by Penny Jordan
‘What are you looking at?’
He was standing beside her; she could actually feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. A droplet of sea water fell on to her exposed shoulder and she flinched, turning on him angrily, willing herself to look only into his eyes and nowhere else.
‘I’m not looking at anything,’ she told him pointedly, furious to see the laughter glinting in his eyes.
‘How indignant you look,’ he drawled softly. ‘Surely not because of me…’
His arrogance increased her anger.
‘I’m more than indignant,’ she told him roundly, ‘or didn’t it occur to you that I might find it embarrassing to discover a nude man down here on the beach?’
‘Well, the thought did occur to me,’ he agreed blandly, ‘but then you looked at me for so long, I decided to ignore it.’
‘I did not look at you,’ Lark denied, horrified as much by the tell-tale burning of her skin as by anything else. The moonlight was such that she was probably even more clearly revealed to him than he was to her. She put a protective hand against the top of her dress, wondering anxiously if he had also noticed the betraying hardening of her nipples and how they had pushed against the soft bodice of her dress. Hardly from all that distance, surely?
‘Oh, but you did,’ James corrected her softly.
His hand caught her face, turning it so that it was impossible for her to avoid his gaze. She watched tensely as his eyes changed from the same silver as the ocean to nearly black.
‘And I enjoyed it,’ he told her meaningfully, making the blood run hot through her veins. ‘When my mother’s family first bought this land, they owned the salvage rights to the coast here, did she tell you that? Everything they found on the beach belonged to them, to do with exactly as they wished. Do you know what I’d like to do with you, Lark?’
Amazingly, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t demand that he stopped whispering such tempting, appalling words in her ear, that he stopped touching her skin with those light, tormenting movements of his hands that were robbing her of any ability to think coherently.
As though her silence was somehow acquiescence, he continued softly, ‘I’d like to take off your clothes and lie you down in the surf and make love to you until neither of us could hear the sound of the ocean for the song in our blood—until you were deaf, dumb and blind to anything else. I wanted you the moment I saw you, and it’s got worse, not better. I’ve left a desk full of files to come over here to be with you. I once thought that only teenagers did things like that. I’ve even lost weight. Feel…’
Lark moaned in protest as he took her hands and placed them on his flesh.
How hot it felt, still damp from the sea, grainy with sand and salt. She had no idea what kind of game he was trying to play with her, no idea what he was trying to prove.
She looked up at him to tell him so, and saw the fierce, burning need glittering in his eyes and she was lost.
Her body arched into his as though by instinct, her arms locking round his neck, her silk dress crumpled between them as he caught hold of her.
‘James!’
‘Don’t say anything,’ he told her thickly, bending his head. ‘Just kiss me.’
It was an appeal her senses couldn’t resist.
Her lips parted and trembled as she hesitated slightly. She felt the heat of James’s breath against her mouth and then within it.
This was no tentative, explorative kiss exchanged between two people who were strangers to one another, Lark realised, the last of her resistance evaporating like sea foam in the sunlight, her whole body quickening against him. His flesh burned as though it were on fire, the male, musky scent of him making her head swim. He was fully aroused, his body hard and demanding against her own, his hands gripping her hips and then clenching in the soft flesh of her bottom as he tried to find relief from his need.
No one had touched her like this before, aroused her like this before. Lark had only her instincts to listen to and to follow, her body, already soft and pliant, moulded itself eagerly to James’s touch, her breasts pushing resentfully against the barrier that separated her from his flesh.
His tongue thrust into her mouth, mimicking the fierce movements of his body. Lark cried out in aching response, a soft mewling sound almost lost beneath his kiss. She lifted her hand to tug at the shoulder-strap of her dress where it had slipped and was biting into her arm, and almost instantly James fumbled for her zipper, tugging it downwards with fierce, uncoordinated movements that matched his erratic breathing.
A soft glimmer of light bathed her skin as James put enough distance between them to remove her dress. He hadn’t released the zipper properly, and the fabric bunched round her hips. James kneeled on the sand beside her, cursing softly as he tried to remove it.
Lark bent to help him, the fabric falling in a soft puddle at her feet.
James made a sound deep in his throat, something between triumph and despair. He was still kneeling in the sand and, as she looked down at him, he slid his hands along her thighs, splaying his fingers possessively across her hips, stroking the narrow curve of her waist, making her shiver with need and pleasure, before finally cupping the pale roundness of her breasts.
She saw him look at her and felt her nipples tighten sharply, the ache inside her body intensifying. Unable to move, unable to draw her gaze away from the sight of James kneeling at her feet in an attitude of almost pagan male adoration of her body, at the same time she was herself intensely aware of his masculinity and power, albeit a power that for the moment was tamed and leashed by his desire for her. His fingers spread out across her pale breast, so dark and exciting, drawing from her such sensations as they stroked and caressed and then cupped her flesh; simply drinking in the sight of her aroused femininity.
He touched his tongue tip to the dark areola of her nipple, drawing circles of fire against her flesh that made her shudder and arch. Small, hoarse sounds strangled in her throat as she fought against the twin surges of sensation and shock that flooded her unprotected nervous system.
