beating beneath the sinews. She wouldnât mind sitting here, looking at his neck all day.
âYou see? Youâre sweating,â he said. âThat makes two of us. I canât think why itâs suddenly so hot in here. Not running a fever, I hope?â
He laid a hand across Janieâs forehead like a nurse. Her skin prickled up her neck as his face drew closer again. There was a ticking sensation just inside the opening of her pussy, a tiny muscle contracted the moment he touched her. What had Sally said about being in the taxi with Mastov? That all it took was one flick of his fingernail after months of dreary celibacy. This prickling all over her certainly wasnât fear. She didnât want to escape. She never wanted to move again.
The manâs damp hair stood up in dark tufts where the cap had ruffled it and she could see one black wisp slowly reshaping itself into a tight curl behind his ear as it dried.
âIâm not ill, no,â she said. âI just put too many clothes on when I came out. I forgot that itâs supposed to be July.â
âDonât normally need logs in July.â
âItâs not normally so damned freezing in July. At least, it is in our cottage.â
He pulled his sleeves down his arms and Janie watched the material wrinkle on his skin. Before she could stop it her mind had burrowed under the shirt, wondering whether there were curls on his chest or down on his stomach, like there were on his head.
âStay here and get warm, then,â he said. âYour cottage must be even more derelict than this place.â
âI should go,â she said, without making any attempt to move. But while she kept her eyes on his brown neck, her mind remained further down his body. Nothing could stop it, nothing could stop the insistent private twitching and aching inside her. She was mentally unbuttoning his jeans, seeing the wiry curls springing in a nest of hair round his resting, waiting prick.
They were level with each other, he still kneeling in front of her, she sitting on the hay bale, chests heaving under their damp summer clothes, and now Janie was wrestling with a ferocious urge to touch him. Her head felt fine now, apart from a slight throbbing where heâd said there was a cut. But she still wondered if she was seeing things. One moment she had been trudging through a field in the middle of a storm, head teeming with images of other people cavorting and having sex, starved of any experience to call her own, her own body fidgeting with that new, unwelcome hunger. The next minute she was being hustled into a dilapidated barn by a stranger who looked as if he might as easily ravish her as kill her. It was as though her restless state of mind had summoned him out of thin air, like an apparition.
The rain drummed, the wind whistled, and the heatradiated out of the stranger as he took a long strand of her hair, wound it round his fingers and rubbed it under his nose to sniff it. She could see her reflection: two miniature Janies in each lens of his glasses, with huge bug-eyes and tiny chins. Something in her memory stirred. She had stared into someoneâs glasses like that before, years ago; seen that alarmed, wide-eyed reflection, and in that remembered scenario she had been sitting bolt upright in a barn full of straw, just like this.
âI used to know someone with hair just like yours,â said the man, as if he could read her mind. âSame colour, same smell. Do you mind that Iâm touching it?â
He separated his fingers and let the strand of hair unwind and fall back against Janieâs breast. Instead of returning his hand to rest on the hay bale, or using it to lever himself upright so that they could both leave, his fingers tangled themselves under her hair. He started to slide his rough hands down her neck, lifting her wet hair away from the clammy skin, and stroking his fingertips where her pulse was hammering.
âYou see? Youâre sweating,â he said. âThat makes two of us. I canât think why itâs suddenly so hot in here. Not running a fever, I hope?â
He laid a hand across Janieâs forehead like a nurse. Her skin prickled up her neck as his face drew closer again. There was a ticking sensation just inside the opening of her pussy, a tiny muscle contracted the moment he touched her. What had Sally said about being in the taxi with Mastov? That all it took was one flick of his fingernail after months of dreary celibacy. This prickling all over her certainly wasnât fear. She didnât want to escape. She never wanted to move again.
The manâs damp hair stood up in dark tufts where the cap had ruffled it and she could see one black wisp slowly reshaping itself into a tight curl behind his ear as it dried.
âIâm not ill, no,â she said. âI just put too many clothes on when I came out. I forgot that itâs supposed to be July.â
âDonât normally need logs in July.â
âItâs not normally so damned freezing in July. At least, it is in our cottage.â
He pulled his sleeves down his arms and Janie watched the material wrinkle on his skin. Before she could stop it her mind had burrowed under the shirt, wondering whether there were curls on his chest or down on his stomach, like there were on his head.
âStay here and get warm, then,â he said. âYour cottage must be even more derelict than this place.â
âI should go,â she said, without making any attempt to move. But while she kept her eyes on his brown neck, her mind remained further down his body. Nothing could stop it, nothing could stop the insistent private twitching and aching inside her. She was mentally unbuttoning his jeans, seeing the wiry curls springing in a nest of hair round his resting, waiting prick.
They were level with each other, he still kneeling in front of her, she sitting on the hay bale, chests heaving under their damp summer clothes, and now Janie was wrestling with a ferocious urge to touch him. Her head felt fine now, apart from a slight throbbing where heâd said there was a cut. But she still wondered if she was seeing things. One moment she had been trudging through a field in the middle of a storm, head teeming with images of other people cavorting and having sex, starved of any experience to call her own, her own body fidgeting with that new, unwelcome hunger. The next minute she was being hustled into a dilapidated barn by a stranger who looked as if he might as easily ravish her as kill her. It was as though her restless state of mind had summoned him out of thin air, like an apparition.
The rain drummed, the wind whistled, and the heatradiated out of the stranger as he took a long strand of her hair, wound it round his fingers and rubbed it under his nose to sniff it. She could see her reflection: two miniature Janies in each lens of his glasses, with huge bug-eyes and tiny chins. Something in her memory stirred. She had stared into someoneâs glasses like that before, years ago; seen that alarmed, wide-eyed reflection, and in that remembered scenario she had been sitting bolt upright in a barn full of straw, just like this.
âI used to know someone with hair just like yours,â said the man, as if he could read her mind. âSame colour, same smell. Do you mind that Iâm touching it?â
He separated his fingers and let the strand of hair unwind and fall back against Janieâs breast. Instead of returning his hand to rest on the hay bale, or using it to lever himself upright so that they could both leave, his fingers tangled themselves under her hair. He started to slide his rough hands down her neck, lifting her wet hair away from the clammy skin, and stroking his fingertips where her pulse was hammering.
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