“Aren’t you coming in?” There was a note to her voice he’d never heard before. She’d been consciously seductive, certainly. But this note of open invitation…if she’d sounded like that, looked like this, that night in the gazebo, he never would have let her walk away from him, Doc Goodale be damned.
“Oh. Here.” He thrust out the clutch of orchids he’d stolen from the greenhouse. They trembled in his hand, waxy white petals the color of her skin. His head whirling, he picked out the remnants of his plan. “Miss Bright, these are for you.”
“Miss Bright?” She blinked in surprise, then quickly recovered. She glided toward him, hips moving with sinuous grace beneath the waterfall of silk. “For me? They’re beautiful. But I’ve nothing to put them in.”
“Here.” From behind his back where he’d hidden it, he pulled out the slender silver vase he’d borrowed from the dining room.
“Don’t you think of everything?”
“I try.” He thought he had, planning out each detail to the very last. But he hadn’t counted on her, the fact that he wasn’t sure he could set foot in the same room with her and retain his sanity.
When she moved to the tap to fill up the vase, she turned away from him, giving him a view of her back. The blue silk flowed as she moved, clinging to curves, her lower back, the cleft that separated her buttocks. His gaze fastened there, clung as determinedly as the fabric.
What he had planned was going to be a thousand times harder than he thought. And he figured it to be pretty hard to begin with.
He ducked out of the cabin for an instant and shook his head, hoping to clear it. Two deep breaths, a quick reminder…yes, that was better. A little.
The little silver cart rattled as he rolled it in.
She turned at the sound, vase sprouting orchids in hand. “What this?”
“Dinner.” He made a waiter’s flourish, indicating the gleaming silver domes.
“Jim, it’s barely noon.”
“Pretend.” He went to work, pulling a small table into the middle of the room and pairing it with two curvy, thin-legged chairs upholstered in cream. He snapped out a snowy tablecloth and lifted the cover of the first dish. “Oysters,” he said. “I don’t know if you like them, so…”
“I do,” she murmured. She set the flowers down in the middle of the table and moved to him, very close, bare pink toes peeping between the glossy black leather of his shoes. With one finger she traced the lapel of his coat. “Nice clothes. Where’d you get them?”
He tugged at the stiff collar. The black long-tailed jacket pulled tight across the shoulders. The charcoal-striped pants hung on only with the help of three pins and ended an inch shy of his ankles. “When the major went overboard, his clothes stayed behind.”
“Hmm.” She rubbed the lapel between her fingers, as if testing the satin. “Where?”
“His cabin.”
“Cabin? As in, there was a perfectly good empty cabin for you to stay in all this time, and you lied to me so you could stay here?”
“I—” Caught, he considered any number of half-truths. That he would have felt uncomfortable with her out of his sight, that even with the major off the boat he didn’t want to risk a saboteur, that he had to be there to beat off the count or any of the other males who’d fallen under her spell.
Or that he simply couldn’t stand to be that far away from her. “Yes.”
Her palm flattened against him and his vision blotted. He took hold of her upper arms and set her away from him with as much gentleness as he could muster. “Miss Bright.” He pulled out one of the chairs and sketched a bow. “If you’ll allow me?”
Half puzzled, half intrigued, she slid into the chair.
He’d brought candles, six of them, which he clustered around the orchids and lit. And then the food, dish after dish on thin bone china, as many as he could fit on the small table, though there were a half dozen left on the cart.
“I didn’t know what you liked…” he began.
“Jim,” she said. “Beef tenderloin, poached turbot, endive salad. Not to mention a very lovely pudding. You’ve thought of everything.”
“I tried.” He found his own seat, his knees bumping the table, and spread a napkin in his lap. “Wait just a minute.”
He dashed to the porthole and closed the thick blue velvet drapes, blocking all light but a thin strip before he returned to the tables. “There. That’s better.”
“Jim, it’s all very lovely, but…what is this?”
“Miss Bright,” he said, “I am so very pleased that you consented to dine with me.”
