And hadn't he told himself that tonight he needed to negotiate a parting?
The door opened before he was ready for her.
Her hair seemed more vibrant than ever. He reached to touch, couldn't stop himself. She came into his arms as his fingers threaded through her hair, her lips open and eager. His arms closed around her, and with her soft warmth pressed against him, he had no choice but to bury his mouth in the temptation of hers.
This wasn't in the plan, but he couldn't seem to let her go. She felt so good, so wonderfully right in his arms. I missed you, he almost said, but he couldn't miss a woman he'd been apart from for only six hours.
He managed finally to step back, to release her, and forced his hands to drop to his sides. "Jamila."
She stood in front of him, wearing something loose and colorful that fell straight from her shoulders to her thighs. Her legs were naked below the dress or shirt—whatever it was. Then she moved, stepping back, and he realized the garment's side seam was split, that her naked thigh peeked through as she moved, soft flesh and the briefest glimpse of black lace.
He swallowed hard.
"Come in," she said, opening the door wider. He saw then that she was barefoot, and somehow that made his heart pound even harder.
This was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. He'd made love to her last night, and twice this morning. He couldn't be feeling this painful need so soon. Maybe he hadn't lied to Diana after all, maybe he was coming down with a virus, perhaps the first case of a new, virulent superbug.
"Yeah," he said, "I'll come in." Brilliant conversation, he thought desperately. Absolutely brilliant. "Are you... did you..."
He got the door closed behind himself. Better to shut up, he decided. He shouldn't have come. Six hours apart wasn't nearly enough. He needed to find an out-of-town conference to attend, else fly to Venice and surround himself with Diana until he remembered what he really wanted for himself.
"Did you paint this afternoon?"
"Yes." She sounded breathless. "But I can't show it to you, not yet."
He remembered the first time he'd stood in front of one of her paintings, how he'd felt as if he'd been punched in the gut with pure need. He was better off staying away from the paintings here in her house. He'd view them in the gallery, where circumstances didn't invite him to remember that her bed—which he'd never seen—couldn't be more than a few steps away.
"Come out on the balcony," she said, leading the way toward her studio.
"You're limping." He caught up to her and grasped her wrist with his hand. A mistake. Her heart beat against his fingers. "Did you hurt yourself?"
"A broken bowl."
Last night, as he thrust inside her, her eyes had blazed hot green fire. Now they were dark, subdued.
"What?" he asked, holding hard to her words. "You cut yourself?"
"Stepped on a shard." She grimaced, but her eyes held his as if he were deep inside her. "I couldn't get it out."
"Get it out?" He shook himself mentally, told himself to let go of her wrist. He'd come to say good-bye, hadn't he? "You've got a sliver of glass in your foot and you're walking on it?"
"Wedgwood china. It was my mother's favorite. Squiggles knocked it off the counter."
She shifted and he snapped, "Stay off that foot, you'll drive it deeper." Then he had her in his arms, swept her up without realizing he was going to. Her lips were inches from his, close enough to take. "Where's your bedroom?" he growled.
"Back there, beyond the kitchen."
He clenched his jaw and took her there, laid her on the bed and forced himself to stare at her eyes, not the length of her creamy thighs against the plush quilted spread, the black lace now clearly visible where the thing she was wearing pulled up on her right hip.
"Where's your medicine cabinet?"
"Bathroom," she said on a whisper.
He jerked away from her, found the bathroom medicine cabinet sparsely equipped. He grabbed a pair of tweezers he wouldn't have counted on to grasp a sliver the size of his finger, much less a thin shard of china.
He found a needle on a pincushion, went into the kitchen, and sterilized it on the stove where something red that smelled delicious was bubbling. He realized he hadn't eaten lunch.
He returned to the bedroom to find her sitting on the side of the bed, the fabric of her garment covering her thighs almost to the knee.
"Roll over on your stomach."
She stared at him, and he had no idea what she might be thinking.
