It was like stepping into the image she had had earlier. Don had stripped off his shirt, and was lying on his back on the bed staring up at the ceiling. The CDs had apparently come to an end or he had not bothered to replay them, and the room was very quiet. What had he been thinking?
There was a scent of old timbers, as there was in most of the rooms of Charity Cottage, but there was the faint scent of masculine sweat as well, which was exciting, because it was Don’s sweat. Donna found the silence exciting as well. The feeling that she was entering her own fantasy deepened. If either of them spoke, or if any sound at all disturbed the utter quiet, the fantasy would shatter, and she would simply go back downstairs and wash the lettuce and radishes for tonight’s supper, and the moment would pass into ordinariness.
But Don did not speak, there were no sounds from outside and the moment did not pass into ordinariness. The silence went on and on, and the sunspots, the heat of the day and the room’s scents began to blur in Donna’s mind. Don had not moved; he was watching her from the bed, and his eyes had a slanting, beckoning look. Was this how he looked at those girls–those unknown, possibly nonexistent girls? Donna suddenly hated all the girls Don might know or who he would come to know in the future. She could not bear the thought of those girls eyeing him with giggling teenage lust, wanting to touch him, perhaps being touched by him…Telling one another about it afterwards–‘I did it with Don Robards last night, and he was terrific…’
She was not aware of having crossed the room, or of having sat down on the edge of the bed, but she discovered she had done so. She was close enough to see the faint sheen of perspiration on his skin, and the slight flush across his cheekbones. Beautiful. Oh God, he’s so beautiful. And just as she had not meant to walk across to the bed, nor had she meant to actually touch him. But they were inside the fantasy together, of course, so it was all right. Her hands reached out to him, tracing the line of his chest, feeling the warm firmness of his skin against her palms. Like a cushion of satin.
His reaction to her touch was instant; it sizzled between them, Donna could feel it–it was like an arcing light, like watching fireworks ignite on a dark river. Donna and Don, moving together towards the deepest, most intense intimacy there could ever be…
He was nervous–Donna could sense that, but she could also sense that he was trembling with fear and passion. When she pulled off her shirt he seemed to flinch. Donna laughed, understanding that he was fearful of what they were about to do, pulling him against her for a moment to reassure him, and then reaching down to unfasten his jeans, pulling them open and sliding her hand inside. There was no mistaking his response now. As her fingers closed around him, he hardened instantly, and made an involuntary thrusting movement. Donna unfastened her own jeans with her other hand and kicked them off.
The feel of Don’s beloved body against her bare thighs was so fiercely exciting she thought for a moment she might actually faint. When she pulled his hand down between her legs the throbbing excitement was almost more than she could bear.
She thought he flinched again when she began to guide him into her, but then there was the helpless thrusting once more. There was nothing in the world except this hot bedroom and the two of them, nothing except the feel of Don’s body, the brush of his hair where his head was buried in her bare shoulder and his frenzied excitement. Utter perfection. Body and mind blending and fusing. Was he feeling the same? Oh, but of course he was.