She touched his collar, fumbled impatiently with his tie, her fingers plucking at the knot, jerking it loose, then tugging at the buttons of his shirt.
As her hands touched his warm, bare skin her breath stalled for a moment and she stepped back on legs that shook unsteadily. He was gorgeous, more gorgeous than any man should be allowed to be, and whatever her memory had conjured up the reality outdid any fantasy. He was crazily, stupidly beautiful—all lean, defined muscles and olive skin that was smooth aside from the line of fine dark hair that ran down the centre of his abs, thickening as it disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Heart pounding, she slid her hands lightly over his chest and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him again gently, delicately, tasting him as she would one of his rums.
He grunted, tugged off his shirt and dropped it, and then, reaching out, he looped his fingers under the thin straps of her dress and slid them over her shoulders, peeling the damp fabric from her overheated skin. She felt it slide over her body and pool at her feet. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and above the soft rush of the water she heard him swallow, saw his control snap, sensed the tension in his arms loosen like a spring uncoiling.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said hoarsely, ‘so beautiful.’
He breathed out raggedly and for a moment he just stared at her, his eyes dark and sightless. Her nipples hardened beneath his gaze—and then she sucked in a breath as he reached out and began to stroke them with the palm of his hand.
It was too much. They were too sensitive to touch.
She grabbed his fingers. ‘Not there,’ she whispered. ‘Here.’ She pulled his hand lower, pressing it against the ache between her thighs.
He shifted against her, his leg moving between hers, and she felt the hard length of him pushing against her. Only it was not enough. Her hands trembled. She wanted all of him. She wanted—needed—everything he had to give.
Her hands moved to his waist, and then to where the force of his desire pressed against his trousers, her pulse jerking as she began tugging at his belt, working the leather through the buckle.
As he breathed out unsteadily her nerves were forgotten and she felt a rush of excitement. His green eyes were fierce and filled with hunger, and she knew that he was fighting for control.
Knowing that he wanted her as much as she wanted him made her feel powerful in a way she had never felt before, and suddenly she wanted to test that power. Holding his gaze, she reached out and rested her hand against the thickness of his arousal.
He let out a hiss of air.
Shaking his head, he swore in Spanish. And then his hands closed around her wrists and he pulled them behind her back. Bending his head, he took her mouth again. Her insides felt hot and tight and she squirmed closer, raising her hips, seeking to ease the pulsing ache between her thighs. But he was holding her still, keeping himself just out of reach.
Her stomach tensed and she moaned in frustration as he wrenched his mouth away. His eyes were trained on her face. For a moment he just stared at her, and then, holding both of her wrists in one hand, he pulled her forward so that the warm spray trickled over her bare skin.
Her heart began to thump as he leaned forward and ran his fingers slowly over her breasts and belly, then lower to the triangle of her panties. As he slid his hand beneath the fabric her stomach flipped over and inside out with need and frustration, and she arched her aching body up towards his, wanting more, needing more.
‘Please...’ she whispered.
He dropped to his knees and she felt an arrow of heat, sharp and low, as he hooked a finger into one side of her panties and tugged gently, drawing them down her legs and tossing them away.
Her nipples tightened painfully. She felt as though she was teetering on the edge of a bottomless drop. A pulse was beating relentlessly between her thighs—and then his tongue pushed between the damp curls and she gasped.
The rain was pounding down now, fat droplets exploding on the rocks behind them, blotting out her heartbeat and his ragged breathing.
Her body was opening out with longing and she was shaking with need, her whole body trembling. A fluttering heat was spreading out from his tongue, growing stronger, more urgent, impossible to ignore. She could feel herself slipping away, the beat of her desire out of sync with her throbbing heartbeat.
Oh, she had never felt like this before. This need was raw and imperative. It felt like water, or air, or sunlight and she could think of nothing other than the tip of his tongue...steady, precise, teasing, merciless.
Her body was screaming now and, tugging her hands free, she grabbed his hair, her fingers biting into his scalp, pulling him closer, opening herself to him as heat exploded in her pelvis.
She breathed out unsteadily as César kissed his way up her body, chasing the aftershocks quivering over her skin. Her hands were still grabbing his skin, clutching and tensing—and then her fingers found the zip of his trousers.
He groaned as she freed him, and she watched his face tighten with concentration as he held himself back from his own release. Curving his fingers under her bottom, he lifted her up so that he could ease her on to his body.
She began to rock against him, her head spinning, and he wrapped his hands around her hips and pulled her closer, his hunger accelerating. Reaching up, he brought her face down and kissed her fiercely and then, gripping her waist, he pushed up inside her. Instantly, she began to move more urgently, breath quickening. His hips were meeting hers...
‘Yes.’ Her lips parted against his mouth. ‘Yes... Yes...’ she whispered.
He breathed in sharply, jerking his mouth away from hers. Muscles clenching, blood hardening to iron, he thrust into her, burying his face against her neck to stop himself crying out. He held her close, and then, easing himself free, he backed her gently against the wall of rock, leaning forward to shield her body with his.
