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The Colors of Love

Page 15

by Grant, Vanessa


  Her hands grew restless and sought his warm flesh, his heartbeat against her palms. She struggled with buttons, fabric, and finally found the broad expanse of his chest, where she tasted his ragged heartbeat with her mouth.

  She closed her eyes and felt Alex wash over her. Alex... Alexander... and she knew this would never be enough. She covered his nipple with her mouth and rejoiced when his body convulsed. Words... she wanted words, couldn't speak.

  "Slow," he said unsteadily.

  She lifted her head and saw the battle for control in his eyes, but she needed to drive control from him, to prove he needed her... like this, forever.

  She sought the pulse in his throat with her mouth, the sensitive rigid male nipples on his breast. She heard his groan, then he twisted and she lost herself in sensations as his mouth raged over her body, teaching her all the places he could touch, could kiss, teaching her how his naked leg pushed between her thighs shafted need to her belly.

  "Just a minute," he groaned. "Wait, I have to—"

  She found his mouth and stole his words in a shattering kiss that left her clinging to his shoulders. Then he pushed her down into the mattress, looming high over her, and she saw need in his eyes, his face, saw him struggle for breath, for sanity perhaps, and she reached, touching him so that his head reared back.

  "I can't... Jamila," he groaned.

  And finally, he thrust into her.

  She stared up at the naked desire and need on his face as he broke through the barrier of her innocence. Through the single tearing shaft of pain, she felt him deep inside her and knew that now, in this moment, she was the only woman he had ever wanted.

  "Jamila," he said, and fought to hold himself still.

  She closed her eyes and moved carefully. She felt herself stretch, but moved again so slowly until the pain receded, only Alex filling her, stroking her everywhere with hot tendrils of need.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  Purple, beyond deep purple, swirling everywhere in long slow strokes. She gave herself up to the colors of love, meeting his thrusts with her own hunger as she felt his tension build again. She felt him everywhere, deep inside her body and soul, sensation taking her apart, shattering into tiny fragments as her body arched, needing him deeper, spinning deeper, deeper, until she lost herself in the long, ragged tumble into oneness.

  * * *

  Alex felt the fleeting weight of Jamila's fingers against his chest as she moved. He turned his head and stared at her hand, fingers slack against his chest, her naked arm outside the tumbled blankets. Inches away, her mouth was turned toward him, lips parted. When he stopped breathing, he could hear her breath, slow and gentle with sleep.

  He tryied to blank out the sensation of her hand on his chest, scorning himself for the attempt. Hadn't he just proven once again that when it came to this uncontrollable woman, every scrap of the civilized man abandoned him?

  A virgin, for Christ's sake!

  He felt anger at her, for her innocence—the innocence he'd taken—and knew his emotion was irrational. She'd been the one to suggest they come to the hotel. "I want you to make love to me," she'd said, so clearly his body had throbbed instantly with the image.

  Damn it, he was a doctor! A responsible, careful man who'd finally given in to the inevitability of having an affair with this woman who drove him to madness without even trying.

  But he'd damned well intended to do it carefully, rationally.

  Rationally—what a joke! God knew he'd tried. His plan to take it easy, to deliver her home without allowing himself to kiss her had been blown all to hell there on the beach. Certainly he'd been way off his charted course by the time he walked into this hotel with every intention of taking her upstairs and making love to her.

  She'd thrown him completely when she told him she was innocent. There must be other twenty-eight-year-old virgins in Seattle, but surely not women like Jamila, confident and beautiful, sensual in every breath.

  Like a fool, fe'd felt a primitive surge of lusty victory knowing he would be her first lover.

  So maybe a man was entitled to a few secret primitive thoughts, but at the very least he'd owed her care, tender touches and slow kisses designed to arouse. He hadn't realized how powerfully the madness would grab him until too late.

  He shuddered at the memory of thrusting powerfully into her body, tearing through the barrier. He'd hurt her unnecessarily, and worse, the three condoms in his wallet were still there, unopened.

