“I know it’s here somewhere!” Wesley suddenly muttered, his eyes roaming studiously around the market square. “Off the Grand Place...”
“What?” Sloan asked curiously, following his line of vision. All she could see was the beautiful square, the bustling people, and a sky full of careless gray pigeons.
“The Kissing Fountain.”
“The what?”
Wesley smiled roguishly and set his arm around her waist. “I swear to you, it’s one of the ‘must sees’ in Brussels. Well, it’s semifamous. Among honeymooners, anyway.”
Sloan raised a brow. “Because the fountain kisses?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, it’s true,” Wesley promised solemnly. “And do you know how?”
Sloan stared at him skeptically. “Somehow with water, I assume.”
“You got it!” Wes grinned. “Come on, let’s find it.”
Laughing happily in the comfort of her husband’s arm, Sloan ambled along the street with him. She was in for her first surprise when Wesley stopped a passerby and asked what she assumed were directions in what sounded like perfect French.
“It’s on a side street off the Grand Place,” Wes explained, without blinking an eye after he had been answered. “Follow, my love, and I shan’t lead you astray.”
“You never told me you spoke French,” Sloan said reproachfully.
“You never asked.”
Sloan smiled. “I guess we’ll make surprising discoveries every day.”
“Ummm...” Wes stared down at her, and for a fraction of a minute she thought she caught that strange coldness in his eyes again. Then it was gone, and he hugged her to him. “Discoveries are amazing, love. In fact, my darling, you never fail to amaze and surprise me...”
After a few wrong turns, they came upon the “famous” Kissing Fountain, and like teenaged lovers they fell into one another’s arms with uproarious laughter. Privately owned, the fountain was a tiny thing, composed of a chubby little girl and an equally chubby little boy, gilded beautifully in Brussels gold. As the water pressure rose from the ground, the pair turned to one another and “kissed,” then swiveled again in their elegant garden with pretty pursed lips—to spout a misting flood of water upon any audience.
“This is a ‘must see,’ huh?” Sloan demanded, giggling as she wiped water from her cheeks. “I’ll bet it’s not listed in the majority of the tourist manuals!”
“Hey! What do you want?” Wes retorted good-naturedly. “Some world traveler you make! I told you, this is one of the things one does in Brussels!” His arm tightened around her waist, and he pulled her closely to him. “But now that we’ve done it...” His voice was low and husky. “Now we’ll go for that French meal and head for our romantic room...”
The restaurant Wes chose was right on the Grand Place, and they were quickly ushered to a discreet table which still allowed for a marvelous view of the quaint glittering buildings. The daytime light was muted to mellow the room and necessitate the use of a single, mood-setting candle at each table. Garlands of roses highlighted the intricately carved, heavy wood furnishings and contrasted with the velvety black booths. Sloan sank into the comfort of the booth gratefully and relished in the delight of Wes’s hard body against hers. She acquiesced with a pretty grin when he suggested he order for them both and gave herself completely to the elegantly romantic mood surrounding them. It was so nice! So easy to rest against the sure shoulder beside her and put herself into the hands of the man she loved with no doubts or second thoughts.
“Well, darling”—Wesley turned to her and raised his glass when they had been served a delicious, dry white wine—“to that ring upon your finger.” In the candlelight, he had a decidedly rakish expression, like that of a pirate, smiling with secret triumph as he gloated over his gold. It was odd that the wavering shadows of the candle could cause such an effect; Wes appeared almost scary but, Sloan thought as a warm shiver of anticipation bubbled in her veins, oh, so sexy!
“To us!” she corrected, raising her glass to tip to his. “That gold thing on your finger is a wedding band, too.”
“Ummm...” But Wes’s mind wasn’t on his own finger or the gold band that adorned it. He was watching Sloan with his pirate expression, his eyes now as brilliant as the gilded buildings outside. With his left hand he held his wineglass; with his right hand he stroked her cheek in a feathery light caress. His thumb rubbed her lips with a tantalizing combination of roughness and care, persisting until she smiled and returned the sensual taunt by grazing her teeth over the thumb. “Ummmm...” Wesley repeated, “And I ordered escargot. You, my love, are all the appetizer, entree, and dessert I think I really require at the moment—”
“I thought you were starving,” Sloan interrupted.
