by Sandra Brown
“Oh? I thought the accommodations were most comfortable.” She paused in pulling on a pair of shorts to listen for his response.
A series of luridly colorful oaths came from the other room; then he said grouchily, “My ailment had nothing to do with the accommodations.”
Feeling safe behind the louvered doors, Megan smiled like a gamin. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“I know the perfect cure. Come out here and I'll show you what it is.”
By now she had put on her exercise bra—she worked out at a downtown health club two evenings a week—and a sleeveless T-shirt to match her shorts. Around her forehead she had wound a cotton scarf to act as a hair- and sweatband. Bravely she accepted Josh's challenge and stepped into the bedroom.
His back was against the padded, fabric-covered headboard of the bed, and he was sprawled in the rumpled indentation where she had slept all night. His relaxed position belied the feral look in his eyes, which left no doubt of the healing cure he had in mind.
Megan assumed a lofty air and placed her hands on her hips, dropping onto the bed the tennis shoes and socks she'd carried from the dressing room. “Well?”
He came bounding off the bed, tackled her around the waist, flung her to the bed and pinned her there with a heavy thigh. Her screech pierced the air.
“‘Well?’ Is that what you said? ‘Well?’” He gnawed the area between her neck and shoulder with his mouth.
“Oh, Josh, please,” she half-laughed, half-shrieked. “That tickles!” She squirmed, thrashing her arms and legs as much as he would allow.
“Ahh, be careful with those knees. We don't want to damage anything we may need later, do we?” He braced himself over her with stiff arms, and she lay still, with nothing but her chest moving as she breathed in great gulps of air.
His expression turned serious. “You're so gorgeous,” he said with stirring softness. “Gorgeous and intelligent and sweet and sexy as hell.” Gradually he lowered himself over her, letting her absorb his weight. His kiss was gentle. His lips played upon hers until she moaned in supplication. His teeth nipped her lightly. Then his tongue buried itself in the wet vault of her mouth. When at last he raised his head, he asked, “Are you ready?”
“Ready to what?” she asked in a low rumble.
His crooked eyebrow lifted in humorous query. “Ready to run.”
Hot color rushed to her face. “Oh, to run. Of course, yes, run. Yes, I'm ready.” He laughed. “Except … except for my shoes.” She still hadn't recovered from having his entire body pressing her deeper into the mattress, their bare thighs caressing each other's.
“Allow me.” Still holding her down with one leg thrown over hers, he picked up her socks. She propped herself up on her elbows to watch. “I like this toenail polish,” he commented before leaning down to kiss her toes lightly. Straightening as he pulled on her sock, he added, “Almost as much as I like the outline of your nipples against that tight T-shirt.” She didn't have time to gasp her surprise before he leaned back and paid the same homage to her nipples that he had to her toes, and all the breath deserted her body.
She remained stuporous until both socks were on and her tennis shoes had been tied with deft fingers. “There,” he said, standing and pulling her to her feet. He slapped her on the behind, giving her no choice but to snap out of her trance. “I'll give you a head start.”
After they'd been running for a while, it was obvious to Megan that she was a better runner than Josh had expected. He grinned at her broadly as she kept pace with him as they sprinted along the dawn-washed beach. It was still early, and they had it to themselves. After about a mile and a half, Megan reached her limit and began to fall back.
“Go on. I'll wait for you here.”
He waved and continued running down the seemingly endless beach, until he was only a dark speck against the white sand. Megan slowed to a walk and allowed her pulse rate to return to normal slowly. Then she did sit-ups and stretching exercises on the sand, checking periodically for signs of Josh's return.
After she had gone through her regimen, she sat down on the damp beach, pulled off her shoes, and stretched her legs out in front of her. She stared out at the ceaseless patterns of waves playing across the water. How far he must have run, she couldn't guess, but he'd been gone well over half an hour when she saw him coming back.