  Just before the madness, he remembered reaching for his pants. Damn him to hell! Why hadn't he completed the action, used the condom?

  She murmured something in her sleep and he slid his arm around her. When she came closer at his touch, he closed his eyes and breathed in the lingering scent of the soap he'd lathered gently over her skin when they showered together. So slow, gentle, the way he'd intended to touch her when they loved.

  She'd walked out of the bathroom with a towel around her, pulling the shower cap off her hair, red curls tumbling down her naked back. He'd followed a moment later, had seen her lying on the bed, already half asleep. Then he'd caught sight of their scattered clothes, his wallet half out of his pocket.

  She won't be pregnant, he'd told himself. She was the last woman on earth he would choose to have a child with. Once, just once in a lifetime of cautious sex he'd forgotten, and it had to be with her.

  Chapter 12

  Jamie stretched lazily, feeling a pleasant ache in her hips.

  "Hmm," she murmured, her face nestled into the pillow. She stretched out one hand to search for Squiggles, who usually slept against her legs.

  No furry kitten. He must have prowled out to the kitchen to—

  Her eyes flew open.

  Alex—

  No, Alex wasn't here, and here—here wasn't home.

  The hotel room.

  She'd made love with him last night, right here on this bed, tumbling into flames and passion, swirling reds and purples. She hadn't known until last night that passion lived in its own color spectrum.

  Squiggles—had she left enough food?

  Yes, she'd filled his dish before she went out with Alex. So he'd be fine until she got home. He'd greet her at the door with a complaining meow the way he always did, and she'd give him a treat.

  She closed her eyes and let herself become aware of her body.

  Oh, yes, she could feel the difference. She wondered if it showed is her face, in her eyes. She had only to let herself feel to become aware of the curious fullness deep inside her. She hadn't known she would be able to feel him inside, afterward. She'd felt as if she were forever branded as a part of him.

  Where had Alex gone?

  She slid out of the bed and walked to the sliding patio door. Today the ocean rolled onto the beach in long surges, driven by the wind farther north. The sun hung high enough in the sky to leave no pink of dawn. He'd left the room, gone downstairs or outside. Surely he hadn't driven away?

  No, of course he wouldn't do that. She smiled, knowing Alexander Kent was far too courteous to walk out on a woman without saying good-bye.

  So he'd gone out for some other reason.

  She wished he'd woken her. She would have liked to share the early morning with him, to greet the day with his wake-up kiss while his hands sought secrets he'd discovered last night.

  She shivered with her own erotic thoughts.

  Lightly, she thought, take it lightly.

  Whatever had happened last night, she needed to remember that this man had no intention of committing to a real relationship with Jamila Ferguson.

  She couldn't believe it hadn't happened to him too. Maybe right now he was outside, walking, adjusting his mind to a new reality, because after the way they'd loved, how could he imagine sharing his life with any other woman?

  Only yesterday she'd believed she wanted to live her life alone. She'd wanted a lover, yes, but she didn't want to need another person as an essential part of her existence.

  Now...


  "You're crazy," she whispered. "You're in some sort of artistic frenzy. When the painting's over—when the affair's over..."

  It would change; of course it would change. The newness would wear off and she'd be herself again. Last night she'd thought the words I love you, and had very nearly said them. It would have been a mistake, because of course the feelings would fade and lose power. This was her first time. After the second time they made love, the tenth, the fiftieth—

  In time, she'd want less. Of course she would.

  She hurried to the bathroom and showered again, quickly, wanting now to be dressed before he returned. The green dress wasn't suitable country morning wear, but she had nothing else. Her handbag produced lipstick, and she painted a light coat of coral over lips that still tingled from last night's love-making.

  She turned and studied the room, her face warming as she surveyed the bed. It certainly looked as if it had been used for lovemaking. She quickly pulled the blankets straight and fluffed the pillows.

