Eyes of Fire (20 page)

She hadn't wanted him to walk away just now, she realized. She'd wanted him to keep trying his best to earn her forgiveness.

She turned off the shower and wrapped herself in a large towel, then padded to the kitchen. He'd made coffee; it sat ready, letting off a pleasant aroma. But he wasn't in the kitchen.

She walked down the hallway, pausing at her bedroom door. Adam was stretched out on her bed, a white bath towel wrapped around his hips. He was staring at the ceiling. Thinking? Waiting? Both?

She walked slowly to the bed, arms crossed over her chest as she stared at him. His fingers were laced behind his head. He met her eyes.

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe we were both just a little bit wrong?” he asked gravely.

She started to shake her head; then he was suddenly on his feet, moving like a panther, catching her by the waist and flinging her down on the bed where he straddled her. “No lies. Let's go back. You were ripe. You—”

“Ripe!” she protested. “Now that should sweep me right off my feet. You're making me sound like a banana.”

“Ripe. Like a piece of fruit. Just ready to be plucked.”

“It sounds awful.”

“It's the exact word. Lots of women your age were already married, with children. The island offered slim pickings for a woman looking for a little experience.”

“And you were the best of those slim pickings?” she demanded.

He nodded.

“Get off me!”

“Admit it.”

She shook her head.

“You were ripe. You needed a man in your life. From the minute you saw me, you wanted sex.”

“I did not, I—”

“You wanted to be fu—”

“Don't you dare say that!”

“Okay, but it won't matter. It won't change the truth.”

“I didn't just decide that I was old enough and about to rot and that I needed sex. I wanted—I wanted—” She broke off.

“What, damn you? Say it!”

“I wanted
you,
” she whispered painfully.

He groaned suddenly. A deep groan that reverberated in his chest, tensed and tautened the length of him. He lay against her, enveloping her in his arms, holding her against him with both the greatest strength and the greatest tenderness. His lips brushed her forehead, found the pulse at her throat, pressed against the pounding there that grew ever more fierce with each millisecond slipping by. Again his lips brushed her forehead, and his whispers fanned her cheeks, her face, her earlobe. “I wanted you. I knew I was wrong, in a way, but by the time we actually made love, I wanted you so much that I would have risked the eternal fires of hell for one hour with you. Naked, of course. But I would have been willing to burn forever for my sins, for that damned hour. Except, of course, love is never so simple. I got more than an hour, and I didn't go to hell—not yet, anyway. But I didn't know how to tell you then that I was already involved with someone, that I needed a chance to explain to the woman I'd been living with that it was over, because I had fallen in love. Then she was suddenly here.”

“With her tongue down your throat,” Sam interjected softly, tears stinging her eyes. Silly. They'd both been wrong. So wrong.

“You could have given me a chance.”

“I could have,” she said.

“But you didn't.”

She smiled slowly, ruefully. “I was too proud. And I felt like too big a fool. I'd never known anything like you. Never.”

“Maybe we were both a little wrong.”

“Maybe a lot wrong.”

“Both of us.”

“You were wrong, too?”

“Oh, God, yes. Wrong not to insist on you knowing there had been someone. Wrong not to tell Becky about you the second I saw her, even if it did hurt her. Most of all, I was wrong to leave, wrong not to fight for you. Wrong to let something as pathetic as pride make me walk away from you, when I should have realized what you saw and what you thought. I was just as mad at myself. I've paid for what I did since. More than you can know.”

“You've really missed me, remembered me, all this time?”

“I've really missed you.”

“There have been other women.”

“Yes. But not like you. There have been other men on the island.”

“You're referring to Hank Jennings again?”

He made a strange sound at the back of his throat. Irritated, fierce.

“Why the hell are we still talking about the past?” he demanded with sudden anger. “This is now. And, Miss Carlyle, I do want you now.”

His mouth moved down on to hers then. Hard. Almost brutal. Tongue filling the void, stroking her teeth, her lips and her tongue, hungrily, kissing again and again, openmouthed, deeper, deeper, ever more insinuating. The towels tangled between them. He wasn't exactly straddling her anymore, he was atop her, limbs burning against her, sex hot, hard, vibrant, against her abdomen, her thighs, stroking against her flesh with his every movement as he kissed her again…again. Her arms encircled him, tried to hold him. She kissed him passionately in return. Missed his mouth. Found his throat, his shoulders. She dug her fingers into his back, stroked the length of it with her nails, trailed her fingers along his spine, rounded his buttocks. But he was moving against her, and he was more powerful, one hand on her breast, kneading it, cupping it, holding it up to the tantalizing torment of his mouth, his lips closing around it, tongue edging against the nipple, laving the areola, teeth grazing. She strained against him, her fingers curling into the dark thickness of his hair. His tongue trailed the length of her side as his hand slipped beneath her thigh. His fingers stroked the length of it over and over, while the searingly subtle stroke of his tongue bathed her abdomen, delved into her navel. She began to burn, aching for him to touch her more deeply. Hunger gnawed at her, urging her to arch and writhe against him, to whisper his name, to whisper the truth.

“Adam, you were right. I did everything I could to get you. I didn't want to know about any other woman. I didn't want you to have a past. I wanted
you.
”

Fool,
Adam taunted himself.
Fool!

They were talking about honesty, about feelings, now.

