Body Contact

by Rebecca York

  He bent to smooth out the bottom sheet, then folded back the top one, along with the light spread.

  “Lie down,” he murmured.

  She slid onto the bed, moving across the mattress and holding out her arms to him.

  Standing beside the bed, he gazed down at her, feeling overwhelmed by emotions that pierced him to his very center.

  He wanted her with a physical need that bordered on madness. But that was only a small part of what he felt for her. He wanted things he had never wanted before. Things he was afraid to put into words. Things that frightened him.

  The need for self-preservation made him cut off his thoughts as he kicked his feet out of his shoes, then tugged at his socks before pulling his shirt over his head. When he got to his slacks, he hesitated. He was already rock-hard, and hot enough to go off like a firecracker.

  And if he eased into her now, climax was only a few lightning strokes away.

  But he had never been a selfish lover. Not even the first time with her. Or during the frantic scene in the shower. He wanted more than a release of the tension that had been building inside him all day.

  He wanted to arouse her slowly, to enjoy every moment of her pleasure before he took anything for himself. But if he were naked beside her on the bed, he knew it might be impossible not to indulge his own greed for her, impossible not to plunge inside her and slake his own raging desire.

  So he kept his briefs on, then stretched out beside her. Her hand slid down his back, came to the narrow band of knit fabric and stopped. When she raised her head, he knew she was staring at him in the darkness.

  “Not yet,” was all he said, as his own hand reached to stroke the soft fabric of her gown while he remembered how sexy the ecru silk had looked against her creamy skin. Remembered the tantalizing details he had glimpsed through the translucent fabric—the shadows of her nipples and the curly blond hair at the juncture of her legs.

  He stroked her from shoulder to hip, enjoying the feel of his hand sliding over the silky fabric, and the feel of her body stirring under his touch. Then he stroked upward again, his goal the ecru lace at her bodice. He stopped to play with the raised texture of it before he slipped one finger underneath, just at the edge of the V.

  Delicately he stroked the inner curve of one breast, then the other, gratified when he heard her breath catch and then quicken for him.

  Every movement was slow and deliberate as he stroked inward toward one nipple, almost touching it before withdrawing.

  She made a frustrated sound and strained toward him in the darkness, silently begging for a more satisfying touch. But he wasn’t about to give her what they both wanted. Not yet. Not until he’d built her arousal to the same molten level of heat he was feeling.

  She moved restlessly under his touch. Then she grabbed at his hand and tried to drag it where she wanted it. He resisted, then caught her wrists in his hand and pulled them above her head.

  Maybe he would take off her gown, he suddenly decided. And use it to his advantage.

  His fingers tugged at the sheer skirt, dragging it up and over her head. But he kept her arms tangled in the thin fabric, using it like a rope to bind her wrists and loop them around one of the bars of the brass headboard.

  When he was finished, she was naked, her arms raised above her head. The silky gown was a fragile restraint. He knew she could have gotten free if she’d wanted to. But she stayed where she was, her face turned toward him.

  He brought his lips to her ear. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded in the darkness. He had never wanted to tie a woman up like this before. And he knew that in his mind he was binding her to him—even if he understood that he had no right to do it.

  His eyes traveled over her body. He could see her smooth skin against the sheets. But he couldn’t make out much more.

  Again, he longed for the light. He wanted to see the look in her eyes now. It took a great deal of restraint to keep from reaching for the lamp beside the bed. But he kept it off, because the idea of anyone watching them set his teeth on edge.

  He knelt beside her, gently stroking below her breasts and down over the curve of her hip, just a light, teasing touch as he let his own fantasy build. He had her in his power now. He could do anything he wanted to her. And he knew exactly what that was.

  When she called his name, her voice soft and pleading, he turned his face upward, seeing the outline of her jaw. He leaned to kiss her there, stringing a line of tiny kisses that moved downward to the slender column of her throat.

  He spent considerable time there—first with little nibbling kisses that grew steadily more openmouthed before he moved lower to her collarbone.

  He bound himself to his own set of rules, using only his mouth and his face to caress her. Slowly and deliberately, he worked his way downward, teasing the tops of her breasts, then made tiny forays to her erect nipples.

  He could feel her chest rising and falling as she gasped for air. He could feel heat coming off her in waves that seared his own flesh. When he raised his head, he saw that her hands were wrapped around the brass bars of the headboard, and she was holding on for dear life.

  Her breasts were not large. But they were so very responsive. Gratifyingly responsive, he thought as he bent to her again—sucking one nipple into his mouth, drawing a pleading gasp from her as he used his tongue and teeth to advantage. Then, temporarily abandoning his rules, he used one hand on the other nipple, gently squeezing and twisting in ways he knew would push her higher.

  Her body arched and writhed under his mouth and hand, and he savored the sound of her voice as she called out for mercy. He had never wanted a woman more in his life. Desperate for her, he pressed his swollen cock against her thigh.

  But at the same time, he had never been more bent on giving pleasure, and the briefs he’d prudently kept on stayed on.