  No sign of Alex in this room, but of course they'd only brought the clothes they wore; they hadn't planned to stay all night. The longer she stood, waiting for him, the more self-conscious she felt. Better to go downstairs, to stride up to him and wish him good morning with a casual touch of the hand or a kiss. An affair, that's what they'd planned—if you could call it a plan.

  He'd stay longer—they'd last longer if she kept it casual. She slid her purse strap on her shoulder and let herself out of the room. No key, and the lock fastened itself behind her. He'd taken the key, she supposed.

  The corridor seemed different from last night, although the walls displayed the same traditional wallpaper showing women in parasols escorted by men wearing formal tails and top hats. She was the one who had changed. Last night she'd seen the world in colors of nervous tension and desire—this morning, she saw only uneasy, antique browns.

  The dining room held a couple with a preschool child at one table, two men breakfasting with newspapers at another. No sign of Alex. At the reception desk, Jamie found the elderly woman she remembered from last year, knitting an endless gray garment.

  "Excuse me—?"

  The woman looked up, smiled softly, perhaps in recognition.

  "Can you tell me where my—" She couldn't say lover to this grandmotherly creature.

  "He went for a walk on the beach, dear," said the woman, saving Jamie the necessity to label the man she'd spent the night with.

  "Thanks." She felt herself flush, as if this truly were her grandmother sitting there.

  She almost ran out of the hotel, stopped herself on the front stairs. She had to grow a layer of sophistication if she was going to have an affair. It wasn't as if it was a big deal these days. Even Grandmother inside had looked more curious than shocked, although she must have known Jamie and Alex weren't man and wife. A man wouldn't bring his wife to a hotel with no luggage, wearing evening clothes, checking in without reservations.

  She spotted Alex standing near the water across the gravel drive.

  As she stepped away from the house, the wind caught her clothes and blew them against her body. She leaned into the wind, pushing it aside to cross to Alex. When she got to the sand, her heels sank in with the first step and she bent to take her shoes off.

  "I'll come to you!" he shouted against the wind.

  She stood unevenly on the uncertain ground, not knowing how to greet him, saved from talking by the sound of the wind in her face. She opened her mouth to say something as he reached her, she wasn't certain what.

  Then suddenly she was in his arms, his lips warm over hers as he murmured, "How are you this morning?"

  "I—all right." She flushed and pulled away. "I thought you might have gone to breakfast. I'm glad you waited."

  "I took a walk along the shore, blowing away city cobwebs." He took her arm. "Watch your step."

  "I don't need protecting." But she laughed, because he'd done it from the beginning, offering her umbrellas and rides, taking his jacket off for her in the rain.

  He stopped on the edge of the gravel road. "Jamila, we need to talk."

  "Last night you called me Jamie."

  He didn't smile, even in his eyes. She told herself she should have known it wouldn't be simple. For a moment just now, when he took her in his arms and kissed her, she'd thought they could remain lovers, that she could let herself love being his lover for as long as it lasted.

  "Talk about what?"

  Surely he didn't mean to attack her again as an unfit companion for Sara Miller?

  "I owe you an apology for last night." He touched her shoulder.

  "Last night? What—why would—?" Heat climbed from her chest to her throat, then into her face. With the sun blazing down and his eyes troubled and dark, last night's passion flared in humiliating colors. "What do you mean, apology?"

  "I shouldn't have—" He made a gesture with one hand and she saw a muscle flex in his throat. "I should have been gentle. I meant to be, then I lost control. That's unforgivable, and I'm sorry."

  She remembered the moment when he'd stopped their loving, visibly fighting for control. She'd wanted him to need her so much that nothing mattered, and she'd touched him deliberately, needing him to lose control.

  "I wanted it," she said simply.

