She shivered at his touch, and when she spoke her voice was soft. "I can give you pleasure too."
Pres watched her face as he touched her again. Her hips rose to meet his exploring fingers and the heat in her eyes turned molten. "That sounds like fun," he murmured. "We can save the real thing for another time."
"No," she said. "You don't understand. ... In the kitchen . . . In my little purse . . . There wasn't room for much, but I do have a condom."
Molly laughed at the expression on Pres's face. "Don't look so shocked," she added.
"I'm not shocked," he said. "I'm thrilled. I'm ... confused. Do you always . . . ?"
"Carry a condom?" she asked. "No. Just . . . recently." She gazed up at him. "Are you going to go get it, or are we going to talk about it some more?"
Pres laughed, then kissed her, then disappeared down the hall.
He was back before she could blink, moving purposefully into the room, his eyes sweeping hotly across her, his quick smile not diluting the desire that seemed to radiate from him. He sat down on the bed and opened the paper wrapping of the condom, his eyes never leaving her.
Molly knew that she was looking at him just as hungrily. His tanned skin gleamed in the dim light, his rock-solid muscles shifted and flexed with his every move. He had the body of an athlete, with long, powerful-looking legs and hard-muscled shoulders and arms. He moved gracefully, confidently, at ease with his nakedness. He was beautiful.
"Your photo spread would have sold more than a million copies of Fantasy Man magazine," she told him.
Pres laughed, aware that she was watching him as he covered himself, her eyes following the movement of his hands. Finally, he was done, and he reached for her, but she was already next to him, kneeling on the bed, kissing his throat, his face, his lips, touching with her hands what her eyes had caressed just seconds ago.
She was ready for him, and God knows he was ready for her. But when he would have eased her back onto his pillows, she straddled his lap, impaling herself upon him with one quick, smooth movement.
Pres heard himself moan, heard Molly's voice intertwined with his. The sudden jolt of pleasure was intensified by the fact that he'd never expected her to take the lead. She pushed him back onto the bed and he thrust up harder, deeper, and she cried out again.
And then she was moving, setting a rhythm that made his blood burn. He pulled her more tightly against him, dying to tell her with the power of a kiss all that he was feeling, trying to fill her as thoroughly and completely as she filled him.
Never in a million years had he imagined she would make love to him this way. She was totally uninhibited, allowing her passion to rule her. And what a passion it was.
She smiled as she met his eyes, and his heart damn near burst. She loved him. She had to love him. How could she not love him and make love to him so desperately, so intensely?
"I've had a couple of really hot dreams about you that were just like this," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.
Pres couldn't talk, couldn't speak. He'd had dreams about her, too, but they hadn't come close to this incredible reality. He hadn't imagined making love could ever be this good. What he'd shared with Merrilee—or anyone else, for that matter—had never been like this.
He was out of control and mere moments from his release. He closed his eyes and buried his face in the softness of her breasts, unable to fight the onslaught of sensations, the swirl of excruciating pleasure and soul-shaking emotions that swept around and through him.
He slipped his hand between them, touching her lightly at first then harder, determined to take her with him when he went over the edge.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, Pres ... that feels good. . . ."
Pres made the mistake of opening his eyes. He looked up at Molly and saw her head thrown back in ecstasy, her full breasts slick with perspiration and taut with desire, and he exploded.
It was a rocket-powered trip that shot him impossibly high. He cried out, his voice raw, his throat scorched from the heat of the fireball that ripped through him and threatened to consume his very soul.
He heard Molly's answering cry of pleasure and felt her body tighten around him, pulsating, shaking with the intensity of her own release.
And then it was over. She held him tightly, as tightly as he held her. They breathed together in unison. It seemed probable that they'd remain in such perfect sync for the rest of their lives.
The rest of their lives . . .
Pres wanted to tell her that he loved her. He wanted to shout the words, have them reverberate throughout his bungalow and echo across the island. But he didn't dare.
It would be far too much, too soon.
FOURTEEN
Molly slipped her dress back on, fighting the wave of emotion that threatened to overpower her.
"Are you sure you can't stay until morning?" Preston's voice was soft, persuasive.
She wanted to stay. But she wanted to stay for longer than just the morning. She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
She heard him pull on his pants as she searched the floor for her shoes.
She was a fool. What, really, had she expected? Some kind of fairy-tale happy ending? Had she really thought that just because Pres told her about his ex-wife, and just because he took her to his private bungalow, that he'd totally open himself up to her from this time forth? Had she really thought that they would make love and as a result he'd never keep another secret from her?
That was a laugh.
Mere moments after what had to have been the most intense sexual experience of her life, he'd virtually stopped talking.