  With a shaky breath he inched his lower body away from hers. He ached to see her clearly now. He wanted to see all the fine details of her arousal. Her erect nipples. The flush that he knew must be spread across her skin. The hazy erotic look in her eyes.

  But he must do with other senses, touch and hearing—and taste.

  Taste! Yes, taste, he thought, as he licked delicately at the crowns and indentations of her ribs, then moved toward the center of her body to flick his tongue into her navel.

  He felt her stomach muscles quiver, felt his own mirror the response.

  Reaching up, he snagged one of the pillows at the top of the bed, then lifted her hips with his other hand so he could slide it under her.

  As he raised her middle off the mattress, she called out his name again, her voice low and throaty and questioning.

  “Right here,” he answered as he opened her thighs and moved between them.

  She made a small sound that might have been a protest—or an invitation.

  He didn’t know which. And he didn’t care. He knew what he wanted. To kiss her. Feast on her essence.

  Gently he parted the folds of her sex with his fingers, feeling his own body quicken as he discovered the extent of her arousal. She was soft and swollen and slick with moisture.

  With a tortured sound deep in his throat, he bent to her then, finding her with his mouth, sipping her sweetness with his lips and tongue.

  She tasted of heat and honey and feminine desire. And as he began to explore her with his mouth she moved urgently against him.

  When he grasped her hips, stilling her with a kind of gentle savagery, she whimpered in protest.

  But tonight he wanted the control. Wanted the power and the satisfaction of bringing her to climax.

  She belonged to him, he thought in some deep recess of his mind. And he belonged to her in a way that went beyond the mere joining of bodies.

  There was no way to express his emotions in words. Instead he used his mouth on her body.

  He kissed her, caressed her with long lazy strokes that wrung panting little cries from her. Experime
nting with the pace and the pressure and the angle of his mouth, he found out what she liked best.

  She pressed against him, her breath coming in gasps. Her body twisting in excitement. And when he felt the first tremors of her climax against his mouth, he felt something fierce and tender clench inside his own chest.

  She cried out his name as he pushed her up and over the top. And he drank in her orgasm, awed by the sensations transmitted from the core of her to his lips.

  He drew out her satisfaction, waiting until the tremors subsided. Then, half mad with his own need, he tore off his briefs and plunged his aching shaft into her.

  His body shuddered with the force of their joining, shuddered with the tumult of his emotions.

  Sex had always been a form of pleasure. Physical pleasure. Tonight physical pleasure was only a tiny part of what he felt.

  Some dark, hidden core inside him shattered as he began to move. He was seized by emotions he could never articulate. Yet he felt them to the depths of his soul.

  He felt her moving under him, her hips wildly bucking. Her arms came around his shoulders, and he realized that she had freed her hands from their bonds.

  Then she was moving in concert with him, her breath rushing in and out of her lungs with his.

  Her fingers worked their way up and down his back, her nails digging into his flesh.

  And then he was shuddering with the force of his release, his head thrown back as ecstasy washed over him.

  He felt her body convulse under him, felt her grip him more tightly, heard her moans of pleasure as she followed where he had led her again.

  He collapsed on top of her, too spent to move. When his brain could function again, he tried to shift to his side, but she held him where he was. “Stay inside me,” she murmured.

  He wanted that, too, wanted to stay connected with her as long as he could. Shifting his arms around her hips, he rolled to his side, still joined to her.

  She nestled her head against his shoulder, and he stroked his lips against the top of her head.

  “We should sleep. It’s been a long night,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” she answered, and for the first time that night, he was glad that they had to be careful of what they said. He didn’t want to get into a discussion about what he was feeling, because the last thing in the world he wanted was to share his emotions with Maddy. They were too new. Too raw. And too dangerous.

  OLIVER READ the security reports as he sipped his coffee with cream and ate his perfectly-prepared eggs Benedict. Too bad he couldn’t have reinstalled camera equipment in Agapanthus Villa. But if Jack Craig had found it, the man would have considered it an open act of hostility. And he wasn’t ready to confront Jack Craig yet. Not without more information. Which he expected to arrive from the States soon.

  Craig had been an aggravation and a challenge.

  Still, it was amusing to spar with him. Because there was no way he could win. Not on Orchid Island. Where Oliver Reynard controlled every variable.

  While Jack and Maddy had been at the evening’s reception, his electronics experts had made sure all the audio bugs in the place were in perfect working order.

  Too bad they hadn’t picked up anything besides a few gasped sentences and the sounds of wild, enthusiastic lovemaking. Including what sounded like some pretty rough sex in the middle of the night.

  Still, the information was useful. It meant that they’d stayed put after they’d retired for the night.

  From the sound of things, Jack Craig must be a sexual athlete. But he had his inhibitions. He really did like his privacy. During the first part of their private party, he’d remained silent, and Maddy had done all the talking.

  The woman was certainly hot, and he knew how to make her even hotter. Thinking about his plans for later in the day, Oliver felt a surge of carnal anticipation flow through his veins.

