“I’m sorry,” he whispered, smoothing her hair down her back over and over, rocking her as gently as he might a child. “I’m so sorry.”
“I was so…afraid,” she said against the firmness of his muscle-padded shoulder. “Afraid something had happened to you.”
“Nothing did, nothing will,” he assured her. As she slid an arm around his waist to hold tighter, he tucked her hair behind her ear, then touched her cheek. “Here, look at me. I said I’m fine.”
She drew back a little to gaze into his face. His concern and remorse were there in its shadowed planes and angles. Also mirrored there was something that made her draw breath with a soft, winded sound.
He wanted her. His need was in his eyes, his voice, his touch. It was controlled for the moment, but still perfectly visible.
She wanted him, too. She had wanted him from that first night when he had appeared among the tangle of her garden like some ancient warrior hacking his way through an enchanted thicket. She wanted him, now, here, with a sudden reckless courage that disregarded who and what he was, and what might come after.
The moonlight was warm around them, benign and without menace. The night sang of desire and warm fecundity. It brushed against them with weight and substance, inciting lust that was sweet and natural and without blame.
Beltane.
“Laurel?” he said, her name on his lips more a soft plea than a question.
She lifted her hand to trace his lips as she had longed to do for days without end. She fitted her thumb into the notch in his chin as if it were molded of warm clay. Daringly, she brushed her fingers down his throat and along his collarbone to the dragon that curled around his shoulder. She drew a deep breath of pleasure and completion as she took the feel of his smooth bronze skin inside her, storing the memory.
“Yes,” she said, both plea and answer.
For the briefest of moments, she met his eyes. She saw them darken, becoming still pools. Then his lashes swept down. He bent his dark head and claimed her mouth.
He tasted of night freshness and need, sweet inducement and promise. He was the safety she required, yet also the danger she craved. He held her with reverence, with doubt and an edge of desperation. Then, with a low sound in his throat, his grasp changed, growing bolder. His kiss became a hungry seeking, a demand that she share his heat, accept his power.
She would, and did. Her skin prickled with awareness, her blood sang in her veins. The feel of him against her brought a fiery rush that banished her chill and left gladness in its place. Sighing, she opened to him, moved into him, needing more, giving everything.
The depth of her abandon was shocking. She had not known how much she longed to be touched. It disarmed her, obliterated her careful rationales. She wanted to feel her naked skin against him, needed his hands and mouth on her body. She ached to have him inside her, filling her emptiness with his hard heat.
Alec rocked as he felt her shift, pressing closer. The sweet taste of her sudden surrender went to his head like rich, potent wine. Dazed, he took what she offered and demanded more. He was ferocious in his need and in his fear that she could not mean it. With lips and tongue he sought to incite her to a frenzy matching his own.
He should not, he knew; he still had that much restraint. If he were half the man she deserved, he would draw back, wait until she was less emotional. He was taking advantage of her fear and loneliness, allowing his own rampant desire to overcome what he knew to be right. Recognizing it, he damned himself.
Ah, but she was so lovely, so perfect. Her curves were made to fit his hands. She responded to his slightest movement as if their minds were blended as closely as their bodies. He couldn’t resist more than an instant and didn’t try. He would take all she would allow—her softness, her grace and tender passion. He would use them to make a memory for them both. And if he could not hold her with it, he would hoard the recollection until he was shriveled and toothless and in need of its fire to warm his last breath.
He was defenseless, open to whatever she desired of him. She could use him, hurt him, even destroy him. It could be done, unknowingly, with a touch, a word, a frown. She could do it most easily by sending him away. She probably would; it was almost inevitable in time.
But until then, she would be his, whether she knew it or not, accepted it or denied it. He would have her to taste and absorb, to take into the last fastness of his soul. He would make her his so surely that, when he was gone, she would hunger for him as for food and drink, and never again be satisfied by any other man.
There was one thing more he could do for her.
Bending, he lifted her against his chest and strode toward the Italian garden. He shouldered under the portal and plunged into its shaded heart. There, beside the Bocca della Verità, he set her on her feet.
“I love you,” he said, holding her gaze as he reached to place his hand in the Mouth of Truth. “You are my life. I will never love another woman as I love you, never want or need another person as I need and want you now. I will never hurt you, never desert you unless you ask me to go. These things I swear. Do you believe me?”
Did she? Laurel didn’t know, nor could she find the words to explain how little it mattered. Not here, not now while the moon drenched them in its lambent light and the night breeze caressed their hot skin. Regardless, he required an answer, and she couldn’t bear to let him think that she had none for him.
Reaching out, she trailed her fingers over the hard planes and ridged muscles of his chest, flattened her palms against him and rubbed in smooth circles for the pleasure of the friction. In soft tones, she said, “I believe you love me now, in this place, for this moment in time. I don’t ask for more.”
The sound he made was relieved, yet despairing. Hard on it, he grasped her hands and pulled her close. Then he took her mouth again as if thirsty for her sweet, moist breath.
