Proud Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 2)

by Phoenix Sullivan

  When he laid a hand on my bared stomach just above the panty line, I practically jumped with desire as I labored to breathe.

  His eyes met mine. “May I?” Was there anything sexier than a man asking permission to rip your panties off? If I hadn’t felt the tremble in his hand that signaled desire as strong as mine or seen the outline of his passion in his shorts, I might have wondered how much of a disappointment I was to him. But for him to pause in the state he was in…

  “If you don’t, I will,” I threatened.

  Oh god, his mouth twerked into that leg-melting sexy grin as I felt my panties being whisked away.

  And another wave of shame hit. Out in the wild for eight months, I hadn’t even thought about taming that unruly thatch of dark hair. Only when I was exposed did I consider how I must compare to models and actresses with barely-there wardrobes to wax for.

  I looked for revulsion in his eyes or the set of his face, found nothing but delight and raw desire. Either his acting was Oscar-caliber or else he truly found my less-than-perfect body as desirable as I found his perfect one.

  At least perfect in what of him I’d seen.

  Raising up on my left elbow, I reached my right hand out to his waistband. “Time for you to put up or shut up,” I teased.

  Kneeling in the bay, head bowed under the low roof, Chris waggled his eyebrows at me. I pulled one side of his shorts off his hips and he pulled down the other. What sprang out between was beyond expectation, beyond promise.

  And it was all for me.

  “Is there somewhere specific you want me to put it up?” he challenged, flashing that unbearable grin of his as he rose higher and harder under my stare.

  Even his cock was an attention hound.

  “Shut up,” I growled back, “and strip.”

  “Should have known you’d want it both ways.”

  It was cramped in the bay for a man his size, so he shifted out the back hatch to comply. That way, too, I got to watch as, backwashed by moonlight, he turned away from me with feigned modesty and bent slowly over to slide his shorts to his ankles where he could step out of them. Just as he’d come prepared with condoms, he’d also come commando, and I filled my eyes as I peeped over the lip of the hatch with the sight of that well-muscled butt mooning me as he gloved himself.

  Irritatingly, he knew just how beautiful and supple that body of his was. Without a hint of shame, he turned his profile to me. The long, lean line of his body echoed the long, lean length of his shaft as it worshipped the moon riding high above.

  Desire slammed into me.

  My head and heart could covet Christopher Darnelle all they wanted. My body craved that arrogant prick, Chris Corsair—figuratively, too, but most literally right now as muscles deep within pulsed in anticipation.

  I wanted the best of everything about him—physically and emotionally.

  Surely there was nothing wrong with that.

  Not if I gave him the best of me in return.

  When he made the quarter turn toward me, I surprised him by levering myself to the lip of the hatchway, putting my lips in perfect alignment with his hips.

  Jesus, that miracle of him was even more impressive close up. I braced my hands to either side on corded thighs that trembled with his own desire.

  Hands on the edge of the roof, he looked down between his arms, watching the slow advance of my outstretched tongue. Millimeters from him I stopped, delighting in the quiver of his anticipation. Gently, I blew on him, just above the roll of the condom, a cool breeze over his heated flesh.

  Every muscle in his hips and thighs contracted as above me he gasped with desire.

  I teased him with that agony only a moment because my own body couldn’t bear it any longer. As with our kiss, tenderness here would have to wait. When my tongue crossed those last millimeters, the shock of the touch jolted through me from mouth to womb. Running my tongue up the length of him, I captured the smooth tip, circling my hands to the backs of his thighs to draw him closer. The subtle hint of vanilla from the latex tickled my tongue and drifted into my nose, chasing away the persistent smell of smoke that permeated everything around.

  Swallowing the first few inches of him, I closed my eyes and sucked, my rhythm automatically matching his when reflex kicked in and he began to move. But him making love to my mouth wasn’t what I wanted—needed—right now.

  Nor was it what Chris had in mind either.

  With effort, he pushed away, his disappointed flesh clearly protesting. “Please, let me come inside you.”

  Still the gentleman. And still sexy as hell.

