She met his gaze. “A little,” she whispered. “But I want you so badly.”
He framed her face in his hands, and his voice was scarcely more than a throaty breath. “I’m scared too, if it’s any consolation. I want it to be good for you, but it’s been a long time for me—”
She stilled his words with her fingertips, then stroked the soft bristle of his mustache. “You don’t have any cause for worry,” she said with a soft, very feminine smile. “Haven’t you seen me drooling all week?”
“If I’d seen that, I’d have worried you’d contracted rabies,” he teased, but none of the light left his eyes and his body retained its impassioned state.
“Not rabies. You.” Standing on tiptoe, she replaced her fingers with her lips and for the very first time her full nakedness meshed with his. A tiny gasp flowed from one mouth to the other, its source unknown and unimportant, for the electricity was real and mutual and their kiss quickly developed into one of unbearable need.
When Chelsea thought she was ready to die, and happily at that, Sam swept her into his arms and walked the few steps to the pool’s edge. Their lips were melded together, and later she was to realize that it had been a miracle he hadn’t fallen. But it must have been their day for miracles because he moved easily into the water, down one submerged step, then a second and a third, until, very gently, he let her body break the rippling surface.
His mouth left hers for only an instant, when he gracefully dove over her and circled beneath to reemerge before her once again. Then he was half out of the water, braced back against a ledge, and he was lifting her, wet and shining, high above him. Taking one of her dripping breasts into his mouth, he drew on it avidly.
Any chill Chelsea might have felt from the water was negated by the fire that Sam’s lips, his tongue, his teeth and hands stoked. Her fingers wove into his hair and she arched her back, urging him closer, wanting him to take and take until she dissolved into his being.
Hands on her sleek hips, he raised her higher, mouthing his way down her stomach, then up again to treat her other breast to the hot suction of his mouth. She cried out in delight and need, and tugged at his hair until his mouth was free to rescue hers from what seemed utter desolation.
“I want you, Chelsea,” he moaned against her lips. “I want to be there … now … .” His hips had begun a slow undulation, and his hardness prodded boldy. “Do you want me inside?”
“I do, I do,” she breathed. “Hurry, Sam. Please!”
“Put your legs around me, love.” He guided her thighs as they spread over his. “Now look at me, Chels. Open your eyes and look at me.”
She did as he asked, and what she saw was more than enough justification for what they were doing. She loved him, and the very first day they’d met he’d jokingly said he loved her. But now … the look of sheer adoration on his face … well, if it wasn’t love it was as close as some people ever came to it.
She felt his hands spread over her bottom, pressing her forward and down. Slowly, tenderly, as was his way, he penetrated her. Her own expression must have held wonder then, because when she felt his fullness deep, deep inside, an incredible sense of being, of oneness, of beauty surged through her.
He let out a long, shuddering breath and was smiling even as he took her lips. Melting into his kiss, she wrapped her arms around his neck and let him lead her in a slow, rocking motion that soon grew faster, then wilder. He seemed to know just what she needed and when, as though his body was so finely tuned to hers that it could anticipate each shift of desire and satisfy it. If he’d had any doubts about his ability to make it good for her, they were laid to rest by her soft moans and smiles and pleasure-gasps.
The water around them rippled in a flowing rhythm. The walls of the cavern absorbed their muffled sighs and fevered whispers. Pale-blue light shimmered all around them, lending an ethereal cast to their lovemaking, but they were oblivious to it, so enveloped were they in their own very private world of passion.
When Chelsea felt her climax near, she helplessly cried Sam’s name. Never had she felt anything remotely akin to the pleasure about to burst, and the sheer force of it frightened her.
“Let go, love,” he whispered. “Let it come … .”
The sound of his voice by her ear, the feel of his arms around her back—they were the reassurance she needed that he’d be there to hold her when she relinquished that last bit of control. And it went then—the control, the clear thought, the awareness of all things physical and emotional—and she was catapulted into a realm of pure ecstasy, brilliant and pulsing.
Sam followed her quickly, joining her, lingering behind when she’d begun the descent to reality. His large body was quaking, but all the while he held her surely, telling her without words that she was precious and rare.
At last, when his body grew slack in the aftermath of the storm, he loosened his hold and smiled down at her. He didn’t speak then, as though words would only sully what had been so breathtakingly beautiful. But he kissed her, and his lips were more eloquent in expressing delight and gratitude and, yes, love than the sweetest of poems.
“Very, very special …” Chelsea murmured when he’d released her lips and she’d finally found the breath to speak.
He held her tightly and rocked her until they’d both more fully recovered. Then, with only the faintest of smug chuckles to forewarn her, he flipped them both back into the water. She came up sputtering, throwing the hair out of her eyes, but she was grinning.
“That was a dirty trick, Sam London.”
“We came here to cool off, didn’t we?” He was grinning, too, and when she splashed water at him he simply submerged, resurfacing with his head back so that his hair lay flat against his skull. “Ahhhh. That felt good.”
“The water or me?”
“Both. You’re like a fountain of youth. I haven’t felt this great in days.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be totally drained at this point?” she teased, treading water a few feet away.