Nothing in her life had prepared her for this: for this pleasure that was almost a pain, for this pagan responsiveness to a man’s touch, for this sensitivity of her own flesh.
Her fingers curled into the solid muscle of James’s shoulders, initially surely to push him away, to stop the flames destroying her flesh, but, as though James read another message in her clenched grip, his tongue stroked the jutting peak of her breast. When she looked down at herself, she saw that her flesh was bathed not only in the mysterious light of the night sky, but also in the moistness of James’s mouth.
He was looking at her, too. A dark, hungry look, tightening his face, pushing his flesh back against his bones so that all she could see was his face’s maleness, his eyes almost the same colour as the ocean where the moonlight silvered its spray.
She lifted her hand from his shoulder and touched his face, tracing his profile, caught up in an ancient mysticism too powerful for her to deny.
He shuddered beneath her touch, stopping her when her exploring fingers began to trace soft patterns against the tiny flat discs of his own nipples, pushing her hands behind her back and holding them there.
‘Oh, God, Lark…’
How anguished he sounded! She felt an instinctive urge to comfort him, to ease his distress. She tugged against the imprisoning band of his fingers, and instantly he released her wrists, but before she could touch him she felt the shock of his fingers playing against her bottom beneath the thin fabric of her briefs, his mouth hot against her skin as he tugged impatiently at the final barrier of delicate fabric.
Lark had no thought of stopping him. Tiny pulses of excitement and need quivered eagerly through her as she stepped free of her briefs. She expected James to stand up and take her in his arms, but instead she felt the shocking drag of his open mouth against her flesh, searing the sensitive skin of her thigh, burning the tender swell of her stomach, his tongue probing the tiny indentation th
ere, making her clutch at his arms to prevent herself from collapsing as her legs turned boneless and fluid.
Dimly she recognised the intensity of his need, and that recognition sent a fine thrill of sensation quivering over her skin, sensitising it almost unbearably to the fierce pressure of his mouth as it slid over the soft swell of her breast and then fastened on her nipple, drawing it into the hot, moist cavern that was waiting to pleasure it, stroking, sucking, teasing, tasting her until she was crying softly caught up in a tumult of emotion she had not known existed, holding his head against her body, offering herself to him as her body arched responsively against his mouth.
Her response drove him over the edge of his self-control; he had promised himself it wasn’t going to be like this, but he was beyond rational thought, beyond anything other than the sensation of her tender flesh in his mouth, her soft cries of pleasure. He raked his teeth against her nipple, and Lark tensed as she felt a corresponding thrill of sensation begin deep inside her body.
James felt it, too.
His hands stroked, moulded and caressed her, his mouth still drawing shivers of delight from her as he enjoyed the thrusting eagerness of her breasts, and then finally his hand slid between the quivering softness of her thighs, touching her delicately, so that her body opened out to him.
He took hold of her hand and brought it to his own flesh, letting her feel how much he wanted her, and then he placed her gently on the sand, and entered her with such skill and delicacy that she barely felt the sharp flash of pain that made her catch her breath and tense her body for the briefest space of time before it died away to make way for the waves of sensation aroused by his quickening thrusts, his body totally unable to withstand the allure of the hot, tight embrace of hers.
It started slowly, just the merest frisson of sensation, growing and gathering momentum, inciting her to score her nails against James’s flesh and to arch her back in an ecstasy of sensation that made her cry out and writhe helplessly against him, until he showed her how to match his own rhythm, imposing it on her as she fought against its dominance, before realising that it was enhancing every tiny spasm of pleasure, until they became an unending spiral that went on and on, engulfing her, drowning her, and finally abandoning her on some far away, unfamiliar place, with the weight of James’s body pressing her to the sand, and the sound of his harsh cry of release still ringing in her ears.
He let her lie until her breathing had returned to normal, and then said quietly, ‘I think we’d better go back to the house, before another nocturnal stroller finds us.’
He got up and helped Lark to her feet, passing her her clothes.
She felt desperately weak and shaky, tears smarting behind her eyes, an awful feeling of desolation creeping over her.
She felt James touch her eyelashes and then the corner of her eyes, and knew that his fingertips would be damp.
‘A classic case of post-coital blues,’ he told her softly. ‘Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about them down here on the beach.’
He saw her start to shake and cursed. God, he should have had the sense to wait at least until they were in the privacy of his own rooms before making love to her. But he hadn’t been able to wait, that was the truth of the matter.
Lark was struggling with her dress.
‘Here, let me.’ James turned her round gently, and slid up the zipper with much more ease and expertise than when he had slid it down.
Which only went to prove how true it was that a man in the throes of passion…
‘You go up. I’ll follow you in a few minutes…’
Of course. He would hardly want to be seen with her. The Hennessys might be back, or worse still, his mother. Lark didn’t even know how long they had been down here on the beach, and of course he wouldn’t want anyone to know what they had been doing.
James saw her face and said quietly, ‘You’re wrong. It’s just that I have to get dressed, and you’re shivering already. A mixture of cold and shock, I suspect.’
‘Shock?’