  "That's not the point." He turned his head, stared at the ocean, his jaw a sharp angle against the sea. "I lost control. This isn't a game, a painting you'll be finished with tomorrow. If you're pregnant—"

  "I might be. It's possible." Something pulled deep inside at the thought, but she couldn't listen to it now. "Don't worry, I won't hold you responsible, Alex." She saw the predictable flash in his eyes, said, "You don't like that, do you? You want to be responsible for everything."

  He gripped her arms and she threw her head back and dared him with her eyes. She wanted him to let loose and shake her, and then she'd fight, turn wild cat in his arms.

  "Just for once," he growled, "take something seriously."

  His hands bit deeper into her upper arms, and she made her voice deliberately soft. "Oh, no, Alex, I'd hate to ruin your perfect image of me."

  With a muttered curse, he hauled her hard against him, taking her mouth in an angry kiss. At his touch, her tension exploded and she melted against him.

  When he jerked his head back, her lips felt bruised and swollen.

  "I want you," he said harshly.

  "Yes."

  He slid his arm around her waist and together they turned toward the hotel. Inside, they crossed the lobby. She thought Alex nodded to the woman knitting behind the desk.

  "She must know," whispered Jamie as they started up the stairs.

  "Does it bother you?"

  They rounded the corner of the stairs and he turned her toward him. She said, "I want you to make love to me. That's all I know."

  They stumbled upstairs and into the room. "This time," he growled as his mouth took hers, "This time I'll—"

  "Touch me," she begged, her body throbbing. "Touch my breasts with your hands."

  He slid the draped bodice of her dress down her shoulders, found her aching breasts and cupped them in his hands. Her knees buckled and she moaned into his mouth.

  "Madness," he groaned against the soft flesh of her throat. "You drive me to madness."

  "Yes... yes, please... oh, yes, right there..." She moaned under his touch and they sank together onto the deep piled carpet, surrendering to the red haze filling the well of passion.

  Much later, he carried her to the bed and she pulled him down, pleased when he didn't resist.

  "We do have to talk," he said.

  "Not now."

  How long did she have? A week? A month?

  A month at most, because Diana would return in a month, and Alex intended to marry the other woman. Jamie would lose him, either because he wanted Diana, or because he didn't like Jamie despite the fact that he wanted her.

  She placed her hand against his chest and felt the heavy beat of
his heart, saw desire flare in his eyes as he bent to take her lips with his. She gave herself up to his touch, pushing aside the knowledge that the end was inevitable. Alex disapproved of her and always would. But for now...

  For now, there was only Alex... his touch, his lips, the hard thrust of his possession as he took her spinning on a journey through passion, desperate need, and fulfillment.

  Afterward, her flesh clung to his, and she thought that if there was a child, she could survive the pain. The child would need her, and she could never fail a child, a precious part of Alex that she would treasure forever.

  She knew she mustn't let Alex see her desire. She knew enough about Alex to be certain that he would never willingly father a child unless he intended to be a parent in every sense of the word. He'd used protection this time when he made love to her, and he wouldn't let himself be distracted again.

  He would choose to father a child with Diana. Not Jamie.

  She slipped out of his arms and walked to the bathroom. She didn't look back, because in her mind she could see so clearly the image of Alex sitting in the bed, hand stretched out to her, eyes filled with love. Now, in this instant, if she turned and found anything less, she could not contain the pain.

  As she lathered her body with soap in the shower, she closed her eyes and imagined Alex's hands sliding over her under the pounding water.

  This wouldn't do at all. She must find some scrap of sophistication. She had to remember the day she'd announced to Liz her intention to have an affair. She'd been happy, zinging with sensual awareness and anticipation.

  An affair.

  She could do it.

  "I'm hungry," she announced as she stepped back into the bedroom.

  Alex was standing at the open window, looking out on the ocean. Naked. God, he was naked. She kept her eyes on his head, then on his face when he turned to her.

  "Starving," she added brightly. "Shall we go down to breakfast?"

  "We should dress first," he suggested, smiling.

  "We might shock Grandma," Jamie agreed.

 

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