“I am totally drained, but, man, do I feel great!” With one stroke he was before her, wrapping her in his arms. His legs, treading steadily, were strong enough to keep them both afloat. “You’re wonderful, Chelsea. Do you know that?”
She had her arms coiled about his neck and was looking down into his face. “Sure I do. But it’s nice to hear it from someone other than myself for a change.” Actually she heard it quite often—from grateful parents to whom she’d returned a lost child—but that world was unreal here, and unwanted.
“Then I’ll say it again, more softly and with feeling.” He took a breath. “You’re wonderful, Chelsea.”
She tipped back her head and laughed, taking in a mouthful of water as he released her and she sank. When she came up she promptly spit it at him but he’d taken off to the far side of the pool, stroking smoothly, turning, floating on his back, then rolling over and stroking again. Following his lead, she swam for a bit, but she tired before he did and was waiting on the rock when he finally hauled himself from the water.
“You look like a god,” she said.
“Naked and dripping.”
She grinned. “Right.”
Bracing with one hand, he lowered himself to the rock, then stretched out on his back beside her and tugged her down. “How do you feel?”
She, too, lay on her back, her head turned to face him. “Wonderful.”
“Glad we came?”
“You bet.”
“You’re not upset that I rushed you—after this morning and all?”
“You didn’t exactly force me into anything.”
He gave a mischievous grin. “I didn’t, did I?” Then he grew more serious and his eyes took on the same intensity she’d seen in them so often. It was an intensity that seemed to dig beneath her surface and probe. “What made you do it, Chels? I know you wanted to wait.”
For a split second she felt guilty. She knew he had cause to probe, knew that she had been less than forthright wi
th him. But this wasn’t the time or the place to go into that, so she chose her words with care, striving for honesty without upset. “I guess you were right when you said it was inevitable.” With a smile, she glanced down his body. Long. Perfectly made. As manly in repose as in arousal. “And after spending the entire day looking at your damned gorgeous physique, I figured the waiting was absurd.”
“Looking at my—you mean, you didn’t see anything I showed you at Chichen?”
“Of course I did. All that … and more.” She rolled until she was propped against him with her arm resting on his chest. “Let’s just say that I underestimated my, uh, my appetite.”
“As in sexual?”
“Bingo.”
He chuckled and hugged her, then set her away and sat up. “We’d better get dressed. I don’t want to be here when the pig arrives.”
“The pig!” She whirled toward the cavern’s entrance and covered herself in a belated spurt of modesty, which made Sam laugh aloud. “You didn’t say that the pig still came! I thought we had this all to ourselves!”
He relented then. “I was teasing. No more pig. But … aren’t you grateful to him?”
Chelsea took a calming breath as she reached for her clothes. “That, I am … most definitely. That, I am.”
THEY RETURNED TO THE JEEP arm in arm, and through dinner in Valladolid and then the drive back to the pueblito they touched and kissed at will. With their lovemaking, a barrier had dissolved. Public decorum was the only restraint they observed.
It was late when they finally turned off the highway onto the narrow path, then parked the car and ran through the dark to the hut. They were smothering laughs, feeling something like children sneaking in after curfew, and Sam didn’t bother to turn on a light as he ushered Chelsea toward the back room.
“Go change and get ready for bed,” he said softly. “I’ll get us some wine.”
“‘Get ready for bed.’ There’s a phrase from your past, Sam,” she teased. “Wouldn’t it be more correct to say, ‘Go change and get ready for hammock.’ This isn’t a bedroom; it’s a hammock room.”
“On second thought, I think I’ll skip the wine. You sound a little high.”
“I am.” Grinning, she snatched the shirt from the end of her hammock. “Be right back.”
By the time she returned, Sam was stretched out in his hammock wearing the boxer shorts she surprised herself by so admiring. Well, it wasn’t so much the shorts she admired as the way they fit him. In either case she stood for several moments looking down at him in the dark. When he held out a hand, she hesitated.
“We’ve never tried two in a hammock,” she warned.
“Sure we have. Remember when you were sick and I bathed you?” He grasped her wrist and tugged her in. Her landing wasn’t the most graceful, but with a little maneuvering she was comfortably nestled, spoonlike, with her back to his front. He wrapped his arms around her middle and rested his chin on the top of her head. “Tell me about what you were like as a kid, Chelsea.”
His request had been offered quietly, in keeping with the serenity of the night, and Chelsea readily acquiesced. “I was pretty lucky, actually. I had two loving parents and grew up in a close, warm home. We were always struggling to make ends meet—my dad was a laborer and my mom, well, women didn’t think of working at that time.”
“Are your parents still alive?”
“Oh, yes. They live in the same house where I grew up. Dad is retired now, which is nice because otherwise my mother would be lonely.” Her heart skipped a beat and she anticipated his next question even before it came.
“Were you an only child?”
“No. I had a younger sister.”
She’d tried to keep her voice even, but something in it must have given her away. Or maybe Sam was as attuned to her thoughts, which at the moment were shadowed, as he was to her body.
“‘Had?’ Did something happen?”
