Born to be Wild
Page 4
But she wasn’t really arguing with him. Her small hands ran lightly up his arms, over the swell of his biceps and onto his shoulders, and she shivered, falling silent as he flicked his thumbs over her nipples, bringing them to beautiful taut points. He’d never seen her before in bright light and her skin was so satiny, her peaks and valleys so smoothly curved, that she literally stopped his breath.
“Celia.” He breathed her name as if it were a prayer, finding her mouth with easy familiarity, feeling the thrill that always shot through him at her instant response.
“I love you.” Her words were a whisper of sound, barely audible as he nibbled his way along her jaw, then slid his mouth down the tender column of her neck, pressing kisses to the delicate arch of her collarbone. He trailed his tongue along her skin, catching the faint scent that wasn’t perfume but merely the essence of her.
“You’re so beautiful.” His palms cupped the sweet weight of her breasts and he drew back just far enough to feast his eyes on the soft, feminine flesh he’d uncovered. Her nipples were a glowing coppery color, begging him to taste them, and he leaned down again, touching her with his tongue, lightly at first, then tugging her fully into his mouth to suckle one tender tip until she arched against him, twisting and crying out.
Smiling against her skin, he released one tight nubbin and blew on it. Celia’s eyes flew open. “Reese…” Her hands had been clutching his shoulders. Dragging them down over his chest, she indulged in a little teasing of her own, running her fingers through the dark mat of hair that spread across his breastbone and arrowed downward. She touched his flat nipples, rubbing small circles, making his breath come faster as the sensation triggered an even more intense need within him.
As she trailed one finger down along the ribbon of hair to his navel and beyond, he stripped out of his bathing suit one-handed and kicked it away without leaving her. The mere act of freeing himself from the restrictions of clothing turned him on even more as he felt the warm air move over him, the sun hot on his back. All that lay between them now was one tiny piece of fabric. He stroked her ribs, her hips, her belly, moving slowly down her body, savoring her. He loved the feel of every smooth inch. His finger skimmed the delicate dip of her navel and farther, over her hipbone and down to where the elastic of her bathing suit bottom impeded his exploration.
With slow, deliberate motions, he slipped a finger beneath the elastic and ran it back and forth, then delved a bit deeper until his long fingers combed through the dense mat of curls between her legs. She was dewed and slippery, and she arched beneath him, one long silken leg curving up over his hip and pulling him hard against her. They both made small sounds of delight as their bodies reacted to the sweet pressure.
Gently, reluctantly, he slid away from her long enough to hook his fingers in the fabric and pull it down and off. Celia watched him, her breath rushing in and out, but as the sun poured over her gloriously naked body, she made a motion to cover herself with her hands. “This makes me feel…exposed.”
He chuckled, lowering himself to her, taking her wrists and pulling them up beside her shoulders as he covered her. He shifted, snuggling himself firmly into the cleft of her thighs, groaning a little at the exquisite pressure that resulted from sandwiching himself between them. “Is this better?”
She smiled up at him, her lips quivering slightly. “Yes. But what if someone—”
He covered her mouth with his own again, using his tongue to draw a response from her until she was fully engaged in the kiss. When he released her wrists she clasped his shoulders, clinging to him, pressing her bare flesh against his chest and making him growl with approval. He worked one hand between their bodies, bypassing his straining flesh in favor of the soft fleece that hid her feminine secrets. Slowly, slowly, he inched one finger down, until he felt the pouting bump beneath his finger. Equally slowly, he pressed and circled gently, ignoring his body’s urgent demands until she was writhing and frantic beneath him.
“Reese,” she begged him, tearing her mouth from his. “Reese…”
“What, baby?” He used the moment to push his hand farther between her thighs, loving the slick, moist heat and the fact that he’d been the one to make her respond that way. “Do you want me?”
She nodded, reaching one small hand down to encircle him. He groaned as an involuntary surge of excitement threatened his self-control. She’d only recently gotten brave enough to touch him but she was a fast learner and the mere thought of what she could do to him— Under the circumstances, he thought, it might not be such a good idea. As she traced one finger across the sensitive tip, he reared back, removing himself from her grasp. He set his hands on her inner thighs, pressing them apart and looking at the secret treasure they yielded.
Celia reached for him, her modesty all but forgotten. “Hurry…”
He was dragged from his reverie by Celia’s hand, which he held loosely in his, slowly rising to tuck her hair away from her face. It was only quick thinking that kept him from pulling her hand down to palm the hard ridge pushing at the front of his pants. Her eyelids fluttered as she stretched and he caught his breath, further aroused by both the memory and the soft slide of her body against his. Then her eyes opened and she blinked at him. “Reese.” She didn’t sound surprised, only cordial and a bit wary. “What time is it?”
He glanced at the old clock that had faithfully announced the hour as well as the half all night long. “Nearly six. Sleep well?”
“Nearly six?” She tried to shove herself upright. “Oh, no! You were here all night.”
“Yeah.” He held her easily in place though he was careful not to settle her too snugly into his lap. There was no way she could miss the evidence that would betray his thoughts if she lay against him any more closely. “Relax,” he said, stroking her back. “All we did was sleep. Literally.”
