Aristotle put out his hands to steady her. They were on her waist. Immediately it was an invasion of her space—especially when she was so self-conscious about her body.
With one hand she tried to knock him away but his hands were immovable. Her other hand was still clinging onto her dress with a death grip. She looked at him and her brain felt hot, fuzzy. He was too close. She could smell his fresh citrusy scent, mixed in with something much more male, elemental. All she could see were his eyes; all she could feel were those hands, like a brand on her body.
He was talking. She tried to concentrate on his words.
‘…more along the lines of this…’
And then, as realisation exploded inside her, Aristotle’s head was coming down, closer and closer. Everything went dark as his mouth covered hers, warm and firm and so exotic that she couldn’t move.
It was so shocking that Lucy continued standing there like a statue. Through her mind ran the comforting words, You won’t feel anything. You’re cold inside. You’re not your mother. You don’t react to this. You don’t crave men…sex…You’ve proved this to yourself…