Alec wrapped his arms around her, feeling the tight points of her breasts pressing into him, the flat surface of her abdomen against the hot length of him, the resilient brush of her thighs that felt firm and smooth even through his jeans. He wanted her naked and under him, clinging, begging. And he would have her. Now.
He swept his hand down her back and grasped the smooth curve of her hip through the silky fabric of her caftan and gown. Then, slowly, he began to gather the folds, dragging them upward as he plunged his tongue into the nectar of her mouth. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop. She felt so good that his insides twisted with an agony of burgeoning pleasure. With movements abrupt when he wanted to be tender, hasty when he meant to be slow, he lifted the handfuls of silk he held and, releasing her mouth, stripped away the billowing folds.
Then he stopped, stunned by the alabaster perfection of her shape and her utter unconsciousness of it; by the mystery in her eyes and the openness of her hands and by the fine, silvery curls at the opening of her thighs that were only a shade darker than the hair that swayed, shimmering, around her.
He must be crazy, driven mad by moonlight and abstinence while he worked for this woman. It was insane, but he could not move, could not reach out to take her. It was sheer respect that held him back, because in his heart he knew he had no right.
Laurel, uncomfortable under his devouring look, stepped closer. Lowering her lashes, she put her hands on his belt and slipped the buckle free, released the brass button, unzipped his jeans. She let her fingers glide across the flat, hard surface of his belly, enjoying the sensation, before she slid them under the waistband of his briefs and pushed them to his hips.
He was so strong, so powerfully made that she felt a quiver deep inside that might have been fear, but could have been anticipation. Warm and daring, she touched him, caressing, measuring him with middle finger, palm and wrist. He accepted it; accepted, as well, her hands on the hard curves of his backside, as she kneaded them, drawing him firmly against her. He breathed a soft imprecation then and, released from his trance, drew her down with him to the flagstones still warm wi
th the stored heat of the day.
They moved together, absorbing the essence of each other with lips and tongues, finding the sites of greatest flavor and most fervid delight. She caught the lobe of his ear in her mouth and tasted the silver lightning of his earring, felt its fire. He cupped her breasts and wet them with his tongue, making the nipples tight and pink, gleaming in the moonlight. She clutched his taut, firm skin and laved it with her tongue, savoring its salt. He licked and tickled his way from her neck to her knees and back again, pausing for side excursions and deeper explorations. Their gasps and small cries, their moans and breathless instructions drifted on the breeze. Their shadows twisted and arched, then blended, always blended.
When they came together it was in hot wonder and sudden, sliding glory. For an instant, Laurel stared into Alec’s face, overwhelmed by the wild, demanding look in his black eyes. He spread the fingers of one hand to cover and cup her breast, and the size and dark contrast of his hand on her pale flesh was startling, entrancing. She drew a whistling breath as he flicked the nipple, shivering with the exquisite torture, arching into it. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted one hand to the place where they were joined, abetting her pleasure, watching for it with sensual heat in his face. She should have been frightened or repulsed at his control; instead she was inflamed. She reached to touch his hand, to press closer against him. Her lips formed a silent plea.
Suddenly his air of detachment was gone. With a harsh sound in the back of his throat, he plunged deep. Feverish and desperate in his need, he caught her to him with hard strength, let her feel his power. She took it and answered with her own, clinging to him, wrapping her arms and legs around him.
Madness. Beltane, night of natural lust and the carnal call of fecund nature. It pounded over them, through them, echoing in their blood in ancient ritual and rhythmic magic that beaded their skin with moisture, throbbed through their hearts and swept, ringing, through their minds. It was old and also new, the love they made, both a spiritual binding and a glorious physical rut. Beyond thought or care, they moved and thrust and used each other. She felt his hot, silk-covered hardness pushing, filling her hollow loneliness. He sank into the liquid depth and satin grasp of her and understood it was the only home he would ever know, the only one he would ever need. Taking, giving, they tried with straining bodies and aching minds to become one; two parts of a whole. And came close, closer.
He caught her hands, pressing her palms to his own, meshing his fingers with hers as he raised her arms above her head. He let her feel his weight, rasping her belly and breasts with the soft friction of his body hair and his heat. Then he took her mouth, filling it as he filled her body, desperate for the total contact as he felt the first shuddering contractions of her fulfillment.
She lifted against him with a soft cry as she felt the internal shifting of her soul, contracting around him with convulsive need. He answered it with a final fierce effort.
The world grew dim, receding into ancient splendor, while above them the moon shone down, gilding their moist bodies, offering release from madness, granting the beneficence of peace. Around them the summer night sang on, seeking life, defying death; and they were a part of it.
12
“You have some kind of gorgeous curves,” Alec said, “for an old lady….”
They were in the shower with the water beating down on them. Facing each other, they stood with foreheads touching while Alec skimmed his soap-slick hands over her, pretending to be making sure she had no grit left from the Italian garden flagstones. The major portion of the water was pouring down his bent neck and shoulders. It splattered everywhere, forcing Laurel to keep her eyes closed. That was no great hardship since she could concentrate on the sensations caused by his carefully marauding hands.