  I lay back as he climbed over me, strong arms to either side, the length of him hard and solid over me. Even while I trembled on the brink of union, I felt protected by him. Like he was my own personal shark cage that no danger could get by. Not the monkey troop screeching in the far trees or the jackals yapping on the veldt.

  For me, that was a new dimension to sex. Not that I felt I needed his protection, just knowing it was there heightened the electricity that charged between us. Made me more in tune with him, with the night, with my own body as I opened my legs to him.

  He eased in, his eyes intent on mine as I stared back into the echo of blue in their moon-shadowed depths. He was gauging my reactions, adjusting himself to my needs, holding himself back to allow my body to adjust to him.

  Only then did I realize just how much of him my body would have to adjust to. As muscles long dormant parted at his advance, I had reason to appreciate his care. Gratitude, however, extended only so far. A part of me scowled at the arrogant assumption his size might present any problem.

  That snark was fleeting, though, as the pleasure of his filling me pushed it aside. And when he started his tentative thrusting, he pushed that thought out completely. No, he pushed out all thought, leaving only instinct and reflex and a building passion.

  Long, slow thrusts quickened as that passion climbed toward ecstasy. My arms circled shoulders wide as starlight, my ankles wrapped legs hard as moonrock as the universe expanded around us. My ears rang with the songs of suns, peaking then falling, till those songs became the contented whuffs of lions in the darkling night.

  Wrapped inside and around each other, we fell asleep, our hatch open still to the wilds of fate, trusting to our pride to keep us safe.

  CHAPTER 26

  Chris

  It might have been the chatter from the night birds in our tree that woke Dee and me a couple of hours later. But it wasn’t.

  It was need.

  Need as deep and primal as Africa itself.

  Need that burned through our flesh like a fire on the veldt, leaving any thought of refusal ash in its wake.

  I was already inside her when we woke. Half-hard only, so I’d probably never pulled out. If this craving had its way, I never would. We fit together tighter than fate. With only a subtle shift of my hips, I was lengthening again, hardening, readying.

  The pillow of her thighs tightened around me as her lips fell over the lobe of my ear and she sucked gently. I filled my hands with her breasts, rubbing their peaks till she moaned.

  Responsibility was inconvenient, but it was the work of only a moment to slip out and slip on a fresh condom. Then I was back inside her, pulsing with a slow, steady need. Where our first time had been more frantic, a quick slaking, this time we moved in time with the rhythm of the night—the slow slide of the moon across the sky, the slow circle of stars overhead.

  Even the why of us coming together this time was different from that first frenzied encounter. A need that had less to do with sex and more to do with life. With—

  No, I wasn’t prepared to voice the “L” word, not even in the private nooks of my mind.

  Giving myself over to the stateliness of this dance, I let my hands roam the ways and byways of Dee’s exquisite body, memorizing every silken plane and hollow that made her unique. Nature had been kind to her, although Nature had reserved legginess and bustiness for others. Such generosit
y wouldn’t have fit her, in any case. Just as she needed no surgeon’s knife to sculpt her more perfectly into the woman she was. Her very naturalness called to me, and my hands found no flaws as they explored their way across her.

  “You’re so lovely,” I murmured. There were other lines I could have used, scripted by gifted playwrights, memorized as they were from countless movies and plays; instead, I chose the words of my heart.

  When she stiffened, I realized she doubted me. Realized she was comparing herself to the women the tabloids had paired me with.

  “Really, you are,” I assured her. “The way every part of you fits against me so perfectly. The way your skin shimmers in the moonlight. Even the way those dark eyes of yours judge me, because they make me see myself more clearly. The way you move. The way you kiss. The way my hands don’t want to leave you. The way I want to just stay inside you forever.”

  She shook her head, but I wouldn’t let her deny it. Capturing her lips with mine, I kissed her, long and deep, searing her with the truth of my words until she kissed me back, believing them.

  Stirred, I moved inside her, the beat of the dance more insistent now, never forgetting while there was joy in the dance itself, every pas de deux led to a finale.