Her brows drew together. And then, apparently deciding to play along, she said: “How could I not? When you asked so prettily?” She leaned forward and the fabric fell away, giving him a clear view of the inner curves of her breasts, the wide, bare expanse of her upper chest.
“I cannot help but be curious.” He served her a portion of fish but left his own plate with but a token slice of beef. He wasn’t going to be able to eat a thing, not unless he spent the rest of the meal with his eyes shut. “I know you have two sisters. What are they like?”
“Anthea’s only a few years younger than I am. Emily is—well, suffice to say she is a far bit younger than me.” She overlooked the fish and instead plucked a chocolate from a gold foil box. Her eyes sparkled at him as she ate, her lips wrapping around the sweet, a flash of teeth as she bit in. That mouth…sweat broke out on his temples.
He looked down at his plate, sawing away at the beef until his heartbeat settled down again. Now he could look at her, he judged, and not lunge across the table.
Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
She’d slid the straps off her shoulders, her nightdress down to her waist, leaving her breasts bare and beautiful. His mouth went dry; blood pounded in his temples.
“I—” He dove for the decanter and sloshed wine into his glass. “Wine?”
Twin lines appeared between her brows. “Thank you,” she said, and lifted her glass for him to fill. Her breasts rose with her movement, a lush sway. The decanter clinked against the goblet, ringing a death knell for his good intentions. He tried to focus on the tabletop, the clutter of dishes and flatware and crystal swimming together.
“Jim?”
“Huh?”
“What is this?”
“This?”
“Yes, this.” He heard the muffled thud as she set her glass back on the tabletop. “Jim, why won’t you look at me?”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t?” Silk swished. The chair scraped back. Footsteps padded around the table. “Jim, please,” she said.
Still looking down, he moved his gaze a fraction. Toes peeped out from beneath her gown. And then—swish—blue silk puddled on the floor.
“Lord, Kate.” He closed his eyes, his head falling back while he struggled to remain rooted in the chair, every muscle rigid. If he moved, if he breathed, he’d have her on that berth in an instant, plans be damned. “I should have known you couldn’t just cooperate.”
“It might be easier to cooperate, Jim, if I had the faintest idea what I was supposed to cooperate with.” Her voice was soft, fluid, like a whisper of silk. The silk she was no longer wearing—oh, he was a dead man.
“I’m trying to court you.”
“Court me? Isn’t it a little late for that?”
He heard her move, a rasp—and then silk fell across his face, his mouth—soft, warm from her skin, smelling of her. It fluttered against him as he pulled it off, butterfly wings of sensation.
The gown slipped through his numbed fingers and fluttered to the floor. “I saw your face.” He kept his eyes squeezed shut, because he knew if he looked at her the power of speech would leave him. “When you talked about Johnny and that girl. You wanted the romance you never had. The courting. So I’m going to give it to you.”
She chuckled softly, champagne bubbles of laughter that frothed in his brain, muddling his plans. “Look at me, Jim.”
He shook his head. “I told you, I can’t.”
“Look at me,” she said, patient, waiting.
She had the advantage, because it was what he wanted, even if he knew it would only make it all the harder. And so he lifted his head.
Sights had taken his breath away before. Waterfalls, mountaintops, jeweled icons buried away for thousands of years. And all of those memories paled next to her.
She was all creamy skin and lavish femininity. Soft. Nothing angular, nothing abrupt, just big flowing curves, unstinting, generous. Her hair swung free, thick and golden, spilling down her back. Her breasts were lavish, rising and falling softly with each breath, the nipples tight, rose-tipped.
“I—” His mouth was dry. He swallowed and tried again. “Let me—”
“You know something, Jim?” She glided one hand over her torso, lightly, slowly—neck, breast, waist, belly—and his gaze followed. He couldn’t have looked away if someone held a gun to his head. “I rarely indulge in regrets. Not useful, I’ve found. That does not mean that I am not sometimes, very seldom, slightly nostalgic for the things I missed.” Slowly, drawing out his suffering with every fluid movement, she climbed into his lap, facing him, one leg on either side of his thigh, looping her arms around his neck.
