Georgia by Lesley Pearse Page A

she just stood there, her heart pounding, her legs shaking. One moment his other hand was still in his pocket with hers, the next he withdrew it and crushed her to him, lips covering hers.
    The deserted heath, the church behind them and her home in the distance fell away. All she could feel, see and smell was Peter. A soft, warm mouth on hers, the touch of stubble against her chin, the ecstasy of being in his arms at last.
    Four months of dreaming and hoping and at last the moment was here.
    ‘Let’s run?’ he whispered to her, his nose rubbing against hers. ‘Maybe we won’t notice the cold.’
    The wind caught her hair and scarf as they ran hand in hand. They were laughing like small children, racing over the crisp grass.
    ‘I knew there was a shelter here,’ he said breathlessly as they approached the silver pond. He pointed to a dark shape at one end, near a bus stop. ‘It might not be so cold and at least we can sit down.’
    Within seconds she was in his arms again. The soft inexperienced kisses soon becoming more adventurous and bolder.
    They weren’t aware of a man walking his dog, or the lone streetlamp casting a pool of golden light over a litter bin. The shelter smelled of mould and someone’s abandoned chips in newspaper, but all they felt was one another’s warm breath and the sweet agony of needing to get closer.
    His tongue flickered over her lips, and she parted them, slipping her hands under his jacket for warmth.
    She pressed closer to him, a warm, shaky feeling creeping all over her. Her breasts throbbed, she ached for him to touch them, yet was frightened that he would. Each kiss was longer than the last, tongues bolder, gaining experience with each one. Her body fitted to his, her fingers stroking, loving him. The hard boniness of his chest, the smell of soap and toothpaste. His fingers caressing her neck and the rough texture of his sweater.
    ‘We ought to get back,’ he whispered, his lips buried in her neck. ‘It’s nearly half past nine.’
    Reality came back with a jolt. Georgia jumped up, holding her watch towards the dim yellow light. Her eyes widened with fear as she saw he was right.
    ‘Dad will go mad,’ she gasped. ‘It feels as if we’ve only been here for minutes.’
    Peter stood in front of her, buttoning up her coat and winding the scarf back round her neck.
    ‘It’s only just after our usual time,’ he sounded calm and protective. ‘Tell them we were talking.’
    They ran then, hand in hand back across the heath, not stopping till they reached her house.
    ‘Ask them if you can come to the pictures tomorrow,’ he said, smiling down at her, both panting from the run. ‘I’ll come and pick you up at seven.’
    ‘What if they say no?’ she was torn between staying out with him and rushing in to make apologies.
    ‘I’ll come anyway,’ he laughed, bending to kiss her once more. ‘Now go on in before you catch cold.’
    ‘Why didn’t you ask me out before?’ she whispered, poised to run in.
    ‘I was afraid you’d turn me down,’ he whispered back.
    ‘You’re late!’ Celia said reprovingly.
    Her parents were watching television by the fire. The Christmas tree lights twinkled against the dark red curtains. Celia was already in her dressing-gown, pale blue wool, with a snippet of long winceyette showing beneath, her feet in slippers. She was knitting a pair of grey socks. Brian wore the brown cardigan he always put on when he took off his office suit, yet his tie was knotted as neatly as when he left for the office earlier that day. He had a glass of brandy on the small table by his side and he looked sleepy, glasses sliding down his nose.
    By day the room was almost an extension of the garden, light streaming in the French windows, bushes just outside blending with plants inside. But by night it took on a different character, shrinking in size as the heavy curtains were drawn. A snug room that somehow embodied her parents’ joint personalities. Celia in the