  “Christopher Darnelle,” she whispered, “I think I like you.”

  Squeezing her to me, the tempo of our lust beating faster, I proved how much I liked her right back.

  The next time I woke it was dawn, and I felt a soft tickle at my ankle. Our legs twined, Dee’s foot was sleepily brushing mine. Or so I thought until I opened my eyes.

  “Shh.” I didn’t need Dee’s caution, but it did help to steady me as I watched Sheba continue to snuffle at our bare legs.

  Not taking her eyes off the lioness, Dee reached into the mesh sidepocket of the bay. For a moment I thought she going for the .38, but she drew out Reena’s handheld, her spare now, and began to film as she sing-songed nonsense to keep Sheba reassured.

  After a moment, the lioness seemed to have gained all the useful information she could through her sensitive nose. Whether she could scent my fear or hear the pound of my heart, I couldn’t be sure, but I used all the tricks I knew to minimize the outward signs of my trepidation and to display confidence—both for the lion and the camera. Sheba swung her head away from us, and I was about to sigh my relief when she sprang easily over the lip of the hatch into the narrow space beside where Dee and I lay twined together.

  I froze, feeling even more naked as the lioness lowered her head between us, her whiskers twitching across my pecs and Dee’s breast. Camera in her right hand, Dee cautiously extended her left, burying her fingers in the fur at the back of Sheba’s head and scratching her ear.

  Beside my own head, a great paw spraddled in the bedding, not a handwidth away from my cheek. Her claws were retracted, but their wicked hooks peeked out, a solid threat that she had only to swipe in play at one of our heads or arms or bared butts to ravage flesh that was as tender and unprotected as our own.

  Twisting her head away from Dee’s hand, she butted her muzzle into the curve of my waist. I expected a shock of cold, but her nose was pleasantly warm. Tentatively, I lifted a hand and scratched her cheek, the short fur a mix of soft and rough depending on how I stroked it. A moment of that, then she turned lithely in that cramped space, whipping her tail into our faces before leaping out of the bay and sauntering back to the stream where the rest of the lions lay watching with lazy interest.

  Dee laughed, a sound half-nervous and half-delight. “I guess that was her saying good morning.”

  “Or asking what we were up to last night.” Was that really a blush on Dee’s cheeks? I smiled. The color—and the reason for it—suited her. “Or what we might be up to still this morning.”

  I expected a deeper blush. What I got was a full-frontal sweep of the camera before she clicked it off abruptly and dropped it back into the sidepocket of the bay.

  “And what do you think we told her?” Dee’s voice was breathy and husky. I knew what that told me.

  “This.” I rolled her on top of me and tossed her a fresh, vanilla-scented packet. With a growl, she tore it open with her teeth.

  Two days ago, Gary had accompanied the ambulance that transported Reena from the small hospital where we’d left them to a resort about 150 miles south in the larger city of Mongu where they could catch a commercial airline without the need to puddle hop out of Zambezi.

  The move added about four hours extra to our drive, which was in its way as charged as the fire-chase across the veldt had been.

  We passed some of the charred grasslands, blackened plains that stretched to the hills beyond. A helicopter, flying only a couple of hundred feet up, thwocked its way over us and we waved at the pilot and his passenger, rangers likely, probably assessing the extent of the fire damage.

  “The veldtland will be better in the long run,” Dee said as the copter disappeared in the direction we’d just come. “I know that. I just can’t help thinking about how many animals might have been lost. Or how many might have survived the fire but won’t make it out regardless. I look out there now, and my heart cries for them. One minute they’re napping in the sun, the next they’re starving, burned or dead.”

  She shook herself, trying to shake out the empathy.

  “You can’t do it,” I told. “You can’t discard something so intimately a part of you as easily as that. The best filmmakers I know are the ones who care the most. Don’t lose sight of that.”

  We’d hit the D293 road by then where one hand on the wheel was all she needed. I took the other in mine. I wanted to give her strength and support through that touch, of course, but mostly I’d gone too long without the feel of her. First touch triggered flashes from the night before and from this morning—the feel of her thighs and breasts, the touch of her hand on me there, the velvet softness deep inside where I could lose myself for a lifetime if I wasn’t careful.