“Oh, I am,” Wes retorted, brushing her lips with a kiss. But the arrival of their escargots—aromatic with subtle seasonings and dripping in a delicious butter sauce—curtailed any explanation of just what he was starving for.
The escargots were followed by an untouchable onion soup baked with a blend of cheeses and toasted cubes of French bread to perfection. Sloan moaned at the arrival of their main course, delicately seasoned fish, swearing she would never be able to finish the food. She did, however; it was all too delicious to consider leaving a mouthful.
Sloan demurred on dessert, but agreed to join Wes in ordering coffee and Grand Marnier. Twilight was falling as they sipped their cordials, and the muted blendings of gold and crimson added to the mystical romance of the evening. Sloan was marvelously comfortable and at ease. The liquor she had consumed made her feel as if she were truly floating on clouds, her body as light as a feather but superbly attuned to the touch and feel of the man beside her—the man who was now her husband and would soon be claiming all of his matrimonial rights. The thought made her shudder with delicious anticipation, and yet she was willing to savor every minute, to let things follow their dreamlike path slowly so that each step on the way to ultimate fulfillment could be cherished and heighten all that was to come...
She was almost in a trance by the time Wesley reached for her hand and escorted her from the restaurant. He was strangely silent as he guided their rental car out of the center of the city and into the surrounding hills, but Sloan barely noticed. Her head was resting on his shoulder; her hand rested lightly on his thigh, and she was secretly thrilling to its rugged, tense feel beneath her fingers. His breathing, she noted with misty satisfaction, was growing ragged, and a pulse was visibly pounding in the length of his corded neck. A smile of pure feminine pleasure fitted its way seductively into her lips. Wesley had power over her—he could prove that at any time with the slightest touch!—but she also had power over him, and she knew it. She loved him, desperately, but something as old as love and even more primitive held her in its grasp. Tonight she would play the seductress for real; the sensual vixen to the hilt. In the most ancient of feminine games, she would wield her power with subtle mastery until she had driven Wesley to the brink of insanity. Then, of course, they would surrender to love’s sweet fire together. Still, she decided with the wiles of her sex, she would keep the upper hand. It would never do to let Wes know that he could be the eternal victor, while still the game was for them both...two winners.
She almost forgot her game when they arrived at their hotel. As Wes had promised, the place was secluded and enchanting. The old and new were blended together delightfully. Their room, furnished with French provincial pieces—the dominating one being a huge, four-poster bed—was also equipped with ultramodern conveniences. There was nothing outdated about the beautiful marble bath or the plate glass windows which overlooked lush green hills and a blue stream. Flemish tapestries lined the walls, enhancing rather than contrasting with a thick shag rug of creamery-pure beige. Sloan clapped her hands with delight at her surroundings and spun on Wes with the enthusiasm of a child shining her eyes to brilliant sapphire.
“Wes!�
� she cried happily, lifting her hands inadequately as she sought for words of description. “It’s beautiful—wonderful—marvelous!”
A smile tilted his lips, but he turned from her wordlessly to tip the boy who had brought their luggage in. The two exchanged a few words in French, then the boy left, grinning deftly as he pocketed Wes’s francs. Then the door closed behind him, and Sloan was at long last alone with her new husband.
Wesley came behind her at the window. Darkness was enveloping the land, but a full moon was steadily rising to cast beautiful, luminescent shadows over the rippling water and nearby foliage. As they stared upon the view together, Wesley’s hands spanned her small waist, and he began a series of erotic nibblings on her earlobe which surely found their way down her neck and collarbone. Then he was firmly turning her from the window, and his lips found hers with insistent demand.