His breathing was labored as he came jogging toward her, kicking up sand and tearing off his shirt. He tossed it in her direction, but she dodged the sweaty garment. “Come on,” he said breathlessly, still running in place, but sweeping down to catch her wrist and pull her to her feet.
“What are you doing?” She laughed as she stumbled after him. He was heading toward the surf. “No!” she cried, trying to tear her hand from his iron grip.
“Why not? Great way to cool off.”
“I'm cool, I'm cool.” She was laughing so hard she could barely walk. How he managed to retain his hold on her and hop, first on one foot, then on the other, to take off his shoes, she never knew. “Let me go,” she squealed one last time before he pushed her into the water.
They played in the surf until, exhausted, they lay in the shallows and let the tide bathe away their healthy fatigue and perspiration.
“If we had an ocean in Atlanta, I'd run on the beach every morning,” Josh said, lying on his back and closing his eyes against the new sun. Megan longed to touch his chiseled cheekbones and the dark lashes that lay against them. The wet running shorts molded his form, detailing it for her curious eyes. The breadth of his chest, the flat plane of his stomach, the ampleness of his sex were all unselfconsciously displayed for her appraisal.
She rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on her folded arms. “You're quite an exercise nut, aren't you?”
“Yep.”
“Since when?”
“A long time. One of the first things I did when the company was large enough to warrant it and we were making enough money to afford it was to arrange memberships for all my employees in one of the down-town gymnasiums. I encourage them to go several times a week for an hour, even if they have to take off work early to do it.”
Megan's head snapped up sharply at his words. She stared at Josh with incredulity. His eyes were still closed.
“James …” She licked her lips. “James never mentioned a health club.”
Josh squinted against the bright sunlight. “I know. I urged him to go, Megan. He, more than anyone, needed the exercise. Every time I mentioned it, he put me off with a joke and a promise that he'd make the time. To my knowledge he never did.”
Megan gazed at the long beach without seeing it. “Not to my knowledge either,” she said quietly. She lay her head on her arms, letting the salt water wash over her body with a massaging motion.
“Hey, are you asleep, or have you drowned?” Josh asked her long minutes later.
By an act of will she dispelled her solemnity. Rolling over onto her side, she smiled up at him. “Neither.”
“Come on, then. I found something last night when I was walking off my … ahem … frustration. I think you'll like it.”
They gathered up their shoes, her socks, and his tank top and struck off in the direction of the woods that joined the beach about a hundred yards from the shoreline.
“Where in the world are you taking me?” Megan asked as they tramped through the soft, springy undergrowth. With the monstrous trees towering over it, this foliage couldn't get much sunlight, yet it was brilliantly green.
“Right here,” he said proudly, with a broad gesture. He bent at the waist in a courtly bow. Behind him stood a giant oak tree, its spreading branches draped with curly moss. Secured to one of the enormous limbs was a swing. The rope that held it was as big around as Megan's wrist. The wooden seat was about two feet long and a foot wide. The rope had been threaded through holes at either end of the seat and knotted underneath.
“A swing!” she cried in delight, rushing over to it. As she grabbed the ropes, she thre
w her head back to look up through the leafy branches of the tree. Sunlight dappled dark green leaves, which formed an intriguing pattern against the blue sky. “I love it.”
Josh grinned smugly. He dropped his shoes onto the cushiony undergrowth and sauntered toward her. Pushing her away, he sat down on the wooden seat.
“I thought this was supposed to be my surprise,” she said petulantly.
“It is. You sit on my lap.” He patted his bare thighs.
“I can't swing like that. I'll fall off.”
“No, you won't.”
Grudgingly she moved forward and, turning her back to him, plopped down on his lap. For a moment he didn't say anything. When he did, it was with the utmost derision.
“Megan?”
“Yes?”
“You're right. You'd fall off that way. Turn around.”
She sprang off him and whirled around. “You mean f-facing you?”
He pointed an index finger at her and closed one eye. “Now you get the picture.”