“Kate—”
“Hush. I’m not finished.” He could feel the damp heat of her against his thigh. He struggled to follow her words, hanging on to coherence by the merest thread. “But the truth is, given the same choice, I would have made the same one again. My sisters are well, healthy, grown. I was aware what I was sacrificing when I gave it up and it was worth it. An occasional passing twinge does not a regret make.” She leaned forward, the tips of her breasts searing his chest. He gripped the seat of the chair, fingers biting in as if they could dent the wood. “Forget the courting. Forget the romance. Do you know what else I gave up, Jim? What I missed more than some silly adolescent wooing?”
Knowing speech was beyond him, he shook his head.
“This.” She kissed him, full on, hard and deep. She burst upon him, the wonder of her—naked, passionate woman in his lap, his arms. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling his mouth closer, her tongue plunging deep.
Somewhere back in his brain—dim, barely recognized—he knew he should go slow. Gentle, tender. But she was right there, exploding full upon his senses, and his blood was pumping hard and fast, too fast, but he didn’t know how to slow them down.
He swept his hands down her back, his palms sliding through the textures, the springy, wavy silk of her hair, then the satin sweep of her back. Her waist narrowed abruptly and then flowed out again. Her buttocks, generous, soft, filled his hands, his fingertips slipping into the cleft that separated them.
She threw her head back on a moan, her hair spilling down, brushing the backs of his hands. He bent to put his mouth at her throat, her pulse beating against his lips, his tongue.
She tugged his hair to pull his head away. She was flushed, color sweeping down her chest and neck to the full curves of her breasts. Her eyes burned, hot and blue, her lips parting with her ragged breathing. He tried to brand it into his brain, noting each detail, each shade, each line, for he knew that this picture was the one he’d choose to remain at the forefront of his memory, the one he’d want to call up on his deathbed to remember that yes, indeed, he had lived.
With one hand she lifted her breast, offering it to him, her thighs squeezing as she lifted herself. He dipped his head, drawing her breast deeply into his mouth.
Sweetness. So sweet, the plush softness of her skin, the nubbly texture of her nipple. The way she trembled and sighed when he flicked her with his tongue, when he drew it gently between his teeth. Her fingers threaded through his hair, an agitated motion, her body beginning to shift restlessly against his.
Gasping, he pulled back, trying to catch his breath and his sanity. But she couldn’t pause, couldn’t slow; she dove for his chest, ripping open his shirt, spreading it wide with a smile of triumph.
Her mouth, her hands, were fire-hot, moist, burning their imprint on him. He would have it no other way. If she left scars, tattoos of her possession on him, he would have welcomed them.
She bit his nipple gently and he reared up. And then she soothed the slight sting with her tongue, a slow swirl of pleasure.
Her hands were quick and graceful, gliding along his side and probing his ribs. He wanted to tell her to slow but she gave him no opening. Every time he opened his mouth to speak, she did something that left him gasping instead.
“What’s this?” she murmured, tracing the four parallel lines that bisected his belly, pale stripes against darker skin.
“Tiger,” he panted. “Nepal.”
“Hmm.” She bent and traced them with her tongue, too, soothing them as if the pain were fresh while his stomach muscles contracted and he nearly came off the chair.
“And here?” she asked, touching the small, wedged-shaped scar at his shoulder.
“Arrow. By Canelos. No poison. Lucky.”
“Lucky?” She kissed this one, too, open-mouthed, so wet and hot that soon he would have welcomed another arrow as long as it gave her another spot to put that mouth.
“Any more scars?” she murmured against his skin.
“Lost two toes in the Arctic. Frostbite.”
She laughed softly. “I think I’ll wait on that.”
And then she slid off his lap, as easily as the silk had slipped through his fingers, kneeling on the floor between his knees. Her fingers toyed with his waistband, dipping beneath and out again, teasing him, sending blood flooding through his veins.