Sloan moaned as her lips parted beneath his assault. His tongue plundered the recesses of her mouth mercilessly as his hands began a slow attack of their own. Instinctively Sloan responded, arching her body to his, running her fingers from the crispness of his hair to the strength of his back, luxuriating in the play of muscles beneath her fingertips even as his heat began to consume her. His fingers found the zipper of her dress, and as she heard the rasping sound of its release, she remembered, somewhat vaguely, her game. As his callused hands found her bare flesh and began a possessive exploration, Sloan gently maneuvered from his arms. Having artfully escaped, she smiled at his look of frustrated confusion. Moving quickly before he could reclaim her, she impishly planted a kiss on his chin and sprang from his reach. “I’m going to take a quick shower, darling,” she murmured. “I won’t be long.”
But she was. She allowed the hot water to run on and on, lathering herself richly with scented soap, her lips curled all the while as she gloated over the excitement of her taunting. Finally, she rinsed herself thoroughly and emerged, chuckling in her throat as she noticed the knob of the door twisting. She wasn’t ready yet. Taking her time, she assiduously brushed her hair until it fell in silklike waves, then donned one of her new gowns, a deceptive piece of black gauze which covered her from neck to toe yet teased enticingly with slits that ran all the way to her hips. She continued chuckling as she stepped into a pair of black string bikini panties and completed her outfit with the matching black peignoir. Then she reached for the doorknob, her heart beginning to flutter tremulously.
Wesley was not panting by the door as she had expected. He had discarded his own clothing for a velour robe and was leaning nonchalantly on the bed, one arm behind his head to form a comfortable crook for it, the other resting on his kneecap as he held an iced drink. He had turned on the television set and was watching a newscaster. “I ordered you a scotch,” he said, idly motioning toward the dresser. He barely glanced her way.
“Thanks,” Sloan said, bewildered. She walked slowly for her drink, swaying as she did so, but she received no response from Wesley. Frustrated, she sipped the scotch and sat at the foot of the bed. If he was giving no notice of her, she certainly wasn’t going to jump into his arms! The voice of the newscaster droned into her ears. “That isn’t French he’s speaking,” she said, growing increasingly nervous.
“Flemish,” Wes supplied conversationally. “This is a bilingual country.”
“Oh,” Sloan murmured. Then acidly, “And I suppose you speak Flemish, too?”
“Not really,” Wes said absently. “I understand a fair amount.”
Sloan heard the clatter of ice as Wesley calmly drained his glass. Still, he didn’t move. So! Sloan thought petulantly, he wants to play games, too! Well, she had already decided on winning this one. She drained her scotch in a gulp and winced as the burning liquid made its way down her throat. Then she stood, stretched and yawned, surprised at how dizzy she was. Gulping the scotch had been a mistake. Clutching the bedpost, she steadied herself and stole a glance at Wesley. The black hair on his chest curled provocatively over its expanse as it lay exposed from the V of his robe. The knotted muscles of his calves, thrown so carelessly over the coverlet, gave a breath-catching hint of the physique beneath the draped velour...
Damn him! Sloan thought. She whirled from the bedpost and ripped the covers from her side of the bed. She was squirming with heat and anger. It had never occurred to her that two could play her game...
Flouncing into the bed, she turned her back on him and stared at the bathroom door, fuming. His ensuing chuckle, deep, low, and from the throat, was the finishing touch. She determined furiously that whatever the cost to herself, Wesley would go to sleep on his wedding night with nothing more fulfilling than a hot shower!
His hand wrapped around her arm like a vise, and his next whisper was hot and tantalizing against her ear. “No games, my darling,” he murmured, his lips moving along her neck and shoulder, searing her skin through the gauze. “You’re my wife now. Legal possession.”
“Possession!” Sloan shrilled, spinning around so quickly that her hair neatly slapped his face and momentarily curtailed his kisses. The evening was not going at all as planned! Wesley was calm and sedate, taking his own sweet time, and she was a bundle of nerves and frustration. He was supposed to realize she was elated, yet ever so slightly frightened despite her stance, needing him to cajole. Instead, he was calmly telling her that she was a possession.
“Ummm,” Wes drawled lazily, his nibbling kisses moving over her breasts, warm and moist over the black material. “That’s what you are now, you know, a possession.”