  At this point with any woman before, Chris Corsair would have dropped the hand he held bunny-quick and searched out another virgin hand, free from any memories that might smack of—no, the “L” word was still off-limits, as was the “C” one—commitment.

  Christopher Darnelle, though, held on to Dee’s hand, to the warm memories it imparted, and to the future memories it promised.

  CHAPTER 27

  Chris

  By any standard, The Southern Cross Resort Hotel was small, but it did offer 5-star amenities for its clientele of professional executives who dabbled in Big Game hunting every year or two by bow or rifle or camera.

  It was a gated compound outside the bustle of Mongu, with a smiling gate attendant in bright tribal dress who waved us through with a salute. A half-dozen private bungalows surrounded the U-shaped hotel whose main body was a two-story affair with one-story wings. Date palms and hibiscus appeared to the landscaper’s choice for helping guests transition from highrises to African bush. Umbrella’d tables and a glint from the sun suggested a pool, while trundling golf carts made their way to and from the private 9-hole course.

  Life-size statues of a giraffe and a large antelope with a set of tall and twisting horns met us at the entrance. In the lobby’s soaring atrium, a two-story glass cage housed a menagerie of colorful birds and tiny monkeys. Tastefully taxidermied gazelles and buffalo and even a lion stood proud along the walls. Not so many as to make the camera-safari crowd overly uncomfortable, but enough to whet the appetites of the hunters here with guns. It was early afternoon, just after lunchtime, and the tiny bar open in the far corner was nearly deserted.

  Gary was waiting for us, drink in hand and impeccably dressed in crisply ironed safari shorts and short safari boots as he waved us over to one of the far tables by the highly tinted picture window overlooking the courtyard. He rose to give me a not-so-quick hug that I returned with equal enthusiasm. I really had missed Gary—not just personal-assistant Gary, who made it so I never had to think about any of the details, but Gary the friend who would
’ve, could’ve, maybe even should’ve been so much more.

  We sat, and Dee and I ordered drinks from a waiter in boldly printed musisi dress who promptly appeared.

  “You look like hell,” Gary offered. “And what’s that smell?”

  “Barbecued veldt. And you know the camera loves my rugged bush look. It’s all about fooling the fans with authenticity. If they buy this, they’ll buy the rest of it.” I grinned, knowing precisely what effect that would have on Gary, and gave him a conspiratorial wink. He loved grand illusion even more than I did.

  Falling into old patterns with Gary, though, meant forgetting for the wrong moment about Dee. Her sharp look cut me to the quick.

  “Is that all this is to you? Fooling the fans? Make-believe?”

  “Of course not!”

  Dee’s judging eyes and Gary’s pursed lips demanded more honesty than that from me. “Not all of it.” I took Dee’s hand. “Everything we’ve been through—that’s all been real, hasn’t it? The film editors will just…embellish…it.” Setting down my drink, I took Gary’s hand as well. “Gary and I were just talking shop. Trashing work. At the end of the day, what we do is just a job.”

  “What about my job, where there’s no end-of-the-day? Where what I do is what I live?” Dee tugged her hand out of mine. “And what about at night? Or is that just a job too?” She looked pointedly at Gary’s hand still meshed in mine.

  Gary whistled low. “Girlfriend, don’t tell me you and he…? I guess that scruffed-up look does have its charm—for some. Personally, I love him in Armani.” He withdrew his hand as well. “But it’s been forever since he dressed up for me.”

  I sighed. There was a pattern here with things getting more complicated with women when Gary was around. He brought out the snark in me, and I played up to my celluloid-idol image when we were together. Not to impress him; I was well beyond that in our relationship. But because a part of me enjoyed having someone around to play-act that part of my life with. He didn’t demand anything more than the surface me, the plastic me, when I was with him. Like some men reverted to their 12-year-old selves when they were around their old college buds, I fell into my inauthentic self when I was with Gary.