Kitty was still trying to catch her breath. He was calm and solid beside her, his muscles relaxed, his arms holding her against him, supporting her flushed, shaken body.
Had they really just done that? Had she really just done that? Was it her hormones? Or was it this place?
She glanced over his shoulder at the lush greenery and brightly coloured butterflies. It was all so wild and vibrant—like stepping into some primitive landscape. Was that why she’d lost all sense of who she was? All her inhibitions?
But she knew that it was none of those things. It was him. And her. The two of them together.
Burying her face against his burning damp skin, she felt the reality of what had just happened overwhelm her. It had been so fierce, so urgent, so quick. One spark was all it had taken: her body the flint to his steel.
For a moment she couldn’t bring herself to move or speak, and perhaps he felt the same way—because he kept his cheek against her face, his breath, still rapid and unsteady, in her hair.
She leaned into him, enjoying the sensation of his skin against hers, the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart. She felt fearless: he had made her feel fearless. Even her nakedness felt natural. His body fitted hers with a symmetry that felt predetermined, as though once upon a time they had been joined and then separated, and she wondered why she had fought against this moment.
But it couldn’t last for ever.
She pushed at him gently and their eyes met. Scared of what she might see, she looked down to where her fingers were splayed against his chest. She blinked. In the heat of passion she’d barely registered the scars, but now she stared at them intently. They were of differing lengths, some thin and white, one darker and ridged.
‘Did you get that one riding your bike?’ She ran her fingertip over the puckered skin.
He nodded. ‘I hit a bump in the road, came off, and the bike caught me in the chest.’
‘And this?’ She touched his side.
His eyes we
re opaque in the sunlight. ‘I was climbing and I missed a foothold. I dropped about a hundred feet before the rope caught me, and I got scraped against the rock.’
A hundred feet. ‘What happened?’
He shrugged. ‘I chalked up my hands and carried on.’
She couldn’t think of anything to say to that. But she didn’t need to. He was already reaching down to pick up her dress.
They got dressed with difficulty, their wet clothes twisting and tightening against their skin, and then they walked back to the house, not holding hands but not tensing or leaping apart when their fingers brushed together either.
‘I don’t how that happened,’ he murmured.
Looking up into his eyes, she gave him a quick, shy smile and he grinned sheepishly. Around them rainbows danced in the sunlight, taking form in the spray-soaked air.
‘I just meant I didn’t plan it.’ His face was serious, intent, shocked. ‘I don’t normally act like this, but I’ve never wanted any woman the way I want you.’ His eyes dropped to her throat and, lowering his mouth, he pressed his lips against the tiny beating pulse there. ‘Something happens when I’m around you... I feel so frantic.’
‘I know.’ She pressed her hand against his chest, feeling his heart throb against her fingers. ‘I feel the same way. And I didn’t plan it either.’
‘Was it okay? I wasn’t too rough—?’
Looking up into his face, she could see the concern in his green eyes. She shook her head. ‘No, you weren’t rough. It was wonderful.’
‘Wonderful’ didn’t really do justice to what they’d just shared. It had been sublime. And César was so gorgeous it was no wonder that she’d clawed off his clothes in broad daylight like a ravenous animal. Or that she would gladly do it all again.
But however handsome or sexy César was, that was irrelevant to their future. Her heart was not for the taking and marriage was still not an option.
She felt her stomach tighten. But neither was pretending that something wasn’t happening between them: it was. And it wasn’t just sex.
But why did it have to be a binary choice between sex and marriage? Was there no room for something in between? Something bespoke—just for them. After all, it was the twenty-first century.
She thought back to César’s scars. This was a man who took risks and tested his limits. She, on the other hand...
It wasn’t that she hadn’t experienced anything in her life. She had: love, marriage, sickness and death. That was a lot more than most twenty-seven-year-olds. Only that was the problem. It had all been too much, too quickly. She had felt passive, powerless, like a passenger in a speeding car.
But César made her feel powerful. She might not want to skydive or free climb, but knowing how she affected him made her feel in control and euphoric in the same way. Plus, whatever happened, they were both parents to this baby growing inside her.
And all that seemed to matter more than trying to classify their relationship status.
Only did he feel the same way?
His hand reached for hers and he stopped beside her. ‘Kitty, I’ve been thinking. About us. About what we’re doing. I’ve been thinking that I’d like it to carry on.’
Watching her eyes widen, he reached out and pushed a curl away from her forehead.
‘I don’t mean what happened by the waterfall specifically—although that was incredible...’
He smiled, and the slow burn of his gaze made her nipples tighten painfully.
‘So, what are you suggesting?’
His eyes rested on her face—not just green but gold and amber, like pirate treasure.
‘Look, I’m not ready to go back to Havana yet. I haven’t had a proper break in a long time, so how do you feel about staying on here for a couple of days?’
