Holm, Stef Ann (42 page)

She
didn't want him to say anything. She was afraid he might not feel the same way.
So she quickly went on, "I have a cake of scouring soap in the house. Come
in and clean up."

Walking
swiftly, she left him and climbed the porch steps. She shouldn't have invited
him in. She was courting danger. But it was the very danger that lured her to
him, that made her crave him.

Would
he follow her?

Camille
took
her shoes and stockings off outside the door so she wouldn't track paint
inside. She went to the sink but didn't touch it. Murky drops of diluted
whitewash trickled off her hair and dripped over her collarbone and edge of her
neckline. She should have gone to the pantry first and found a towel to dry her
face. Instead, she stood still, liking the feeling of cool water on her bare
toes as it ran off her skirt hem.

The
blades of the fan stirred the thick kitchen air as the oscillator turned the
grill first toward her, then away. The soap was beneath her in the cupboard,
but she didn't go for it. Never mind the fact that she was making a mess on the
floor. She wanted to be messy. She wanted...

She
heard the back door open and close. On a shaky sigh, she reached out to hold on
to the edge of the sink. Her breath held in her throat as Alex's footsteps
sounded on the floor. Closer. Closer.

Closing
her eyes, she lowered her head. Waiting.

She
felt him behind her and she fought against turning around to take him into her
arms. Could he tell her world was turning upside down? From the day she'd first
spoken to him, he'd worked his magic on her until all the barriers she'd tried
to put up against him had been dissolved. He aroused in her a need nobody else
ever had. She was a hopeless case. She was in love with him.

He
slid his fingers over her shoulders, up her neck, and to the sides of her face,
where he caressed her cheeks. The quiet and unassuming power of his fingers was
gentle as he cradled her face in his hands. Tenderly, he brought his mouth to
the column of her neck and kissed her, his hair tickling her ear. Expelling a
breath, she leaned into his chest, the warmth of his body seeping through to
her back and the damp fabric that clung to her. She could feel the hard length
of him pressed against the fly of his pants. Against her.

Without
turning her body, she lifted her face to his for a kiss. Their mouths came
together. His tongue glided over the seam of her lips, tasting and teasing. He
taught her things she had never imagined. His slow and silken strokes swept
through her mouth and she kissed him back in the same way. Erotic. Intimate.
She loved the hard feel of his chest next to her.

A
quickening deep in her stomach made her knees grow weak. His hands skimmed over
her shoulders, and down her arms and locked around her waist. She felt the
strong arms that held her, the light sprinkling of dark hair that roughened
them. She ran her palms up his biceps, up the smooth and warm skin, feeling
every contour.

With
her head tilted toward his, their mouths joined in hot fusion, he slid his
hands up to cup the sodden fabric covering her breasts. She leaned her back
tightly into his chest, her hands over his, wanting him to bring her to his
mouth like he had done once before. She wanted to do these things to him. To
make him feel the way he made her feel.

In
the hotel, it had been about her. Now, she wanted this to be about him, giving
to him that feeling of completeness. An utter and total release that brought
with it shock waves.

The
breeze from the fan flirted with them, touching, retreating, then caressing.
Warmth and stillness. A fluttering, then nothing. It was like a sensual dance
that passed over them, catching them in its wake, then receding.

Alex's
fingertips teased her nipples as they grazed across the thin wet covering over
her breasts. He brought an exquisite pleasure through her and a muted cry rose
from her throat, lost on his lips. She gripped his hands, keeping them over her
breasts, and kissed him. He used tiny soft pulls to peak her nipples into hard
tight buds. Her skin prickled and she could barely stand. She pulled back, turning
in his arms to face him. Wanting to feel his body beneath her exploring palms.
She stared at him, watching his face.

His
brown eyes seemed to grow richer, darker, more intense as she looked into them.
The shadow of his beard gave him rugged appeal. She touched him with her gaze,
then touched him with her hands. He let her explore him in a timeless way.

She
skimmed her fingers across his deep-bronzed skin, warm and hard to her touch.
She savored the feel of sinewy muscle that defined his broad chest, his wide
shoulders, his granite biceps. The white X she'd painted on him had blurred and
she rested the flat of her hand over the smudge of paint. She felt his heart
beating strongly. It seemed to leap and join the painted red heart on the back
of her hand.

Two
hearts.

Together.

She
trailed her fingers into the dark hair that lightly covered his chest. He
sucked in his breath with a low moan as she traced a path between his flat
nipples, around each one, then down, to the corrugated plane of his hard
stomach. She dragged her fingertips across the top of his waistband, then a
fraction lower, to touch his navel.

He
groaned. He caught her by the shoulders, brought his mouth to hers and kissed
her until she thought she'd go limp in his arms. She wanted him to show her
what sex was like—for two people, not just her. But she didn't know how to ask.
She couldn't make him love her, but she couldn't let him leave her again
without knowing what lovemaking was like, in every way—for her, for him. Her
body tingled in every sensitive place.

Her
hands slid down his chest once more. She molded her palms over every contour
the white paint touched, and in turn, her fingers went white. In her mind, this
was an intimacy in itself Taking paint from him and bringing it to her. It was like
being inside each other without doing so physically. The thought was shocking,
exciting and wanton. Her desire for him staggered every sense she had.

"I
don't want you to leave," was the only way she could voice her true
feelings. She looked up at his face for a sign that said he understood what she
meant.

The
line of his jaw seemed set, his brows black lines of thought. Or was that
consideration? She dared not answer. Anticipation, fear, and dread—they held
her in their clutches until she had to remind herself to breathe.

He
tipped his head to hers; their foreheads met. "Jesus," he whispered
against her skin, his hand trailing down the curve of her back, pressing her
against his desire. "I want you."

