by Trish Morey
Boldness shaped her response. Boldness and a power driven by her need and the knowledge that it was reciprocated.
She edged her face to one side. ‘Don’t we have some unfinished business to take care of first?’
‘You’ll have your cheque first thing in the morning. I’ll take care of it personally.’
She felt rather than saw the hardening of his features, the grim line of his mouth, and knew he’d misunderstood. But she refused to take offence—not when the last thing she wanted to do was start an argument between them. Not when she had a completely different purpose in mind.
She raised an arm and drew the tips of the fingers of one hand down the side of his face, circling the outer line of his ear. He swallowed then, and she followed the movement with her fingers, down the strong column of his neck, right to where it disappeared into the fine cotton of his shirt.
He looked at her quizzically, his eyes narrowing as the flat of her hand continued to stroke purposefully over his chest, resting provocatively, teasingly, over the firm nub of one nipple.
‘I have a confession to make,’ she said, hoping to God that now she’d finally plucked up the courage to say what she wanted she wasn’t about to make a total fool of herself.
‘When I referred to “unfinished business”, I wasn’t talking about the money.’
CHAPTER FIVE
AS CONFESSIONS went it hadn’t been particularly guilt-laden, but that didn’t seem to worry Loukas in the least. Quite the contrary. His eyes had blazed with passion and heat in response to her words, and within half an hour he was sliding open and ushering her through the doors that led onto the balcony of his Malibu Beach house.
They stood side by side on the timber deck, staring out over the dark ocean and watching the frosted edge of the sea swoosh rhythmically in and out along the shore. The gentle summer night breeze tugged at the ends of her hair and she relished the tang of the salty sea air and tried to relax.
But she’d had thirty minutes in his car to anticipate what was to come. Thirty minutes to congratulate herself for finally being brave enough to travel a road she’d been too scared to travel in years.
Thirty minutes to panic.
What if she’d been wrong and he wasn’t the man she was so desperate for him to be? And what if Grace’s cold, hard words had been right? She’d never forgive herself if he changed his mind about making the donation because of what she was underneath her clothes.
Her heartbeat jumped up a gear. Suddenly this wasn’t just about her own feelings. She couldn’t let him know about the marks on her skin—not if it imperilled the foundation.
He interrupted her thoughts without saying a word, bringing her shoulders around to face him as he leaned against the balustrade, running his hands down her arms, taking her hands in his.
She looked up, meeting his gaze with relief. At least for now rejection was the last thing she saw in his eyes. The low light washing out over them from the living room lamps was sufficient for her to read their brown depths, and without a doubt what they told her was that he wanted her. And even in her inexperience she could tell instinctively that his want had nothing in common with the teenage testosterone-crazed mistake called Garry that marked her first sexual encounter, or even with the intense heat that had marked her first meeting with Loukas at the Gala. This time his need was accompanied by a rich bloom of tenderness that warmed her from the inside out.
And she knew in that instant that falling in love with this man wasn’t just a danger. It was a fact. And if he rejected her now for any reason…
She trembled as the fear rippled through her. This time there was more at stake than merely trampling on her self-worth. There was even more at stake than the financial security of the foundation. This time it could be her heart that was battered.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked.
She shook her head, surprised that he’d so quickly picked up on her feelings of discomfiture. ‘No, it’s not that.’
‘Then what…?’
She could feel the heat rising in her face as she struggled to answer, already regretting her quick denial. It would have been easier to agree that she was cold. How could she possibly admit that she was afraid without telling him everything?
She could so easily imagine the type of women he was used to dating. They would be sophisticated and poised, with the confidence that came from being surrounded from birth with money and opportunity—hardly the type to feel uncertain about their place in the world. That was what he was probably expecting with her. As a successful doctor, with a growing and successful clientele, that was exactly how she should be—how she would be, if it weren’t for the scars.
He was looking down at her, waiting, expecting her to say something. And she knew she had to find some words to try to explain something of what she was feeling.
‘I warn you now, I’m not very good at this,’ she admitted at last, with a weak smile forced out briefly around gritted teeth. ‘I’m actually—a bit nervous.’
His eyes narrowed and he angled his head closer to his shoulder, almost as if weighing up her words. What was he thinking? She held her breath, wondering what it meant for their budding relationship if even that tiny admission was making him reconsider his plans for the night.
‘Are you telling me that you’re a virgin?’
She blinked, momentarily taken aback that she’d so totally misinterpreted his look. But wasn’t that exactly how she’d sounded? Like some timorous virgin?
‘Heavens, no!’ she protested. Garry had well and truly taken care of that, before discovering her secret and throwing her out of the car. Then, because she thought she’d made it sound as if there was something wrong with being a virgin, and because losing her virginity wasn’t something she was particularly proud of given the inglorious circumstances, she dropped her head and added, ‘Well, just no, really.’
His fingers found her chin, encouraging her with gentle pressure to lift her gaze once more to his. Her lungs clamped down, the gentle lap of the waves against the shore drowned out by the drumbeat of her pulse as she searched his face. His eyes looked almost doubtful.