  MADDY WOKE SLOWLY, dreamily as she remembered how Jack had made love to her the night before. He had still been inside her when she’d fallen asleep, exhausted by the night’s activities—all of them.

  Rolling to her side, she reached to clasp him in her arms the way she had in the darkness. But he was gone, and when she smoothed her hand over the sheets, she found them cool.

  So he’d been up for a while. And he hadn’t bothered to wake her. Or kiss her. Or anything else.

  Unaccountably, a deep throbbing sense of loss settled over her. She rolled to her back, staring at the ceiling, feeling tears gather at the backs of her eyes.

  It was worse than after the last time he’d made love to her. Then she’d almost expected him to leave her in the morning. This was different because she’d thought something important had changed between them.

  She knew the empty ache inside herself was irrational. But she couldn’t shut it off.

  Don’t do this to yourself, she ordered sternly. You knew what you were getting into when you begged to come along on this assignment. Nothing’s changed. So don’t invest too much in what happened last night when Jack made love to you. It didn’t mean the same thing to him as it did to you. Probably he had a bad time out there in the jungle, and he was letting off some steam.

  But it hadn’t felt like that. It had felt like a man showing a woman how much he cared.

  She clenched and unclenched the hands that lay at her sides, but she couldn’t stop the memories from flooding back. Jack had used her body like a painter bent on bringing a masterpiece to life. His tongue and lips had been his creative tool. Until he’d finally allowed himself to let that other full, rigid tool plunge into her.

  When she’d freed her hands from their bonds, it was because she’d been overwhelmed by the need to touch him, hold him. Clasp him to her breast and show him what she was feeling—because talk had been forbidden, and there was no way to tell him he had transported her to paradise.

  She ached to tell him that now. Yet he’d taken himself from their bed before she’d even awakened.

  She pressed her palms against the outsides of her thighs, as though holding her own body could hold back the pain in her heart.

  But as she lay there caught by her own misery, shame washed over her. What was wrong with her? She was doing it again—focusing on Jack when making love with him was beside the point.

  He’d come here to help her find Dawn. They had a job to do, and the sooner they could free Stan Winston’s daughter and get the heck off the island, the better for all of them.

  If they got back to New York—no, when they got back to New York—they’d have time to sort out their personal relationship. And until then, she’d better keep her focus where it belonged.

  The mental dressing-down was exactly what she needed. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood. She was naked, the way Jack had left her.

  Too damn bad if there were cameras here.

  Defiantly, she lifted one hand, holding up her middle finger in a rude salute. Then she got out underwear and marched into the bathroom, carefully closing the door behind herself.

  A hot shower helped put her in a better frame of mind. While she was still under the warm spray, she grabbed Jack’s razor and shaved her legs. Then, wrapped in a large fluffy towel, she returned to the bedroom and selected a pair of lemon-yellow shorts and a matching knit shirt with tiny butterflies embroidered over the front. Then she slipped her feet into comfortable but stylish sandals. By the time she strolled into the living room, she had control of her emotions and control of her features.

  Jack was seated at the table, reading that morning’s New York Times, which Reynard had doubtless imported at great expense from the States.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked, folding the paper and setting it aside as he gave her what looked like a satisfied masculine smile.

  She wanted to wipe it off his face. Then she checked herself. Whatever had happened between them in the night, they were back to playing their parts this morning. The man who had spent so much of the night pleasuring his lady surely had a right to tha
t smug look.

  She took a deep breath, then forced herself to purr, “I slept very well after all that lovemaking.”

  Her gaze caught and held his for a long moment. Then he looked down into his coffee cup.

  So much for meaningful eye contact, she thought, as she crossed to the serving cart and poured herself some of the strong brew, then added half-and-half.

  “So what’s on the agenda today?” she asked.

  “One of the guys asked me to play golf.”

  “Are you going?”

  He gave her a direct look. “Of course. Why don’t you relax around here? Then we’ll get back together at lunch.”

  Maddy wanted to scream. She didn’t want Jack going off. She wanted him with her—wanted him to tell her what had happened last night while he’d been outside. But Jack Craig’s mistress—or his fiancée—or whatever she was wouldn’t raise a protest.

  He stood, crossed the rug and gave her a peck on the cheek. “You be a good girl while I’m gone.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “Stay here so you don’t get that pretty skin sunburned.”

  Stay inside? Was that a warning?

  As soon as he left, it was difficult not to start pacing the room. But she was pretty sure Maddy Griffin would be perfectly at ease doing nothing much. So she went through the video library next to the television set, popped in a soap opera tape, and treated herself to two boring hours.

  By the time Jack came back, she felt as if half of her brain had rotted away.

  He regaled her with stories of his exploits on the golf course while they ate the lunch that had been delivered on another rolling cart.

  Then he stood and stretched.

  “What do you think about a walk on the beach?”

  “Cool.”

  The enthusiastic exclamation brought a sardonic lift to his lips.

  She ignored him and thought about the hidden context of the conversation—such as it was.

  The beach, where the waves would be pounding the shore. They’d headed there before to talk. But a guard had stopped them. Maybe this time they’d have better luck.