When he’d told Lizzie that whenever he touched something today, he’d think of touching her, it had been a figure of speech, lovers’ mad talk, and they’d both known it was delicious nonsense of the moment. But now, he feared it was true. He was thinking about touching her all the time. As the motorway heading south slid grimly along beyond the tinted windows of the limousine, John stared at his fingers. He’d probably washed his hands any number of times since he’d caressed her, but he still imagined her intimate fragrance there. It was a rare gift, vouchsafed only to him. And he could still feel her, as if the echo of her firm, beautiful bottom and her delicate, silky sex were forever imprinted in the surface of his skin. Oh, for God’s sake, man, you’re losing it! Your head’s full of the most bizarre ideas these days. It was true, though. Notions kept popping into his mind, and he kept entertaining ideas that he’d long ago locked away. The fact that he couldn’t keep them in line now was disturbing.