Her voice not quite even, she asked, “What would you know about a woman’s curves? You’re such a young squirt, you can’t have been around long enough to learn anything much.”
“I’m doing my best to make up for lost time.”
“This is your best, huh?”
He slid his hands to her backside and pulled her against him so she could feel the wet, heated hardness of his lower body. His voice thick, he answered, “Not quite.”
“I thought so,” she murmured, sliding her hips back and forth against him. “Do me a favor?” As she spoke, she shifted backward to brace her shoulders against the shower wall, then drew him between her spread feet.
“Anything, so long as we don’t have to stop what we’re doing.”
“Never.” She wiped water from her eyelids and gave him a smile laden with the euphoria that bubbled in her veins. “Only—would you make your dragon move for me?”
He shivered even as a laugh shook him. “Which one?”
“You’ve got more than one?” Her delight sounded in her voice.
“One’s hot and one’s not.” He moved closer, reaching to fit their bodies together in a single powerful glide. “Can you tell?”
“Oh, yes…I can…Now…” The words were something less than completely coherent as she took him deep inside. “You can…move them both, then.”
“Like this?”
“Something like…that,” she agreed with another catch in her words at his surging response.
“God, Laurel,” he whispered as goose bumps broke out along his arms.
She breathed in labored gasps. “What…about the other one?”
“Watch,” he said. Bracing a hand on either side of her shoulders, he flexed his pectorals as he did slow and steady standing push-ups, back and forth, over her, against her.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”
It was incredibly fascinating, the way the dragon tattooed on his chest and around his shoulder undulated with his movements. The other, lower movements were even more enthralling.
Never in her whole life had Laurel felt such free and natural sensuality. It flowed through her in unimpeded wonder. It was Alec who had released it, for he allowed no modesty, left nothing hidden or denied. Prudery was totally foreign to him; he had no use for it and would permit her none. And it was what she needed—this easy, humorous acceptance of what was true and natural between a man and a woman. She had longed for it all her life.
He was what she had needed, also, and always would.
Still, she would not ask for forever. She would be grateful for this moment and not look beyond it. She didn’t care what he wanted of her, not really. Whatever it was, she would give it. She owed him something for all he had done, for the changes he had made in her. If he was using her, she had no right to complain, because she was also using him. It was possible her need for his youth, his strength, and the reflection in his eyes of herself as attractive and desirable was greater than anything he might ever take from her.
“Stay with me, Laurel,” he said, his gaze meeting hers, its darkness indicating he was aware of her moment of distraction.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes clearing as she looked into his. “I’m here.”
A smile curved his mouth, giving him a look of ineffable sweetness. Then, bending his head, he laved the beaded nipple of her breast with his warm, wet tongue.
Lifting herself toward him, giving herself, she threaded her fingers through the black silk of his hair, whispering, “I’ll always be with you.”
Later she lay beside him in her bed with her hips against his pelvis and his arm around her waist so he could clasp her breast in his cupped hand. Eyes open as she stared into the dark, she wondered what would become of them. There was no way to know, of course.
She lowered her sights, then, to the more immediate question of what she was going to say to him over the breakfast table. Which might be silly, she realized, but was the kind of mundane thing people seldom considered when they thought of wild, passionate affairs.
She needn’t have worried; Alec didn’t stay that long. As the first hint of dawn appeared behind the curtain, he roused, stretched and leaned over her to press a kiss to her templ
e. He was still for an instant, then he lifted the sheet to slide from the bed.
She could take the coward’s way out and pretend to be asleep. He deserved better, she thought, and so did she.
“You don’t have to leave,” she said quietly as she opened her eyes.
He paused. “I wouldn’t, except…”
“What?”
“I should check on Gregory.”
That wasn’t what he had meant to say, she was sure, or at least it wasn’t all of it. “You’re worried about my reputation, I suppose?”
“You’re a nice woman, a respectable woman,” he answered in quiet tones. “It matters.”
She levered herself up on one elbow. “People have had us in bed for weeks. What you do or don’t do isn’t going to matter. Anyway, I don’t mind—not if you don’t.”
He stretched out beside her again and reached to cup her face in his hand. “The kind of rep I have could only be improved by being caught spending the night with the widow Bancroft. But I don’t want to hurt you.”
She thought of saying it was too late to worry about that, but couldn’t see how the observation would be helpful. Lowering her lashes an instant, she asked, “Are you sure you aren’t afraid of what people like Grannie Callie will say?”
A teasing note came into his voice. “You’re asking if I mind that people will say I’ve been making love to the sexiest older woman in north Louisiana?”
“No,” she said bravely. “Rather that I’m making love to you.”
“There’s a difference?” He tilted his head, the look on his face in the dimness far too understanding.
She gave a small nod. “A little matter of who made the first move.”
Humor sounded stronger in his voice. “Far as I remember, that would be me. But you can put one on me anytime. Please?”
She smiled a little as she touched his chest, smoothing her fingers over the last scabs from his encounter with the pine tree. “You know what I mean.”
Garden of Scandal Page 17