She took a deep breath and found her hand seeking his. “Susan was seven years younger than me. When she was sixteen, she ran—or was taken—away from home. We haven’t seen her since.”
Sam’s arms tightened around her. “God, Chels, I’m sorry! There’s been no word at all, no sign?”
“Nope.”
“Did the police look?”
“After a fashion. They wouldn’t officially list her as missing until she’d been gone for twenty-four hours, and after that, well, they went through the motions, but that was about all.”
“Your parents must have been crushed.”
“Me, too. I’d been away from home for five years at that point, and I blamed myself for not keeping in closer touch with Susan. We were never that close, because of the age difference. She was always a quiet kid.”
“Do you have any idea why she left—if in fact she did it on her own?”
Chelsea shook her head against his chest. Its solidity was a comfort. “I’ve spent six years trying to figure that out, but I just don’t know. I mean, I was happy at home. Sure, I went away to school and then lived away when I started to teach, but that was because I went where the job was. I can’t believe there was anything about either of my parents that could have alienated Susan so that she’d run away. They’re both very quiet, soft-spoken people. If anything, my mother was more meek than she might have been, but never once could we doubt that she loved us.”
“There are organizations to help look for—”
“Not at that time. I tried, Sam,” she cried. “I did everything I could to find her. I saw that her picture was distributed in every major city. I put notices in newspapers. I made phone call after phone call to friends of friends of friends she had, but I still came up empty-handed.”
His hand was on her brow. “Shhh. Don’t torture yourself now. It wasn’t your fault. You know that.”
She sighed and forced herself to relax. “I think I’ll always blame myself for not having been closer to her. But in the final analysis there’s not much more I can do. I still make inquiries, but if Susan’s alive today I doubt she looks anything like the pictures we have. We’ve accepted that she’s gone, as much as any family can. We still hope and pray, and it still hurts, particularly for my parents, who have a lot more time to sit and brood than I do. I try to see them as often as possible.”
“Do they know you’re here?”
“I called them before I left to tell them I’d be in Mexico. I really should drop them a note.” Anxious to shake off the discouragement she always felt when thinking of Susan—and to shift the focus of the discussion from herself—she tipped her head back. “Tell me about you, Sam. What was your childhood like?”
He hesitated a minute, as though reluctant to leave the subject of Chelsea’s life. She wondered then whether she’d said too much, whether some little word or tone might have given away her present occupation. For whatever his reasons, though, Sam gave in.
“Very privileged. Very proper. Very programmed.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“To some, I suppose.”
“But not you.”
“No. I was like my father. I always enjoyed applying myself to things—projects from school or camp, finally work. I could easily have done without the rest—the parties and the cruises and the receptions. In the end they drove my father crazy. No, on second thought, I think it was my mother who finally got to him.”
Chelsea might have expressed surprise but it wouldn’t have been truthful. So she held her tongue, and Sam went on anyway. He seemed more than willing, even determined to talk, as though he wanted her to know what made him tick. She had no argument with that.
“My mother is a very difficult woman. I love her because she’s my mother, but I steer clear of her as much as possible. She’s cold and domineering. She runs the lives of those around her with a steel hand. My father and I both had our share of ambition, but my father, well, he was softer about it. When my mother pushed, he tensed up. When she bullied, he simply shied away.”
He pau
sed for a minute, his chin resting more heavily on her head. Chelsea caressed his hand both in comfort and encouragement. A little voice in the back of her mind wanted to ask questions and to urge him on, but it was overruled by the woman in her who loved him and knew that he needed to take his own time.
“After I graduated from the B School I went into the family business. I felt I might be the ally my father needed, and God knew there was enough work to challenge me. Then I ran into my mother the businesswoman, and saw things, really saw them, from the inside. She was in and out of the office, nagging, commanding, sticking her finger in every pie, criticizing when she didn’t think we were doing enough or when she thought she saw a promotional scheme or a new business prospect we weren’t following up on. After a couple of years I knew I couldn’t take any more. I went to my father, near to bursting, and told him what I felt—that I had to leave, that he’d be wise to get out before she drove him into the ground. He was already failing; I could see that. I mean, there’s only so much tension a person can take!”
That was the disagreement Beatrice London had mentioned to Chelsea, the one whose specifics the older women had never known. Now Chelsea could begin to understand why Sam’s father had kept mum. “What did your father say when you told him all this?” she prodded gently.
“He said that he couldn’t leave the business, that he couldn’t leave my mother. He loved her. Hell, so did—do—I, but I was damned if I was going to let her rule my life.” He let out a long breath. “So I left to start my own firm, and Dad continued downhill. Several years ago he had a massive coronary and died instantly. It was probably a blessing. She’d never have let him slow down, much less retire.”
Chelsea ran her hand up and down his forearm. “Do you feel guilty for having left?”
“Guilty? I suppose. I feel bad for having had to leave. It’s my family’s business, after all. I really didn’t want to desert my father that way, but it was a matter of survival.” His voice lowered and grew dry. “At least, that was what I thought at the time. Of course, I didn’t do much better on my own.”
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