"Yes," he said, his voice barely a whisper. He swallowed.
"Go on, then," she said.
He knew what she meant. He slowly reached out and traced lightly
along her index finger to her wrist, her thumb, to her glass,
which he took. He had to have her hands.
He settled their glasses on the table in front of the sofa and
folded both of his hands around hers. Never before had he held
hands so supple. But these hands belonged to a whole visage of
uniform loveliness. There was the difference, he understood at
once. He had loved Greta's hands, yes, the power they had had
over him, his pleasure, yet that was all. Just her hands. That
was why, he now understood, that they had had such an unusual sex
life. But Laurence was different. When he looked up from her
hands, his heart quickened at his appreciation for all of her.
That was it, and he let himself go.
He pulled her hard against him, as if it were the first time he
had felt a woman's body against his own. In fact, it was. It was
the first time he was really feeling a woman with all of his
mind. The sensation was overwhelming, this feeling of taking in
her whole image. His mouth came down firmly on hers. He felt a
moan come from her throat as their tongues mingled with the
wine's sweet aftertaste. He tasted her, felt the material of her
dress, smelled her hair, understood that in her shoes were feet
that were no doubt as lovely to look as her hands, as rousing to
touch and kiss.
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