Wanted. The key word. Wanted, yes. He'd wanted her then. He wanted her now. He spoke honestly of the past while the present remained a lie. No, not a lie, exactly. An omission of the truth. And when she knew…

But that was the point, wasn't it? Have her, hold her, love her. Sink into the cauldron of desire, of hunger, of wanting. Hold as tight and fast to the intimacy, to the tenderness, to the passion, hold tight and fight the honesty that would have to come.

Down to the basics of it.

God, yes, he wanted her.

And she might not want him later.

He rose above her, finding her lips, kissing her, whispering just above them.

“Wanted? Did you say that you
wanted
me? Past tense? Tell me about the present.”

He watched her lips. Watched their fullness, the sensuality, watched the smile that curved them. “Wanted…want,” she promised breathlessly.

“Want?”

“Want.”

Odd, the things a man remembered about a woman. There was laughter, yes. A smile, a look, a touch. Her scent had lived with him. Unique. Both subtle and distinctive. She used a very softly scented soap, and it was a part of the mixture. She smelled of the freshness of a sea breeze. Somehow she was sweet, somehow musky, always evocative. He loved to bury himself against her, against that scent, against her flesh. Taste her, feel her, breathe her. Know her. Touch, stroke, intimately invade. Feel her response, the quickening of her breath, the undulation of her body, beginning within, touching him, rousing him. There were moments in life to hold fast, to savor….

Lips, breasts. The red thatch, as sensual as the woman. What lay within it. Touch, play, feel the warmth, caress. Find each tiny spot of absolute sensitivity. Watch her face. Feel her move. Caress anew with fingers, lips, tongue…feel the fever grow until it was unbearable, until there was nothing left but to sink within her, deeper. Nothing left but to drown within her, to feel the all-encompassing warmth, the agony and the ecstasy, the hunger that escalated, the urgency, the bursting, imploding, exploding, sleek, wet, searing, inhaling, exhaling, the tension, straining…and all the while, her.

The scent, the feel, the touch. The length of her limbs, the silk of her flesh, dampened, glistening with sweat. The sound of her whispers, gasps, moans.

He braced himself as the sudden bursting thrust of his climax seized him, slamming deeply inside of her. Once, again, again. A soft, gentle warmth spilled over him after the violence as the warmth of his own seed filled her.

And Samantha…

He held her against him, realizing that he hadn't closed his eyes for a full second throughout. He'd watched her face. Watched the dark flame of her hair, fanning out, tangling on the pillow.

He'd watched her eyes as they glazed, narrowed, closed. Watched her mouth, her breathing, her breasts. The sheen upon her body.

He fell to her side at last, staring at the ceiling. Then he pulled her against him, kissing the top of her head, feeling the soft brush of her hair against his chin.

She raised her head, meeting his eyes. “Who are you working for, Adam?” she demanded.

He tensed, trying to keep her from realizing that he had done so.

“Well, hell, I must be losing my touch. Great sex, but no whispers or sighs or even a warm silence. Just a ‘Who are you working for, Adam?”'

“If I recall correctly, once I was naked and vulnerable and drifting in a nice little niche of pleasure, you were quick to ask me if I'd shared my sex life with another man.”

“I was never so blunt.”

“Damned close. So who are you working for?” Sam demanded.

“Always a question from you. You think I should answer you, but you never give me any answers. I don't recall you ever answering me about your relationship with Hank Jennings. Am I here in his place?”

She smiled wryly. “Whoa. Testy question.”

“What's the answer?”

“I loved Hank.”

He started to roll away from her.

“Like a brother.”

He paused, his back to her. “What did you say?” he demanded huskily.

“I considered Hank to be one of the finest men I had ever met. He was caring, concerned, intelligent. Loyal, gentle, kind. Who are you working for, Adam?”

“You loved him like a brother. Now, I hope that means you didn't sleep with him.”

“Who are you working for, Adam?”

“You're answering a question with another question again, Sam.”

“I know. What did you find in the water the other day?”

“You are annoyingly persistent.”

“It's my island, remember?”

“Your bedroom,” he said agreeably.

“Adam…”

She suddenly found herself drawn into his arms. His eyes, glittering silver with intensity, searched hers. “I promise I'll tell you soon.”

“That's not an answer.”

“But you don't give me any answers, either.”

“Maybe we don't trust each other enough yet.”

“I do trust you, I just…Do me a favor.”

“What?” Sam asked cautiously.

“Pretend that the world is perfect. Just for a few more minutes.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, Samantha.”

“What?” she whispered.

“I love you. I know the world isn't perfect. It's gone straight to hell around here, and we don't know what's going on. I think that secrets may start opening up like a summer shower, and I want to hold on to something very special between us right now. Something unique, something you don't get many opportunities to touch, to feel, in a lifetime. Years ago I fell in love with a wild red-haired siren with a temper to match. I had too much pride to insist that you listen to me, that you love me back. I broke it off with Becky when I left here and I admit, I kept trying to fall in love with other people after that. Even when I came here, I told myself that I wasn't going to want you, wasn't going to touch you. I was determined to keep my dick in my dive suit, my mind on my own business. The concept of not touching you went out the window the minute I saw you. Time and distance can change everything. I shouldn't even have known you anymore. But I touched you, and I love you. And it seems we've still got a long hard road ahead of us, so right now, I'd appreciate it very much if you would love the hell out of me for just a few more minutes.”

For long seconds Sam just stared at him. In a thousand years, she never would have expected such a declaration.