Her eyes wouldn't obey her command that she not look down at his lap. Unerringly her gaze went to it. She swallowed a knot of apprehension. Just as she'd thought, his damp shorts clung tightly, making his sex blatantly apparent.
“Megan.” He said her name softly yet so compellingly that she raised her eyes to his. She felt herself shrinking, becoming the size of her reflection in his eyes. The gold irises enfolded her, surrounded her, and she was inside him. Moving like one entranced, she stepped forward. With his guidance she placed first one leg, then the other, over his, until she sat on his thighs, facing him.
“Put your arms around my neck and hold on,” he told her. As if in a dream, she obeyed. The muscles of his arms flexed as he took hold of the ropes. She felt the contraction of his muscles beneath her thighs as he took backward steps. He went as far back as he could go, until his body was straight and at a sharp angle. She held on to him tightly as his toes barely touched the ground.
“Ready?” he asked.
Exhilarated, she shouted, “Yes!”
He lifted his feet and they swooped through the air. Their laughter and cries of joy flushed a family of blue jays from its nest in the tree. One jay squawked angrily at them, but the wild beating of their hearts drowned him out.
When they swung outward, Josh's chest came forward to give them propulsion on the way down. Each time it came in contact with Megan's, she thrilled at the touch. Her damp T-shirt was stretched taut, providing him with a dazzling display of her breasts. The peaked tips were prominent evidence of her excitement.
On the backward arc, he leaned back and she hovered over him for timeless moments. During those suspended pended seconds, gravity pushed her forward until his masculinity was snugly tucked between her thighs.
The seesawing motion of their bodies sent all her senses into one melting cauldron of desire. The boiling emotions scattered her reason. She caught a handful of Josh's hair with one hand. Her ankles crossed behind his hips. Their eyes transmitted messages of passion until unbearable heat consumed them both.
When Josh let them begin to coast down, his mouth fastened onto hers. His arms were still holding the ropes, but even without their urging, she scooted higher up his body and pressed her breasts to his bare chest. They glided to earth slowly, but Megan's soul was still soaring.
At last the swing came to a complete standstill. Only then did Josh let go of the ropes and wrap his arms around her, one around her shoulders and the other around her hips.
His eyes remained closed as he rested his forehead against hers and breathed deeply. “My Megan,” he whispered. Her lips drifted over his hard cheek, tangy with salt from the ocean. He spoke so quietly that she had to strain to hear him. “The night you married James, I thought I'd go mad.”
Eight
Megan's heart seemed about to leap from her chest with its pounding. Wordlessly, motionlessly, they clung to each other. She didn't credit her ears with what she'd heard him say, but she couldn't help the riot of emotions that they incited.
At long last he raised his head and looked at her bleakly. “I got stinking drunk and stayed that way for about three days, living on drafts of whiskey taken at regular intervals.”
“You were at the wedding.” She didn't recognize the frail voice as her own.
“Yes. Sitting there listening to you promise to become another man's wife, to be for him all that that word entails.” Balancing them on the narrow wooden swing seat, he lifted one hand to her face. With an exquisitely light touch, his index finger charted her face. “I don't know how I kept still and let it happen. Lord knows I wanted to run to the front of that church, steal you away from him, and take you for myself.”
She rested her cheek against his palm and closed her eyes. “You knew I was getting married when we met. You knew that when you followed me out to the summerhouse.”
“Yes, and maybe at that point I was still only obeying an instinct. The minute I saw you, I felt like I'd been poleaxed right between the eyes, but I couldn't believe it. You … how old were you then? Twenty-five?” At her nod, he went on. “I was a good ten years older. I'd fought my way out of poverty. I was tough, mean, jaded. Falling for a slip of a girl at first sight didn't happen to brutes like me.” His lips brushed hers lightly. “But once I kissed you, I knew that what had happened was real.”
“I should never have let that kiss happen. I belonged to James.”
“I knew that, but I didn't want to accept it. For months I refused to.” He caught a strand of her hair and wound it around his finger. “Then I cursed myself for being a damned fool and started dating and bedding every woman I could.”