"On your stomach. No, not that way, across the bed so the light falls on your foot."
He switched on the lamp and turned back to find she'd squirmed into the position he described. As he stared at the wonderful curve of her buttocks, her hand came back and tugged on the fabric of her—damn it, he'd call it a dress—tugged on her dress, covering a millimeter of additional flesh. He reached out, knew that if he touched her, stroked the length of her thigh as he wanted to, he would be lost.
He swallowed and sat beside her legs, grasped her foot and tried to imagine the rest of her body was covered by a sterile hospital gown.
A patient, think of her as a patient.
His patients were children, not seductive women.
He picked up the cotton, tilted the antiseptic bottle, and swabbed the sole of her foot. Then, mercifully, the habits of his profession took over, calming his body and his mind.
"Keep still," he cautioned when her foot twitched. Then he carefully grasped the needle he'd inserted into the box of Band-Aids, making sure its sterile tip remained uncontaminated. He could see an inflamed area at the front of her arch. He probed gently with his thumb, noting her gasp when he neared the center of the reddened area. He could see where the shard had entered.
"You must have taken part of it out," he said.
"Yes. I thought I got it, but it still hurts."
The remnant of the shard made a shadow on her skin. "Breathe deeply and let your body relax. It's going to hurt, but only for a moment."
As he said the words, he couldn't stop himself remembering last night, the instant when he'd taken her and she'd cried out. He'd tried to stop, tried desperately... failed.
He held her foot firmly, carefully inserted the needle to the left of the shadow. He felt her foot twitch as he caught the shard.
"Easy, I'm almost finished."
He heard her gasp as he dug for the shard, and forced himself to ignore the effect of her sound on him. There, he had it! With one steady motion, he slid the shard out of her skin. He laid the needle and shard on her bedside table and carefully probed her foot again.
"Feel anything?"
"No, it's gone. Thanks." She twisted under his hands.
"Lie still," he said, swabbing the small wound with antiseptic again before he reached for the Band-Aid box.
His hands trembled now. He'd been a doctor for a dozen years, for heaven's sake, had removed everything from ticks to staples from children's flesh, but he was trembling because he'd just taken a shard from his lover's flesh, because she'd gasped and he'd felt her pain.
"There, it's done." He picked up the antiseptic, the Band-Aids, and the needle.
The dress twisted as she turned, pulling tight over her hips. She propped herself up with one arm, her breasts thrust out by the motion. He could see the black lace where the dress had twisted over her hip, the long naked length of her legs, the waterfall of her hair spilling over her shoulders.
Carefully, he set the things in his hands down on her bedside table, allowed his hand to rest on her ankle. He could feel her pulse. Wherever he touched her, he felt her heart beating, or his.
Her eyes were green flames; her mouth, lips parted, seemed uncertain.
"I want you." He couldn't seem to stop the words. "It doesn't matter that we made love only a few hours ago, that I was satisfied as much as a man can be. It doesn't matter that you're wrong, completely wrong for me. I want you. I need you now."
She reached for him and he let himse
lf slide along the length of her, let his hand cradle her head, and felt triumph as she arched back and he buried his mouth in her throat.
When he lifted his head, her eyes were glazed. Then slowly, so slowly, he began to unfasten the buttons of her dress. This time he would take time to pleasure her, would keep his reason long enough to watch her go over the edge.
As he pushed the lapels of her dress aside, he saw her sensual black lace undergarment and felt the thrill of knowing that she had dressed for him, only for him. She'd been a virgin, might never have dressed like this for any other man.
He bent and took the peak of one swollen breast into his mouth through the black lace, felt her moan as he gently caught the erect peak of her nipple between his teeth. With his hands, his mouth, and his body, he caressed her through the black lace, touching her in ways designed to inflame, glorying in her response.
When he pulled the lace from her shoulders and uncovered her breasts, she arched and cried out at the feel of his mouth on her naked breast. His body clenched and he came close to losing the rigid control he'd imposed, but forced his own desperation down and let himself pleasure her.