He must be having second thoughts this time. Her inexperience was bound to be a turn-off for a man like Loukas. He’d be used to partners who could give as good as they got—partners who could provide pleasure even as they were accepting it. There hadn’t been too much of that in her experience. Quick sex in the back seat of a car didn’t leave too much time for covering much more than the basic mechanics.
He moved his hand then, so that her chin rested against his palm and his long fingers cupped her cheek. ‘How about we take things slowly, then?’
She could have kissed him then and there—if only because at least now she could breathe again. As it was, she didn’t need to go to the effort, because his lips were upon hers, slanting in a series of passes that had her wanting to catch his mouth and hold it prisoner against hers for ever.
His hand slipped behind her head, his fingers tangling in her hair and unwinding the casual knot she’d tied it into so that the length of it tumbled over her shoulders. He growled and pulled her closer, and yet his touch was still tender, unhurried, as he continued his exploration of her back, skimming the fabric of her silk blouse with a touch that was gentle and yet devastating in impact. His hands swooped lower, capturing her behind, and his arms moulded to the shape of her, so she could feel him all around her, feel his heat feeding into her, feel him pressing her closer against his hardness. And all the while he used his lips to woo her.
It would be all right.
His message was relayed to her in his kiss, in the touch of his mouth to her throat, and in the warm, mellifluous world he’d transported her to.
There was no panic, there was no hurried rush, there was no frantic desperation in his movements. There was only a languid inevitability about his exploration of her mouth and her body.
She steeled herself for his first contact with her breast, knowing it wo
uld come, forcing herself in the warm blanket of his attentions not to be scared, not to panic. It didn’t have to be like before.
They could make love.
He didn’t have to know.
He didn’t have to see.
And then his large hands were there, scooping under the curve of her breasts, leaving her breathless as ecstasy melded with fear. His thumbs flicked over her nipples and she felt them harden under his touch as sensation drove exquisitely downwards. His mouth at her throat, she tried to maintain her breathing. She tried to take control over the unfamiliar feelings of some tissues firming, others plumping and slickening. But she had no power to haul herself back—not when he dropped to his knees and placed his mouth over one breast.
She shuddered in his arms. Even though the silk of her blouse and the layer of satin beneath, the tropical heat of his mouth made her gasp and arch her back. Her hands clung to his head, losing their fingers in his thick dark waves as his teeth tugged on her nipple and his hands dipped to the backs of her knees.
The shock of his hands against the bare skin of her legs, circling upwards, threatened to melt her bones. She swayed, clinging to Loukas with one arm for support, reaching out to find the balustrade with the other, knowing even in the fog of her desire that she needed to hang on to something more grounded if she wasn’t to topple right over.
He seemed to sense their precarious position, his hands ceasing their ascent of her thighs as he removed his mouth from her breast, trailing kisses up her throat until she was in his arms again and she could let go her hold on the balustrade with Loukas to anchor her.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said, before his mouth descended on hers again.
It was meant as a compliment, but it hit her like an accusation. She wasn’t beautiful. He wouldn’t say that if he knew.
And he didn’t know because she wasn’t being honest with him. If she were, she would tell him before-hand—and just maybe he’d understand. Maybe he wouldn’t think she was a freak. Maybe it wouldn’t change anything.
But, then again, maybe it would.
The look on Garry’s face came back—the revulsion, the contorted features of his face, as he realised what he’d just had sex with, when he realised she wasn’t what he’d expected. And all the good feeling about the success of her latest treatment, all the joy at finally being able to lift up her head in Yarrabee, the excitement of even finding a boy willing to be her partner for the senior dance—all of it had evaporated in one bitter moment.
She’d realised in that instant, and confirmed in the tears she’d shed into her pillow that night, that she would never be like other women.
She knew she should tell Loukas. She should warn him. But she couldn’t. At least not until afterwards when, no matter what his reaction, at least she would have experienced the magic of one time with him. Was it wrong to want that? Was it wrong to just want one magical time?
Because there was no doubt it would be a world away from what she’d experienced that one fractured summer back in Yarrabee.
So she didn’t say a word. She just kissed him back with all the feelings welling up inside her that came so naturally now, with all the sensations that he’d unleashed within her. And before she knew it he’d scooped her up into his arms and, still kissing her, carried her inside the house.
There’d never been a moment she’d felt so alive. Her senses were buzzing with so many different emotions, so many different needs, and all of them were directly sparked by one man and directed to one outcome.
She felt herself being lowered onto a bed, and he knelt down almost reverentially alongside her, his body a dark silhouette against the dull yellow glow from the lamps filtering in from the hallway.
‘I’ve wanted to make love to you since the moment I first saw you,’ he whispered, his voice husky and thick.
‘I know,’ she said, because she knew it was the truth. ‘I’ve felt it too.’
He reached a hand over to a side-table and she caught his intent.