“No!” Sloan squealed breathlessly. Her fury was mingling with her desire and the undeniable arousal he was so easily eliciting. Mind and body waged a silent war. She had to stop him before it was too late, before she lost herself in the steadily increasing vortex of pleasure he was confidently creating. Her fingers dug into his hair, and she pulled his face to hers with all the strength her anger could muster.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed, and then she saw his eyes and the amusement that sparkled within them.
“You’ve been teasing me!” Sloan accused, relaxing somewhat but maintaining her punishing grasp of his hair. “You...you...you...” She couldn’t think of a fit name to call him.
“How about ‘Lord and Master,’” Wes taunted, placidly circling her wrists with his hands and creating a pressure which forced her to gasp and release her hold. Then both of her wrists were firmly held by one of his hands and pinioned above her.
“‘Lord and Master’ my foot!” Sloan retorted, squirming and wriggling her wrists to free herself. The effort was ludicrous. “I’ll get you for this, Wesley Adams,” she said tartly, panting but unwilling to accept defeat.
“I do hope that’s a promise,” he drawled languorously. “Now,” he continued, his tone lowering hoarsely, “just how do you plan to get me? Like this?” She felt the rough fingertips of his free hand delve beneath the black gown to travel with tantalizing leisure up the length of her thigh. “Or perhaps like this.” With a force belying his subtle tone, he deftly drove a wedge between her legs with a firm thrust of a knee and lowered his weight over her body, imprisoning her completely.
“Wesley!” Sloan’s calling of his name was a combination of amazement, irritation, amusement and—despite her firm resolve to remain unmoved by any of his advances until she was in control again—exquisite pleasure.
“Maybe you could ‘get me’ something like this,” he went on, undaunted. He showered her throat and breasts again with the moist, nibbled kisses that were driving all rational thoughts from her mind as they ignited a fire within her that raged rapidly to every tingling nerve of her body. “Maybe more like this,” he muttered darkly against her skin, and then before she knew his purpose, his teeth sank into the material of her gown as his hand momentarily halted its wanderings to rip the black gauze cleanly in two, leaving her slender form bared to his sensuous view. “What the hell are these things?” he demanded, slipping a finger beneath the elastic of the black panties. “Oh well, what the hell.” A single
twist of his fingers ripped the string, and he tossed them to the floor with a nonchalant flick of his hand.
“Wesley!” Sloan gasped again. The word was meant to sound indignant, reproachful, but his name came out instead as a groaning plea. “Stop it!” she murmured weakly, renewing the struggle for freedom of her hands.
“Stop what?” he teased. “This?” His fingers began a feather-light caress on her belly, drawing circles that became larger and more inquisitive as he shifted slightly and continued to the sensitive silk of her thighs. “Or this...” His voice grated on the last, and the hands and fingers that sought the secrets of her femininity were no longer fluttery and teasing but hungry and demanding as was the mouth that claimed her breasts, arousing them to rigid peaks.
Sloan shivered uncontrollably, writhing and squirming, but no longer to escape his hold. She wanted to get closer to him, closer and closer, become one with him and allow the fire that now pulsed through her like a living thing to burn to its height of shimmering flame and ultimately consume them.
“Wildcat,” Wesley murmured to the roseate nipple his lips caressed. His face rose above Sloan’s, and she was dimly aware that his eyes glittered like a jungle cat’s and that his features were taut with his own desire. “My game, now, wife, and then no more games,” he muttered darkly.
“No more games,” Sloan echoed in a husky whisper, shuddering as if charged by electricity and arching to feel the crisp hairs of his chest against her breasts and the pulsating hardness of his masculinity that blatantly proved his own arousal. “Wesley...please!” Her words were almost a sob.
But he wasn’t through with his exquisite torture yet. He released her wrists, but only to allow his lips further exploration of her flesh. Freed, Sloan’s hands moved of their own volition, clinging to him, digging into him, seeking and desiring. And then, when she thought she would surely die of wonderful agony, Wesley’s hands moved to her buttocks and lifted her to him.
Quiet Walks the Tiger Page 12