"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. From head to toe, he wanted to feel all of her at once. Their hips pressed together and she pulled him closer, kissed him hungrily.
"Matthew, you've done wonderful things for Wallaby and for me. I want it to keep going this way for you. Is this wrong, what we're doing?" she said, fingertips touching along the edge of his belt.
"No," he said, and closed his eyes with anticipation. Her fingertips slipped down an inch into his slacks. "I mean yes. Oh, yes."
"It's yours for the taking, Matthew. All of it. There's no stopping you now."
Her words drove him into a frenzy. He gripped the back of her head and pulled her in close, his tongue darting in her mouth, over her eyes and around her ears. He coursed his fingers through her hair, everything coming to him in rushing waves of passion.
Yes, she was correct. There was no stopping him, them. He thought now only of the bed. He pulled back from her. His trousers were undone and her blouse was open. He gripped her wrist and led her, walking backward as he did so, to the bedroom. She grabbed the bottle of sauterne and raised it to her lips, following with no resistance. At bedside, she passed the bottle to him. He took a large swallow of wine, then set the bottle on the night table. He held the liquid in his mouth and kissed her, then reached for more, but she beat him to it.