“Yes, but—”
“And you did make sure those folks down on the pier knew that I was coming home with you, remember? This will just make your story more convincing.”
She stopped pushing against him, but her body felt stiff. It made him realize just how much he’d liked having her draped bonelessly over him in slumber. They’d never slept together all night way back when…and he was reminded of his daydream before she woke.
Without giving himself time to think, he asked, “Do you remember the first time we did it on the boat? We fell asleep afterward and my butt got sunburned.”
“Reese!” A startled half laugh burst out of her and she sat up again, pushing herself away from him as he reluctantly let her go. “What brought that on?”
He shrugged, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “I was thinking about that summer.” He didn’t need to clarify. “So do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Remember.”
She was avoiding his eyes. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I remember.”
“That was the first time we ever made love on a boat.” He was gratified to see that she was breathing fast, her breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath her soft T-shirt. Oh, yeah. She remembered.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” She shot off the couch and stood over him, rubbing her arms briskly as if she were cold and her velvety-brown eyes held a determined look. “Are you leaving?”
She wanted to get rid of him. His pleasure in teasing her died instantly and he narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t you going to offer me breakfast?”
“I have to grab a shower and get down to the pier. We have a couple of charters going out early this morning.”
He decided he should get a gold star for not suggesting that they shower together. “All right,” he said. “You go shower and I’ll make breakfast. You have to eat or you’ll feel bad.”
Celia stood for a moment and he could almost see the argument going on in her head. If she let him in her kitchen while she showered, that would be a little more intimacy than she wanted. No, a lot more. But she’d been raised to be polite, and tossing him out without breakfast
after he’d gone along with her story last night wouldn’t set well with her conscience.
Finally she said, “All right. Thank you,” in a tone so grudging that he nearly laughed aloud before she turned and walked out of the room without another word.
Reese got up and walked toward her kitchen, stopping at a little bathroom he found beneath the stairs on the way. The kitchen was shadowed in the first rays of dawn coming from a skylight that added a contemporary cachet to the old house. It was a charming combination of modern practicality and Cape Cod history, with Nantucket baskets and copper pots, a bowl of polished sea glass and shells. Two elegant seascapes graced the walls, and she’d laid hand-woven rugs and placemats, while a stunning wreath of cranberry and local greens hung above the old fireplace that now boasted a gas inset. His little village girl had done well for herself with her marriage.
Another image of Celia from all those years ago, standing on the dock waiting for him, flashed through his head as he started her coffeepot. God, how he’d loved her. Only a very young man could be that deeply, head-over-heels infatuated with a woman. He’d never felt anything remotely like it since, never expected to again. That kind of feeling couldn’t last.
Could it?
Of course not. He didn’t harbor any feelings for Celia anymore, and surely he would if that wild, exuberant, bone-deep infatuation had really been love.
Sure. That’s why you came flying over to this marina when the guys at Saquatucket told you she was harbormaster here now.
Simple curiosity. He’d wanted to see how she’d aged. At first he’d almost been disappointed to find that she looked nearly as youthful as she had the last time he’d seen her. He would always carry that image in his mind, because at the time, he hadn’t realized they’d never be together again. She’d been waving wildly from the dock as he’d taken the cat back to his family’s summer house, her slender body still warm from his caresses, lips swollen and eyes languorous as her hair streamed back from her face.
She still looked youthful, and initially he’d thought how little she’d changed. But as he’d drawn closer, changes had indeed been evident. She was slightly fuller in the breast and hip than she’d once been, a becoming difference. But the once-mobile lips were compressed, reluctant to curve into a smile, and her beautiful, soft, doe eyes were shadowed with secrets he couldn’t decipher. The girl had become a woman—an extraordinarily lovely woman—but her coming of age clearly hadn’t been smooth.
Upon the heels of the mild disappointment had been relief…and, if he was brutally truthful, an unkind pleasure that life hadn’t been all roses and moonlight for her.
And then she’d told him about her family and any lingering self-righteousness had fled in the face of the horror and sympathy her story evoked. He’d reached for her without thinking and it had felt so right when she’d come into his arms. So right that he’d been sorely tempted to jump her bones the next morning, like a total cad. Which he wasn’t.
Okay, you might have been noble this morning, but you wouldn’t say no to another close encounter, pal.
No. No, he wouldn’t. In fact, he could easily imagine staying the night with Celia—or having her snuggled in his queen berth aboard the yacht—every night while he was moored here in Harwichport.
He thought about her as he surveyed the contents of the refrigerator, withdrew two cinnamon buns and put them in the microwave. He should be grateful to her for showing him that what they’d shared hadn’t been real, even though it had hurt like hell at the time. She’d been the one who had made him realize that there was no such thing as real love. But he still liked her, just as a friend. And there was still an undeniable attraction between them….
He had three weeks’ vacation left, if he didn’t give in to the ridiculous urge to rush back to his daughter. Who, he reminded himself wryly, hadn’t seemed in the least perturbed at the idea of her adoptive father going on an extended trip. That was a good thing, he knew from talking with the counselor he’d consulted periodically since Kent and Julie had died. Ammie felt as secure and comfortable as any other well-adjusted kid with only one parent.