Her heart was hammering in her chest. ‘I think it sounds like a lovely idea, but I’ve already taken quite a lot of time off.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘You don’t need to worry about that, I spoke to the big boss—he’s a great guy, by the way, cool and good-looking and charming—and he said that you can take as much time as you want.’
She bit her lip, trying to stop the smile that was tugging at her mouth.
Sensing her indecision, he reached out and, taking her hand, pulled her closer. ‘Please, Kitty. I know I’ve juggled my schedule, but it’s not enough. I owe it to you and the baby to take a step back from the business and not just relocate my office to my home.’
Lifting her chin, she met his gaze. ‘And that means what?’
‘I don’t know.’
The honesty of his answer caught her off guard.
He hesitated. ‘I can’t in all honesty say that sex hasn’t got something to do with it,’ he said carefully. ‘But it’s not the only reason I want to spend time with you. We’re going to have a baby...our lives are going to be overlapping for a long time.’
She nodded. ‘I know.’
Leaning forward, he kissed her mouth lightly, brushing his lips against hers so that her pulse jumped in her throat.
‘That’s why I think we should stop pretending. I want you and you want me and there’s nothing wrong in us feeling that way—so why act like there is? I know what we have isn’t conventional, but that doesn’t mean it has to be complicated,’ he said quietly. ‘We can just keep everything nice and simple.’
She felt his gaze on his face. For a second their eyes were level as they breathed in one another’s scent. Who could resist what he was offering? Pure pleasure with no catch. And it was what she wanted too.
Reaching up, she stroked his face. ‘I’d like that.’
His eyes were dark with hunger, a hunger that reflected her own, and her body was already starting to melt as he lowered his face to hers and kissed her fiercely.
* * *
Mornings had definitely improved, César thought as he leaned back against the pillow.
Three days had passed since their frenzied encounter by the waterfall and the moment when he and Kitty had agreed to stay on at the plantation, and he was lying in bed—the bed he now shared with Kitty—watching her get dressed.
His gaze followed her fingers as they lingered over the buttons of her blouse. For some inexplicable reason he found it incredibly erotic—inexplicable because she was buttoning it up, not unbuttoning it.
But there was something about her focus, the small furrow of concentration in her forehead, that made heat shimmy over his skin. Or maybe it was the way her freshly showered hair was scattering droplets of water onto the fabric, so that he could see her bare skin through the white cotton.
Was it really only three days? Actually it was three days and two nights of pure, blissful pleasure. And yet in some ways it felt as though she had always been a part of his life.
He wasn’t complaining. Heat churned in his stomach as he rewound that morning. They’d made love twice—first with the feverish hunger that had characterised their first encounter, and then again more slowly, touching, tasting, exploring each other’s bodies.
He couldn’t remember wanting a woman so badly, or a time when sex had held such power over him.
Even with Celia.
Now that he could compare her to Kitty, he could see that she had been a youthful infatuation. He’d been a spoilt, handsome young man, used to girls chasing him, and she’d played hard to get. That had been what had really got him hooked. Had she chased him, or responded to his advances, he would not have been so obsessively determined to win her.
But it felt strange to be so fixated on one woman now, given that he’d spent most of his adult life pursuing variety, not commitment. He’d assumed that his fascination for Kitty lay in her unattainability, but now they were having sex and yet nothing had changed. He still couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He shifted beneath the sheet, then instantly regretted
it; the smooth fabric brushing against his skin was an agonizing reminder of her teasing touch.
But with an eager, responsive Kitty in his bed, it was hardly surprising he was distracted. After so long just fulfilling basic physical hunger, it was a novelty to want someone specifically and repeatedly, to indulge in her feverish touch, to look forward to seeing her.
He felt his spine tense. And, of course, looking forward to seeing someone was natural for lovers—perhaps even more so for lovers who didn’t love one another.
And he didn’t love Kitty.
But he did want to marry her.
And when it happened—and it would happen—it would work for both of them. He would offer her security and the kind of lifestyle she could only dream about for their child, and marriage to her would allow him to present his parents with the ‘happy-ever-after’ ending they wanted for him.
Or so it would appear, and that was all he needed it to do.
His hand tightened around the edge of the sheet.
He told himself that he was simply being pragmatic. Believing in love as a prerequisite for marriage was a nice idea—but if love and marriage went together like the proverbial horse and carriage why were there so many divorces?
But there was more to his reasoning than just cynicism. The truth was—and it killed him to admit it, even privately—that mostly it was fear. Fear of what would happen if he repeated the mistake he’d made with Celia and allowed himself to muddle lust, or in this case lust and duty, with love.
Kitty turned and gazed down at him, her eyes flaring as they connected with his bare upper body, so that he felt his groin harden.
Why think about any of that anyway? Right now, with access to her delectable body, he was not so much happy as willing to let her set the pace. Rather than pressurising her to change her mind, he was prepared to play a long-ish game—and that meant not just focusing on the present, but laying the foundations for the future and accepting that, for the moment at least, this arrangement was a jump-off point for the next step.
Consequences of a Hot Havana Night Page 12