at her ease that she ended up wondering if the whole event had been completely meaningless for him.

On Wednesday night they were on duty again, and, although Charlotte by this time had had a little more experience and had even done her first unsupervised repair, still William insisted on being close at hand.

‘It wouldn’t take you long to come from home,’ she reasoned, but he wouldn’t be moved.

‘If you don’t recognise a problem quickly enough, that extra five minutes could make all the difference. Mrs Rimmer doesn’t seem to be getting on all that fast, and I’d rather be around.’

So she agreed, and in the end she was glad because in the early hours of the morning one of the midwives, Bev Linari, was about to get the switchboard to page Charlotte just as she arrived back on the ward after a coffee break.

‘Oh, you’re back. It’s Mrs Rimmer—she’s making no progress. I’ve had to get her out of the water and I think the baby’s becoming distressed—we need to use the ventouse.’

This special vacuum cup which was applied to the baby’s head and used rather like forceps had almost taken the place of the more brutal tongs of previous years, especially since the advent of silicone cups, but so far Charlotte had used neither, and said so.

‘Is William about?’ Bev asked.

‘Yes.’

The woman’s face cleared. ‘Good—you know his nickname, do you? Dr Ventouse?’

Charlotte smiled. ‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s fantastic. Get them to call him and come in, could you?’

‘Sure.’ Charlotte turned back to the desk and used the phone to ask the switchboard to page William, then followed Bev into the delivery suite.

The woman, Mrs Rimmer, was looking very tired and despondent, and Charlotte understood from Bev that she had requested no pain relief in the interests of the baby.