So that, at least, wasn’t something he had to worry about. It felt good—no, great—not to be worrying about Amalie. That was probably why Velva had kicked him out. She’d known he was far more apprehensive about a separation than his child would be.
So the bottom line was, his daughter would do fine without him for a few more weeks. Which meant he had plenty of time. He’d originally intended to stop briefly on the Cape, just to see how it had changed in the years since he’d been gone.
At least, that was what he’d told himself. But now, standing in Celia’s kitchen in the light of early morning, having held her in his arms throughout the night, he had to face the truth. He’d come back to find her.
He’d never imagined she might be single, or perhaps he hadn’t allowed himself to hope so, anyway. But she was. And so was he, and perhaps it was inevitable that they’d be drawn together again. After all, they shared a past no one else could ever take from them. She still felt comfortable with him at some elemental level she had yet to acknowledge or she never would have fallen asleep in his arms last night.
As he searched for napkins, mugs and plates, he thought about how revealing her actions had been. And he thought about how he’d felt as he’d held her in his arms again. It was difficult to admit he’d never gotten her out of his system. And he suspected that he had never been completely out of hers.
The telephone rang, interrupting his mental speculation. His eyebrows rose as he glanced at the clock. Damn early for a casual caller. He hoped nothing was wrong. It rang a second time, then a third. He couldn’t hear the shower running anymore but he didn’t hear Celia running for the phone, either. Did she have an answering machine? After the fifth ring, he decided she might not. With a mental shrug, he reached for the phone. She wanted people to think they were having a fling anyway, didn’t she?
“Hello?”
There was dead silence on the other end of the line. Then, “I beg your pardon. I believe I have a wrong number.” It was a quavery yet regal female voice, definitely a bit long in the tooth.
“Are you trying to reach Celia Papaleo?” He’d had time to practice the sound of it on the short trip from one marina to the other yesterday after he’d learned she was still around, but married.
“Why, yes,” the caller was saying. “I am looking for Mrs. Papaleo. Is this her residence?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is. May I take a message?”
“Yes, you may. Might I ask to whom I am speaking?” If this old dame wasn’t an English teacher in her day, he’d eat his shorts.
“This is Reese Barone, ma’am.” The courtesy came naturally; he’d been drilled in it as a child and even suffered through etiquette classes where he and his brothers had been forced to dance with obnoxious little girls and to practice manners.
“Well, Mr. Barone, my name is Hilda Manguard and I am the chairwoman of the Harwich Historical Society. I would like you to pass along the following message to Mrs. Papaleo. Ask her to return my call and confirm that she will bring over the wreaths that she’s making for our annual Autumn House Tour. Please tell her that I apologize for calling so early but I’ve been trying to contact her without success all week.” And the old lady rattled off her number while Reese scrambled to find a pencil.
Just as he set the telephone back in the cradle, he heard a sound. He turned to find Celia standing in the doorway glaring at him. She wore jeans and a T-shirt beneath a V-necked fleece sweater designed to ward off the early morning chill. Her hair was slicked back from her face and already appeared to be half dry—which might explain why she hadn’t heard the phone ring.
“Hey,” he said, as if she weren’t looking like she’d enjoy skinning him. “You have a message.”
“What are you doing answering my phone?” she demanded.
“You didn’t,” he said. “And your machine didn’t kick on.”
“Was she an English teacher?”
Celia looked at him blankly. “Who?”
“Mrs. Manguard. She sounded like an English teacher.”
“Miss. And yes, she was a long time ago. Then she became the principal of one of the elementary schools until she retired about twenty years ago.” She pointed to one of the two places he’d set at the table. “Sit. Eat. And then you’re leaving.”
He nodded, figuring he’d pressed his luck far enough. “All right.”
As she slipped into the seat across from him, he said, “So where are these wreaths you’re making for the historical society?”
“Oh, no!” She mimed smacking her palm against her forehead, then snatched up the note she’d laid on the table and hastily scanned it. “I forgot all about those wreaths. Why did I say I’d do that?” she asked herself.
“I take it this project isn’t quite finished?”
“It isn’t even started. I agreed to donate ten wreaths. They hang them in the homes on their annual house tour and sell chances on some of them. At the conclusion of the tour, the winners are drawn.” She wiped cinnamon glaze from her fingertips. “And they want them on Saturday.”
“Today is Thursday.”
“I know that.” From the tone of her voice, his helpfulness wasn’t appreciated.
“Are they cranberry wreaths like the one in your living room?”
“Some are. Others are made of marsh grasses and decorated with shells. Ack! And I’m out of marsh grass. Sometime before this evening I’ve got to get my hands on more.” She sighed. “This is not going to be a good day.”
“And that includes the way it started?” he asked wryly.
Her troubled gaze met his across the table. “Reese, I do appreciate you letting me cry all over you last night. And I can’t deny that your willingness to play along with my charade helped cover up my little trip out on the sound. So…thank you.” She stood and stacked both their empty plates, carrying them to the sink. “It’s been nice seeing you again.”