She'd teasingly told him that now that she was no longer distracted, he was going to have to tell her what his dream was—the one that he had claimed was so hokey.
He was quiet for a moment—too quiet. That was what tipped her off. He wasn't going to tell her the truth. He'd decided that it was too private for him to share with her.
Oh, he'd made up some lame substitute, something about keeping Sunrise Key as clean and unexploited as possible, fighting overdevelopment, setting up a bird sanctuary.
All of her insecurities came crashing down around her. Everything she was afraid of seemed to loom as imminent realities. Pres couldn't possibly love her, would never love her. Just like Chuck, she was probably Pres's second choice. She was nothing more than a poor replacement for the ghost of Merrilee, a fictional woman who still held his heart.
She tried to tell herself that she was overreacting. She tried to tell herself that his hiding the truth really wasn't that big a deal. But it was a big deal. For her, the fact that he hadn't been completely honest and open with her was a very big deal.
So she tried to tease him. That couldn't possibly be what his dream was. She was so positive that he was going to tell her something really hokey, like he wanted to try to lose his image as a corporate shark and international playboy and become a kindergarten teacher—or maybe even a stay-at-home dad. She dared him to tell her the real truth.
Pres had laughed and insisted that he had.
But then he became so quiet, so introspective, so lost in his own world. And it was a world to which she couldn't belong if he wouldn't let her in. And he wasn't letting her in.
It didn't seem possible that one moment she could have been so utterly euphoric, and the next plunged so deeply into despair.
She didn't say a single word, afraid if she so much as opened her mouth, her own secret would come spilling out: She was in love with him.
So Molly had closed her eyes and held tightly to him, praying that if she only waited long enough, she would hear his soft, raspy voice tell her that he loved her too. If only he loved her, that would be enough. If he loved her, she could help him learn to share himself with her. If he loved her...
But she'd heard only the silence of the night. It pressed down on her, suffocating and heavy with its accompanying disappointment.
He was clearly keeping some kind of secret from he
r. And whatever this secret was, it was a big one.
Pres put on his shoes and searched the floor for his shirt and bow tie. He had to walk Molly back to the resort. As much as he felt like simply throwing on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, it wouldn't do to look disheveled and half-dressed. True, they were supposed to be engaged, and after some of those pictures that had appeared in the papers and on TV, the entire world assumed they were sexually involved. But now that they actually were, it seemed more important than ever to preserve their privacy.
He wanted Molly to spend the night with him. He wanted to wake up tomorrow morning with her in his arms. But it wasn't going to happen—at least not until all of the attention died down.
It was probably just as good. He was trying his damnedest to slow himself down. Mother of God, when she'd teasingly suggested that his dream was to become a stay-at-home dad, he'd nearly choked. She was closer to the truth than she would have believed. But he couldn't talk about how badly he wanted to have children—not after making love for the very first time. The topic seemed a little premature. And he was trying very desperately not to be impulsive. It was extremely hard. He was afraid to talk at all.
"I'm scared to death," Molly suddenly said, breaking the silence.
Pres looked up at her. She'd turned to face him. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest.
"Scared?" he repeated.
"Scared of what we've started here." She wet her lips nervously. "Of where this is going to go."
"Where do you want this to go?" he asked quietly, half hoping she wouldn't talk of commitment, and half hoping that she would.
Molly didn't seem to hear his question. She gazed down at the patterned boards of the floor. "I feel as if I'm about to do one of your skydives, only I'm not wearing a parachute." She looked up at him then, and he realized her eyes were filled with tears. "I don't know if I can do this, Pres. I don't know if I can be your lover. I thought I could, but ... I think maybe we shouldn't see each other again for a while."
Pres was stunned. Even with all of his self-doubts and second thoughts, he'd never considered the option of simply ending whatever this was they'd started. "But you just . . . We just . . . You didn't think what we just did was great?"
"It was too great."
"There's no such thing as too great—"
"It's too high-risk."
Pres stood up, wanting to move toward her but afraid if he did she'd back away. "Are you kidding? Where's the risk? There's no risk at all. We're great together, both in bed and out."
"I'm afraid I'm going to . . ." She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I'm afraid of becoming too attached. To you."
Pres sat down again. He, too, selected his words. "Do you think that's possible? You think you might . . . become too attached. To me?"
Again, she didn't answer his question. "I think I need some time to figure out—"
"Because I think there's a real possibility that I could become too attached to you." God, was that the most ass-backward declaration of love that had ever been made in the world or what?