‘No!’ She caught his arm with her hand, stopping him before he hit the switch. And then, in case he read too much into the urgency in her voice, she whispered, ‘Please?’
‘I understand,’ he said, moving away from the lamp. ‘We’ll take it slowly.’
And he did. Take her slowly. Bit by bit, achingly slowly, he peeled the clothes from them both, running his hands over her skin as each garment came off, setting her flesh alight. And in the darkness she knew she was safe. In the darkness she knew she could give herself up to the pleasure she was feeling, the pleasure he was giving her.
And she had never experienced such pleasure! Wherever his hands went his hot mouth followed closely behind. Such simple gestures—the liquid sweep of lips against skin, the hypnotic swirl of tongue against flesh, the gentle rasp of teeth—such simple movements, and yet so arousing, so breathtakingly erotic.
Lost in awe and wonder, and given up to sensations far out of her experience, she let his mouth go wherever he wanted. She let his lips dance around her navel, let him flick the tip of his tongue inside, tickling and exploring and foreshadowing the act that was to come. She let him do whatever he wanted because of how he made her feel, so that when his mouth descended over the peak of her scarred breast she reacted with little more than a panicked hitch to her breath—and even that soon evaporated in the heat of a scorching bliss the likes of which she’d never known.
But when he insinuated a knee between her legs and dipped his head lower she knew she wasn’t just going beyond her experience, he was taking her beyond reason. Her back arched as he found her core, his tongue making lazy circles around her most sensitive flesh, lapping at her, teasing her entrance, so that she called out for him to end the torture, to end the search for culmination.
Her hands curled tightly into the bedclothes, her shoulders twisted as she wriggled to escape, but his arms held tight on her thighs, anchoring her to him so that she had no hope but to ride the wild waves that were building inside her—no hope but to go with them, higher and higher. Until his mouth gave one final teasing suckle to her tender flesh and the waves crashed down, spilling her over the edge, tossing her like balsa into the foaming wash of her passion.
He clung to her as the final waves moved through her, turning to ripples and disappearing like the tide slipping out, and then he moved to her side, pulling her in close, hugging her to him as she gasped her way back to something approximating normality.
But she knew she would never be normal again. He’d shattered every preconceived notion she’d had about sex in one cataclysmic act. She’d always thought it should be good, known it ought to be good, but never had she realised how good it could be. And still she hadn’t felt the power of him inside her. How much better would that be?
She nuzzled into his shoulder, already tingling at the prospect, relishing the musky scent of him and the feel of his body, still fully charged, wrapped around hers. His hands were skimming the side of her body from shoulder to mid-thigh and back again, movements that escalated her desire all over again.
‘I thought you said you were going to take things slowly,’ she whispered.
He laughed, a low, deep rumble that she felt to her toes. ‘One thing at a time,’ he answered, rolling her once more onto her back, his mouth coming down hard on hers.
This time she was more aware. This time she was able to hold him, to explore the skinscape of his broad shoulders and the well-defined surface of his back, tapering as if sculpted into his firm waist before rising again into the taut swell of his buttocks.
He groaned as her hands pressed down on him, her thumbs finding the sweat-slickened hollows of his lower back, her fingers curling into his flesh as she felt the press of his erection, proof of his own unanswered need, hard against her.
And in that moment she understood how much he’d given her already. He hadn’t just slaked his need on her in an instant—as he could have done, as she would have let him. He hadn’t just taken what he could
have. Instead he’d bestowed pleasure upon her first. He’d given her the chance to find her own paradise without greedily seeking his own.
Whatever came after this, whatever followed—whether it was his censure or his pity—she would never regret this night. Whatever happened, however foolhardy her love proved to be, she would always love him for what he had just given her.
He rolled away for a moment, retrieved something from the bedside table that quickly made good sense, and then he was back, lifting himself higher over her, and she knew with an innate woman sense what he wanted. Because it was what she wanted too. And then he was between her thighs, poised, waiting.
The electric charge of first contact ripped a gasp from her throat that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with exquisitely intense sensation. Every muscle inside her clamped down, trying to capture him, to draw him inside.
He growled, low and rough, as he answered her with more of him, then eased back before stretching her further.
It was torture.
It was bliss.
She tilted her hips, welcoming his length, encouraging him further, and when she gasped again it was in wonder at his sheer size, stretching her limits, filling her so completely that their bodies met, their union complete.
For a moment he stilled, a moment that shone in time with brilliant clarity, as if she was teetering on the edge. And if she thought that what he’d done before had changed her life, then what he was doing now was something so profound and meaningful that she felt her entire world changing. Then he moved, slowly, teasingly withdrawing, and she felt air rush into her lungs as if to fill the void.
Then he lunged, filling her completely once more, leaving no space for anything but him. Slowly at first he built the rhythm, taking her with him as he moved inside her, as he built the pace. And she went with him, matching him, taking his lead, feeling the pressure building inexorably inside her yet again, the urgency, the desperate race for completion.