His eyes darkened, and Lark quivered beneath the look he gave her.
‘It isn’t every day that a woman loses her virginity.’
The breath hissed out of her lungs. She hadn’t even thought he’d noticed.
‘You knew,’ she said stupidly.
She saw his mouth curl in the beginning of a smile.
‘Oh, yes, my little innocent, I knew. Now go back to the house and get warm before you freeze to death. I shan’t be long.’
The house was just as empty as it had been when she left it. She wandered into the kitchen and started to make some coffee. Her hands trembled and she felt another surge of tears prickle behind her eyes.
Post-coital blues. James would know, of course. She wasn’t the first woman he had made love to. She almost dropped the coffee at the fierce stab of jealousy that attacked her. The mere thought of James touching another woman as he had touched her was like a physical pain inside her.
She put down the coffee jar and leaned against the worktop.
Why bother to try and hide from the truth any more? She was jealous because she loved him.
Her senses accepted the accusation so easily that she knew it was true; even her body had known it was true, she acknowledged despairingly. It was only her silly, idiotic brain that had fought against the knowledge, denying it, not wanting to admit that she could actually have been so foolish.
There was a notepad and pen attached to the counter, and quickly she scribbled a message on it. She couldn’t face James again tonight. Not now. Everything had happened so quickly; their lovemaking had been so intense, so overwhelming, that there had been no room for anything else, but now…
Just for good measure, she bolted the door to her room. She put in her note that she wanted to be left alone. She waited tensely for several minutes, anticipating that James would ignore her message, and then she heard the sound of a car, and realised that they were no longer alone.
He wouldn’t come to her now, and she was shocked to discover that the knowledge did not entirely please her. She must be cautious and careful; she was no child, to read what did not exist into a man’s momentary physical desire. James was probably already planning exactly what he would say to her to make it clear to her that he was not emotionally involved. It was only her pride that stopped her from crying out loud at the thought. The same pride that helped her to live through the ordeal of Gary’s accusation.
How could she ever have even imagined that James might have any emotional feelings for her? How could he, when he believed her guilty? No, to him she was just a desirable body, nothing more.
Eventually, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘WELL, my dear, did you enjoy yourself last night?’ Lark couldn’t help it, she started nervously, a guilty flush darkening her skin, her glance straying helplessly across the table to James as she struggled to answer his mother’s question. And then she realised that Mrs Mayers was referring to her date with Hunter.
Her flush deepened, scalding her, and she gave a visible shudder.
‘Oh, dear, not as bad as that, surely?’ Mrs Mayers was openly amused. ‘Poor Hunter, he will be disappointed.’
‘Hunter?’ James enquired lightly, lifting his head from the paper he was reading, and subjecting Lark’s flushed face to cool assessment. ‘Are we talking about that paragon of gentlemanly conduct, Hunter Cabot?’
‘Yes, James, we are, and there’s no need to take that tone. Hunter is a very nice man.’
‘If you say so, Mother.’ He gave Lark a narrow-eyed stare. ‘Is that what you think, Lark? That Hunter is very nice?’
Lark didn’t know what to say. It had been a shock to come downstairs to find him in the breakfast-room. Mrs Mayers had smiled at her when she saw her hesitating on the threshold, calling her in and exclaiming in a pleased voice, ‘Isn’t this a lovely surprise, Lark? James has taken a few days off. He arrived last night after you’d gone t
o bed.’
Lark hadn’t been able to look at him. How clever of him to cover himself like that, but it hadn’t been necessary; she had had no intention of referring to what had happened between them.
‘James, really, whatever Lark thinks of Hunter is no business of yours. Good heavens, is that the time? Lark, I don’t want to rush you, my dear, but I’d like to be in Boston for eleven. I’ve got a meeting at noon, and I’ll need you to take notes.’
‘Are you going in to Boston? I’ll cadge a lift in with you, if I may. What are you doing for lunch?’
‘I’m eating with the other members of the committee, unfortunately,’ Mrs Mayers replied regretfully.
‘Well, maybe Lark will have lunch with me instead, then,’ James suggested.
Lark could hardly believe her ears. She opened her mouth to make a frantic denial of his suggestion, but she was too late.
Mrs Mayers had beaten her to it. ‘Oh, yes, James.’ She turned to Lark. ‘That will be marvellous, Lark. James will be able to show you a little more of the city. I’m afraid I could be tied up for some time with the other committee members.’
Lark wanted to tell her that she would be quite happy having lunch on her own, but Mrs Mayers was already standing up, and so was James. Why on earth had James said he wanted to have lunch with her? It was the last thing she had expected.
Mrs Mayers had already left the breakfast-room, but James halted by the door. He was waiting for her, Lark recognised, her heart thumping nervously.
‘Headache gone?’
Lark flushed uncomfortably. She had scribbled on her note that she wasn’t feeling well and had a headache, a lie which James had plainly not believed.
‘I don’t want to have lunch with you,’ she told him huskily.
‘No…really?’ She had forgotten his gift for sarcasm. ‘Why not? Hoping to meet Hunter instead, were you?’
He sounded so savage. She started to tremble. ‘James…’