He toyed with her T-shirt, seemingly fascinated when each time he pulled the damp cloth away from her breasts and let it go, it molded around them again. “You were like an illness inside me that wouldn't respond to treatment. No matter what I did, who I did it with, I ached from wanting you, Megan.” His thick lashes lifted, and his eyes bore into hers. “I exercised immeasurable restraint in letting you go once. I'm not going to inflict that self-denial on myself again.”
She was powerless to resist as he splayed his hands hard and wide on her back and pulled her even closer. Like a branding iron, his mouth seared hers, burning straight through to her soul. He released her mouth only to trace a scorching trail down her throat with his lips. She let go of his neck and took hold of the ropes. Letting her head fall back wantonly, she leaned backward in open invitation.
His hands coasted knowledgeably over her breasts, and he fondled them with slow, sure motions that ignited a hundred fires in her body. His tongue flicked along her collarbone, then lower. It laved the curving swell over her breasts.
“Josh,” she cried when he gently squeezed a rising nipple between his fingers before covering it with his mouth. Reflexively she arched against him, and knew instantly that he was just as aroused as she was.
“Ahhh,” he groaned. He lay his head in the crook of her shoulder and released deep, shuddering breaths. Physical agony distorted the features of his face as he strove to regain control of his body. At last he sighed and raised his head.
“We've got to get out of here, unless you want to find yourself rolling in the clover,” he said gently.
At that moment she had no qualms about making a bed of the lush undergrowth or a canopy of the oak. It was just as well Josh wasn't as impulsive. He stood up and let her slide slowly down his body until her bare feet met the ground.
“Besides,” he said, bending down to retrieve their shoes, “I have a golf date with Terry.”
An hour later he was standing over the space she had claimed on the beach as her territory. She lay face down on a large towel, which was scattered with the latest best-seller, sunglasses, a bottle of suntan lotion with maximum sunscreen, a small towel, a cooler containing three cans of soft drink, and a transistor radio—in short, everything she needed to spend the day on the beach.
They had returned to their respective rooms, shower
ed, and eaten a breakfast of whole-wheat toast, poached eggs, and fresh fruit with yogurt dressing that Josh had asked to be delivered to his terrace.
Now he asked, “You're sure you don't mind if I leave you to play golf with Terry?”
She minded greatly that he was leaving her alone for the next several hours, but she looked up at him and smiled. “Go putt your little ball around the golf course. This is what I planned to do today anyway.”
He looked terrific, in white slacks, a navy blue knit shirt, and golf cleats. What rankled was mat she knew he looked even better without them in only a thin pair of running shorts. Her blood ran hot through her veins at the thought—and not because of the sun beating down on her back.
Her bikini provided little protection from the sun's burning rays. She had chosen it, hoping to begin a good overall tan. It was made of crocheted cotton yarn. The cinnamon color was almost the same shade as her hair, but without the copper highlights. Only the strategic parts of the bikini were lined with flesh-colored material. Narrow strips on the sides of her hips held the front and back triangles of the bottom piece together. A braided drawstring tied the miniscule cups of the bra between her breasts. Another tied behind her neck.
It would serve Josh right if she turned over and let him see the front, she thought wickedly. He might not be so eager to run off and play golf then.
Instead she shielded her eyes from the glaring sun and asked, “Will you do me a favor before you go?”
“Name it.”
“Without getting sand in your shoes, can you rub some of this sunscreen on my back? If I don't protect against a burn, I won't be able to move for the rest of the weekend.”
Dropping down beside her, he leaned over and growled into her ear. “That's no favor. That's a privilege. One I think most men would kill for.”
His hands smoothed the rich emulsion on her back with strong, massaging strokes. Working his way down from her shoulders, he went beyond the thin string to the small of her back. Under his magic fingers, she relaxed until a heavy languor anchored her to the blanket. The lethargy was banished the instant his fingers slipped beneath the bikini panty.