Molly stared at him, her eyes wide. She shook her head, the way a pitcher might shake off a catcher's signal for a pitch. "Don't," she said. "I don't want you to. Because to tell you the truth, I need more than you can give me, Pres."
Silence crackled around them as Pres gazed at her in astonishment.
God, that hurt. Her soft words had knocked some of the air out of him, and he had to look away and catch his breath. Except his stomach and lungs felt so numb, he was certain he'd never catch his breath again. She needed more than he could give her? What the hell did that mean? She couldn't possibly be talking about sex, because what they had just shared was off the scale. Wasn't it?
"Oh," he finally said. "I didn't . . . I don't . . ."He gave up trying to hide his bewilderment. "I don't understand."
"I need more than sexual intimacy," Molly said softly. "I want openness and honesty and the truth—all the time. I think you're far too private a person to be able to give me that."
"But I told you things I've never told anyone." He ran his hand back through his hair. "I brought you here. . . ."
"After we made love, you didn't say anything—"
Pres laughed, a hot burst of frustration. "Because after what we did, I was only semiconscious. Mother of God, Molly—"
"I need to know how you're feeling, what you're feeling! Chuck never gave me that, and I'm not going to fall into that same emotional trap."
"I'm not Chuck!"
She moved toward him, imploringly. "Then talk to me!"
What could he say to her? What could he tell her? That he was scared to death because of the strength and depth of these emotions he was feeling? Was he supposed to tell her that he'd felt this exact same way with Merrilee, and because of that he needed to back away, keep some distance from Molly? Was he supposed to say that he didn't trust his own emotions, didn't quite believe that what he was feeling was truly real?
Was he supposed to tell her that if Merrilee hadn't come first, he'd probably be down on his knees right this moment, begging Molly to be his wife? How could he possibly tell her that?
"There are some things I just can't tell you," he said tightly.
She nodded. "I know. Like I said, you can't give me what I need."
He stood up, reaching for her. "Can't you give me some time to figure all this out?"
Molly backed away. "Pres, I'm sorry. I can't take that kind of a chance."
She was out the door so fast, Pres couldn't stop her. He wasn't even sure he wanted to stop her. But he did follow her, trailing along a distance behind her as she hurried down the beach toward the resort.
He followed her until he saw that she was safely inside the main building, and then he turned and automatically walked home.
His bungalow smelled like Molly's sweet perfume. And sitting right in the middle of his kitchen table was the sapphire engagement ring he'd given to her.
It wasn't an engagement ring. They'd never really been engaged.
So why the hell did seeing it there make him feel as if his heart had been ripped from his chest?
Pres went into the kitchen and took that last pack of cigarettes from the drawer. He removed the cellophane wrapper and opened the box. He couldn't find any damn matches, so he lit it directly from one of the stove's gas burners and drew a deep breath in.
He blew the smoke out, praying it would erase the sweet scent that Molly had left behind. But all it did was leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
The morning sun was much too bright.
Molly put her sunglasses on as she drove Zander to school.
He was late. She had overslept in the quiet peacefulness of the hotel suite, without the roofers to wake her up at the crack of dawn. She'd returned to the resort the night before, fully intending to take Zander and go home. But Zander had been sound asleep, and the thought of carrying the gangly ten-year-old all the way up to his bedroom in the Kirk Estate was daunting.
So she'd stayed.
And overslept.
"I don't have anything to write a note on," she told him as she pulled into the school parking lot. "So I'll walk you in, okay?"
Zander was clutching his backpack. "Do I have to go to school today? Since I'm already late, can't I just stay home?"
"Don't you want to go?" Molly asked. Zander loved school—or at least he had before. "Is your new school okay?"
He wouldn't meet her eyes. "It's . . . new, I guess."
She turned off the engine and turned to face him. "Zander, is something wrong at school? You haven't talked about it that much. Is something going on that I should know about?"
He opened the car door and started to climb out. "Is it okay if we don't talk about it right now? You're not in the best mood. ..."
"Is whatever you're going to tell me going to put me in an even worse mood?" Molly got out and looked at him over the top of the car.
"It might."
"Is whatever yo
u're going to tell me something that's dangerous, or something that could hurt you or make you sick?"
Zander shook his head. "No."
"Then will you promise to tell me right after you get home from school?"
"I promise."
Molly started toward the school entrance, giving Zander a quick hug around the shoulders. "Then okay."
Zander hugged her back. "Mom, you're so cool."
She had to smile.
"You're as cool as Pres," he added.
Her smile faded. Pres Seaholm. She didn't want to think about him, but she'd thought of no one and nothing else from the moment she'd awakened. And last night she'd dreamed about him endlessly.
Sunrise Key 3 - Otherwise Engaged Page 15