Then she was naked, gloriously naked in his arms, and he knew he'd only seconds of sanity left. He took her breast deeply in his mouth as his fingers found the hot, wet center of her passion.
She cried out, a long, thin gasp of release, and he felt her convulse around his hand. He held her until the spasms faded, then he buried his mouth in hers, kissing her deeply, stroking gently until he felt her grow restless in his arms again.
Her mouth grew hungry, abruptly needy, and he rolled with her, mouths joined, his hands on her hips. She broke away from him, hands on his chest, eyes wild as she stared down at him, hair tumbled around her face and brushing his chest. He could feel himself throbbing against her belly. He grasped her hips and lifted her, felt her legs clench against his thighs. He stared up into her eyes as she lowered herself onto him, his world spinning hot as her eyes lost focus and her mouth parted on a sigh of wonder.
He thrust into her, felt her clench around him and heard his own moan as he gripped her hips and drove himself into her tight, wet heat again and again. His eyes were slits barely passing light when he saw her throw her head back and he thrust hard, emptying himself into her as the ecstasy of her sex clenched around him in the uncontrollable spasm of her climax.
* * *
She thought she might die, right there, sprawled bonelessly over Alex's naked body. Wasn't this what they said happened with death, body disconnected from mind, floating away?
A long time later, she felt the need to turn her head and watch his eyes slowly open. Now, in the aftermath of their loving, all the sharp edges of his face seemed softer, more relaxed. As his eyes found hers, she felt him harden inside her. Joined, she thought, forever. His body mated with hers, her legs still intimately wrapped around his, his arm resting across her hips while her breasts brushed the fine growth of hair across his chest. Sensation welled up, in her body and her mind, and she knew.
"I love you," she said, and saw his eyes darken.
"Don't say that," he said soberly. "I don't want to hear that."
Still coupled intimately with him, she felt his words in her ears and her body, and the two seemed to tangle with each other, destroying meaning.
"You don't believe I love you?" She touched his face, felt the way muscle formed with bone to create the lines that had so quickly become beloved to her. "What would make you believe?"
His hands took her shoulders and he held her away from him, even while she felt him harden inside her.
"You feel something, I believe that. Don't call it love."
"Why? Because of her? Diana?"
He pulled her down until their mouths met. At first his kiss seemed angry, more to silence her than to possess. Then, abruptly, it changed and she eagerly gave herself to his mouth again.
Later, much later, he lifted himself over her and stared down at her. Outside, the sky had turned black.
The lamp on her bedside table created a halo around his head and left his dark eyes a mystery.
"Do you want more?" she asked, her voice husky and her body drained of all life, yet somehow—crazily—willing to love again.
"I'd probably die if I tried." He tangled one hand in her hair and buried his mouth in hers, a slow kiss that left her feeling marked as his, in some indefinable way that had nothing to do with sex.
"There's food," she said. She loved the thought of feeding him, here in her bed. Alex, naked and tousled, eating food she'd cooked for him. The image was so domestic, so—so much as if he might stay.
"Food is good." He collapsed, carrying her with him as he rolled to his side. "It smelled good, whatever's on the stove. What do we have to do?"
"I'll do it." She scrambled onto her knees, filled with sudden energy. "Stay here and I'll look after everything."
She picked up his shirt from the floor as she rose from the bed, slipping into it as she walked toward the kitchen. At the bedroom door she stopped, turned back, and found him propped up on one arm, watching her.
"I won't be long," she promised.
In the kitchen she turned on the light and the flame under the water for the noodles. Miraculously, the sauce was still liquid, simmering softly. She added wine and stirred it, tasted and decided the spices were still perfect. She filled two glasses.
At her feet, Squiggles meowed.
"No," she said firmly. "You can't have a treat. Remember the chicken. You've had your treats for the next week."
"What chicken?" asked Alex from behind her.