“Kate—”
“Hush,” she said. “My turn. You promised.”
She went slower now, slipping each button from its hole with extreme care, as if to savor each second. His arousal pushed hard against the constriction of his trousers, a sweet-hot ache that veered toward pain, the sweetest kind, like throwing oneself into the sun.
She was not unsure. She lifted and moved his drawers away expertly—none of the awkward hooking men dread, no help necessary. And then, perched there between his knees, she smiled at him, naked and glorious, and he knew that every fantasy he’d ever conjured, every dream he’d ever owned, had never come close to this.
And then she touched him, wrapping her hand firmly around his cock, and he thought: I’m going to die. Right this minute, I’m going to be the first man on earth to die of pleasure.
He could not look away. The sight of her hand, slender, white, around him. The rapt concentration on her face. The glimmer of her hair in the soft light, the light sheen of perspiration on her skin.
She caressed him with her thumb, a slow arc right over the tip, and he nearly blacked out. “Kate!”
“Hush,” she said again, intent. “You promised.” Her thumb moved again, a light stroke that held more power than a blade. “I think there’s a scar here.”
“No, I—”
“You must have forgotten.” She leaned forward. He could feel the softness of her breast press against his inner thigh, the silk of her hair pooling over his leg, his belly.
And then she licked him. One long delicate lap, base to head, a quick swirl at the top, and sound burst out of him. He grabbed her shoulders and dragged her up to face him, laying her against him, bare skin to nearly bare skin.
He kissed her, hard and long, drinking in the taste and feel of her, because he could kiss her and still think. Just barely, but he could.
“Later,” he said, sounding as hoarse as if he’d spent days in a desert without water. “Later, as much as you want, however you want. I promise. But not now, not if you don’t want this to end in two seconds.”
“Hmm.” She made a small, flirty moue of disappointment, her eyes dancing, bright as gems. “Two seconds would be a bit…abrupt.”
“Yeah,” he said. Now, he thought, now he could take over, slow it down, set a rhythm that they could savor. Court her in bed if not out of it, fill her up with the kind of
pleasure that a woman would never forget.
But then she lifted herself up, slithering against him. She reached down and held him firm, positioning him right at her entrance.
Without a moment’s hesitation she slid right down, as easily as if they’d done this a hundred times before. Perhaps they had—in his dreams, in hers. But oh, the pleasure of it. That was something entirely new, unimaginable, near unbearable. She was hot as the sun, slick and wet, closing around him as tightly as if she’d been made expressly to fit him.
Her head fell back, her mouth opening on a low moan, the sound vibrating in his belly, too. She lifted up, pushed back down. Pleasure surged through him, slapped at him, pushing him near the waterfall edge, threatening to sweep him over.
And again, while he pounded ever closer to the cliff.
“That’s it,” he said. He clamped one hand beneath her butt, another around her back, and stood. The movement drove him deeper inside her, making her gasp and wrap her ankles around his hips.
“I got the berth ready,” she murmured in his ear, then nipped at the lobe for good measure.
“This’ll do,” he said, and lowered her to the floor before his knees gave out beneath him.
She lay back like a sultan’s bride, back arched. He was still embedded in her and her thighs squeezed his hips. His clothes bunched around him; in the way, but he couldn’t conceive of leaving her long enough to get rid of them. At least the important parts were uncovered.
Her hands started to wander, clutching at his butt, drawing him in. He reached back and captured her hands, anchoring them over her head, looping her wrists together with one hand.
“What’s the matter, Jim?” she murmured, panting, seductive. “Don’t like it when the woman sets the pace?”
“I love it when you set the pace,” he said. “But if you keep that up, Kate, I’m not going to be able to withdraw in time. Not this first time.”
“Withdraw? Why would you want to…oh.” Shadows flickered through her eyes and he could have shot himself for bringing it up and putting that look there. And then she smiled until it chased away the shifting sadness. “You don’t have to. I can’t have children.”
A Wedding Story Page 24