"And
I want you." She kissed the bristly line of his jaw; his skin was warm and
wet and tasted faintly of salt.

His
body stilled and he drew a deep breath, then carefully set her at arm's length.
"No, honey. We can't. I can't let you do this."

Alarm
mixed with desire. "Why not?"

He
ran his finger gently over her cheekbone. "Because." His strong
fingers caught her chin as he looked directly into her eyes. "I'm not in a
position to make promises. Promises you deserve."

The
actual reality of the world beyond this room threatened to press in on her.
"What do you mean?"

"I
mean that I can't make promises to you. This is now and it's the moment... but
beyond..." He said nothing further. He didn't have to.

"I
understand." She wet her lips, tasting him on her tongue, then made a
decision. "I'm not asking for a lifetime, Alex. I know exactly what this
is. And if you walked out the door right now, I'd always wonder. I don't want
to wonder. I want to feel." She brought her hand to the low-riding
waistband of his nankeen pants. To the buttons that rode up his fly. "I
want
you."
Her lips parted, and her eyes held his. "I want the
moment."

The
fanned air caught them in its web, suspending time with each slow pulse of warm
air over their bodies.

"Are
you sure?"

With
those few words, she almost grew weak. "Yes."

The
color of his eyes deepened and she knew he wanted her but wasn't convinced.

Only
when her fingers slowly worked each closure free did his hands rise to her
bodice. He began to flip open the row of pearl buttons. Untried emotions rushed
through her. Her rapid heartbeat slammed into her ribs; she had no doubts.
Excitement flooded her senses. She couldn't slip the heavy, wet cotton down his
thighs over his underwear and she wasn't sure what to do next. That she had
taken such bold initiative as to unbutton him, and now to ask for his help with
it—

But
that thought dissolved as he opened her bodice, separating the gathers of
lavender. He slid the sleeves down her arms and pulled her free of the fabric.
The dress slipped off her waist and hips, pooling around her bare feet in a wet
circle.

As
she looked down at herself, the airy linen of her chemise appeared paper thin
against her skin. With an agile motion of his wrists, Alex removed her corset
and flung it on the counter. Her petticoat followed. She wore only her shimmy and
knee-high drawers. Both did nothing to hide the rosy tips of her nipples or the
pale blond curls at the juncture of her legs.

She
didn't shy away from him but boldly stood before him so that he could see her.
She
wanted
him to see. Just as she wanted to see him. Her hand rose to
his fly once more and she slipped her hands inside the elastic edge of cotton
drawers. He kissed her before putting a hand on the table so he could kick off
his shoes. She put her hands at his belt loops and tried to slide his pants
down his legs. But he gently moved her hands away and, in an efficient tug,
removed them himself. He wore nothing but drawers that hugged and cupped every
part of him... and a disarmingly slow smile that held her captive.

Her
arms slipped about his neck; hands rising to the nape of his neck; his hands
closed in around her waist. They kissed once more, this time with a fire and
intensity, an urgency that had her frantically seeking. Her fingers tangled in
his hair, brought his head closer to hers. She felt herself moving, being
walked toward the center of the kitchen... out... away... to the dining room.

"No..."
she mouthed against him. "We'll get paint on the rugs."
And if I
have to walk through my house, up the stairs to my bedroom, my courage may
falter with each step I take.
"Stay here. Stay with me here."

"Do
you want to change your mind?" he asked on her lips. "You can change
your mind."

"I
don't want to."

Alex
backed her into the edge of the kitchen table. The smooth rim of wood pressed
against her buttocks. His hand reached between them to touch her breast, to
coax her nipple to a hard point. She felt herself tighten, tingle. A shaft of
pure fire went straight to the place between her legs. As he gently pulled and
fondled, her fingertips curled into the flesh of his bare shoulders.

With
an easy glide of his hand, he had her drawers freed of her legs so that only
the hip-length shimmy with its thin ribbon straps remained on her body, a body
that was straining and pulsing with need, that had paint smeared here and
there. It was nothing short of wicked to see that paint contrasting with the
rich color of Alex's skin.

She
reached out to him, brushing her fingers against the hot, straining bulge
behind the soft cotton he wore. He moaned in the back of his throat as she
stroked him, gently, curious. She liked that she could make him feel this way.

Alex
took her hands, lifted them over her head, and bent her backward over the
kitchen table. She lay on its flat surface, staring up into his face. The
tablecloth of appliqué apples and cloves cushioned her as she pressed her
shoulder blades and the bottom of her spine into the top. My God...

She
should have been mortified and at least... for her fall from grace...
considered her bedroom.

But
there was something about the table that got her pulse to trip and flow through
her like an electrical current. They collided, warm and cool and fully alive.
And she liked the feeling—liked it so much she was anxious and almost writhing,
waiting for him, anticipating and breathless.

Alex's
hand rode her thigh, higher, bunching her shimmy in his hand until her woman's
place was exposed to him. The heel of his palm brought a friction that had her
parting her legs. The sound of her heart seemed to fill the kitchen, flowing
with the low hum of the fan and the soft-sounding ripple of the tablecloth as
it swayed on the current.

His
finger slid inside her, and she whimpered, unsure of what she should do. But
those fears and uncertainties vanished. With light rubbing motions, he controlled
her. Everything there felt swollen and wanting. She wanted too much to—

He
leaned forward and gave her breasts soft and tormenting kisses that rocked her
to her toes. His tongue circled each nipple, sucking, licking. She squirmed
beneath him, her neck arching. Once more, her fingertips reached out to touch
the length of him behind the soft cotton. He jolted, his legs tensing as they
crushed into her inner thighs. She was able to slip one hand inside the cotton
and touch. Feel the hard and marble-smooth length of him that seemed to pulse,
strain, grow even thicker.