She spun around, found him wearing his slacks and nothing else. She'd never seen a man who looked so good in bare feet. So many men had hairy feet, but his were strong and long boned, smooth and tanned.
"We were going to have chicken for dinner," she said breathlessly. Would she ever become used to him here in her house? "Squiggles stole the chicken and dumped the bowl it was marinating in."
"That's how you got the sliver?" He stepped close and bent his head to press his lips against her cheek.
She turned her head to invite his kiss on her lips, welcomed his mouth with a murmur that couldn't express how heavenly it felt to kiss him. She would paint him like this, here in her kitchen, half-dressed.
"Would you like to sit on the balcony while we wait for the noodles?" she asked. "The harbor's lovely in the dark."
He took the wine and glasses from her hands and she led him to the balcony. Squiggles came with them, meowing as Jamie stepped outside the kitchen.
"He's spoiled," she said. "I give him tuna as a treat, sometimes salmon. He always wants more and he thinks if he works on me hard enough, he'll get it."
"And will he?"
"He got the chicken." She accepted her glass and lifted it to him, a shaft of joy streaking through her as he raised his glass.
* * *
He couldn't believe that he could need her again so soon, or that she could respond so eagerly, but before they'd cleared away the litter from a dinner of surprisingly delicious pasta, he'd pulled her into his arms again and felt her mouth open for his eagerly.
He'd never before even imagined the depth of what happened when he felt Jamila go wild in his arms. Eventually, he knew he must reach the point of satiation, but it wouldn't happen tonight... or tomorrow.
Afterward, he felt unbearable tenderness as he stared down at the lights in her green eyes. When she reached up and touched his face, her arm seemed weak and exhausted. He lifted her easily and carried her to the bathroom, where they showered together. He'd always thought the idea of showering with a woman was juvenile, until he held Jamila in his arms and experienced the sensory pleasure of lathering her firm, sensual curves.
Afterward, they tumbled into bed and he told himself that soon he would stir himself, force himself to leave her, dress and drive home.
His own bed would be cold, empty.
He turned and drew her closer, telling him
self he'd leave soon, very soon.
* * *
He woke in darkness, a weight on his shoulder and another on his hip. He lay motionless, breathing in her scent, feeling her hair across his arm and shoulder, her lips against his chest. Slowly, darkness resolved into shadows, the smooth curve of her cheek, her arm nestled against his chest below her face.
The weight on his hip resolved into a distinctly feline silhouette.
Jamila awoke when he stirred.
"I have to go," he said.
"I'll make you something to eat."
"No." He covered her parted lips with his mouth. Already, the sky outside was lightening and he could see her face. "I have to get to the hospital."
He saw her glance at the clock beside the bed. She didn't comment that six was early for any doctor's rounds, and he was damned if he was going to explain that Diana was phoning at seven, that he had to get away now or, insane though it was, he'd try to make love to her again.
She slipped a soft, long gown on and followed him to the door. When he turned, she stepped into his arms and he allowed himself to take her mouth in a greedy kiss.
"Tonight?" she asked. "Here?"
"I've got a meeting. I won't be finished until after nine."
"I'll be here."
He wanted to look back as he walked away, told himself not to build habits that would be difficult to break later, like needing a woman to watch him leave, wanting her waiting when he returned.
He slid into his car and drove home. In his own bathroom, he showered again although he knew her scent was imbedded in his brain and he couldn't wash it away with mere soap.
The phone rang just before seven.
"Diana," he said, determined not to lie to her today.
"Everything looks great, Alex. I've been through your presentation with a fine-tooth comb. I don't see anything Grandfather can take issue with. I'd email it to him, but I'd like him to have the originals."
"I can courier them to him today."
"Good. I'll talk to him later this morning, so he'll be expecting them. Are you ready for the board meeting Wednesday afternoon?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
"Afterward, why don't you fly here for the weekend, to celebrate?"
The Colors of Love Page 17