The Saint's Devilish Deal (11 page)

She pushed against his chest when they neared the cushioned chaise lounges surrounding the sparkling blue waters of the infinity pool. He didn’t budge. Didn’t sink onto the cushion, didn’t even take a step backward. If anything he stepped closer to her. Not a breath of air squeezed between their bodies. Esme relished his chest rising and falling sporadically as his breathing roughened. When she tried to lift her head to look at him, his hand pressed against her hair, pressing her lips to his over and over again.

Her hands settled at his hips, her thumbs playing with the string tie of his board shorts. When her fingers connected with a sliver of abdomen, he sucked in a harsh breath. Good. She wasn’t alone in this all-consuming fire of need.

“This isn’t at all what I had planned,” he said, finally releasing her head and pulling back a fraction. Santiago rested his forehead against hers as he struggled to catch his breath. She couldn’t force her eyes to move the fraction of an inch it would take to look deeply into his deep brown gaze. If she looked she would be lost and she needed just a sliver of control over the situation. Wanting Santiago or not, Esme wasn’t ready to completely let go. Instead, she focused on the string at his waist, wondering if she had the courage to pull it.

“Exactly what were your plans?”

“A bed. Flowers. Music in the background.”

“You were going to seduce me,” she said, laughing because that was exactly what she thought she wanted. Now she knew differently. She didn’t want Santiago to be in control. For the first time in a long time, she just wanted to be. To let nature take its course, clichéd thinking or not. Esme cut her eyes to his and smiled. “I’d say you’re exactly where you want to be, then. This place is primed for seduction.”

Santiago grinned back at her as his hands began a wicked trek from the nape of her neck down her back. His fingers grazed her ribs and her abdomen quivered. Despite the light silk separating his skin from hers, Esme swore she could hear a little sizzle at the touch. “There isn’t a bed or a rose in sight. That isn’t seduction.” His hands inched lower and so oh-so-slowly that Esme caught her breath.

She planted kisses along his jaw and pulled on the string in his shorts but it didn’t budge. “The chaise may not have a pillow-top, but it is definitely serviceable as a bed. Don’t you remember sleeping out here as children?” She reached his earlobe and lightly bit down. He sucked in a breath. “We are surrounded by palms and blue jacaranda and have the scent of a thousand day lilies and morning glories perfuming the air.” And the hard beat of the Pacific driving us on, a voice said in her head.

“And here I thought I would be the one doing the seducing,” he said with a scorching kiss to the hollow at the base of her throat. His hands finally reached her bottom and he pulled her so close she thought they might merge into one body.

“We’re partners, remember? I figure that translates to seduction as well as business. Oh, do that kissing thing again.”

Santiago complied. He pressed another kiss to the hollow at her throat, flicked his thumbs against her breasts and then sucked at the hollow. Every nerve in her body screamed to life. Hot sunlight warmed her skin, the lazy waves of the Bay pounded at the shore and the scents of lilies and jacaranda seemed to surround her. Above it all was Santiago’s musky scent. The feel of him touching her breasts, skimming the back of his hand along her belly. Bunching her silk skirt in his hands. It was too much and too little. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, wanted to see the muscles that his clothes only hinted at. Wanted the overwhelming need to lessen so that she could deal with it, but with every kiss and caress the need only built.

It wasn’t like this before. Certainly they turned one another on, but this all consuming need hadn’t existed four years ago. Back then Santiago’s touches were sweet instead of seductive; his kisses persuasive instead of demanding.

“You’re wearing entirely too many clothes,” he said and finally, slowly, began dragging the dress over her sensitized skin. Inch by inch, the dress lifted. Inch by inch her body went up in flame.

“I’m not—” She couldn’t think. Santiago’s hands stilled with the dress at her hips. No, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t stop. And then she realized why. He stopped because she inadvertently told him to. “Not that. God, if you stop now I might burn up on the spot. I’m not the only one,” she finally managed. “Not the only one wearing entirely too many clothes.”

“Dios, I thought—”

“Shut up,” she said and kissed him happily. “Just shut up and kiss me.” This time when she pressed against him he sank onto the chaise, putting his head on level with her belly.

*

Santiago wanted to attribute the drumbeats of his heart only to his lust for Esmerelda but couldn’t. Oh, he wanted her. That was part of it. But more than wanting, he’d been afraid that she had changed her mind. That she didn’t want him. The thought scared him more than he liked to admit. He pushed the dress up a few more inches so he could kiss the smooth skin of her belly and grinned.

The tiniest strip of golden satin he had ever seen covered her mound and a twinkling blue stone decorated her belly button. The sexy panties and body jewelry were something new. Saturdays and sundresses and sinning. He kissed the smooth skin of her belly, pushed his tongue against her belly button stone and listened to her sigh. Sinning. Dios, it had never felt so good.

“Saint, please,” she said against his mouth. He pulled her into a kneeling position on the chaise and tossed the sinful dress over his shoulder. Santiago caught his breath.

Esmerelda was more beautiful than she had been four years ago. The years had added a few curves to her body that weren’t there before. Instead of skinny legs and narrow hips, he caressed a curvy figure that women paid thousands to reproduce with plastic surgery. Breasts that could cause a man to make all kinds of bad decisions. For today, at least, that body was his. He tilted his head and their gazes met. Were his eyes smoldering the way hers were? Had to be, he thought.

“You’re more beautiful than I thought possible,” he said and pulled her down on top of him. Their lips met again and the fire building inside him pushed to inferno level. He had to have her. Naked on a hammock. He smiled against her face, remembering his thought from a few days ago. Well, this wasn’t a hammock, but he would finally have Esme, his Esme, again.

“One of us is still wearing too many clothes,” Esme said, her voice raspy with passion. Her fingers grabbed the tail of his tee shirt and tugged until his skin met hers and another article of clothing was winging its way across the terrace.

For once Santiago didn’t care that there were no guests. He was happy about it. No guests equaled more time to play with Esme on this one perfect day. She adjusted her position to straddle his legs and then stilled.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

A cold bucket of water would have had a better effect on him than those words said in that quiet voice filled with agony. Her fingers trembled against his ribs and abdomen. His scars. He had forgotten about the scars. Not that he cared about the disfiguring of his body, but he didn’t want or need her pity.

“When you said you crashed, that you. . . I never imagined water could do this to a person.” Esme’s fingers trailed fire over first one scar and then another, tracing lines over his ribs and down the side of his abdomen until the waistband of his shorts stopped her progress.

“Water can’t. Coral did most of that damage, surgeons the rest.” When she drew in another breath, Santiago shoved her hands away and sat up. “It isn’t a big deal. Just a few scars that will fade in time.”

“That sounds like a clinical opinion,” she said drily. “How did this happen, Saint?”

“You saw the news coverage,” he reminded her.

“And you told me just a day ago that it was just water.”

Dios , he hated that he was acting this way. The questions Esme asked were perfectly normal yet he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want pity from anyone, especially not her. He had a full life—or he would once the villa was up and running again and he could get out of Vallarta. He had plenty of money, friends. A few scars hadn’t changed anything for him. Esme’s eyes shuttered but not before he saw the flash of pain.

“I’m sorry. I’m not used to anyone not already knowing.” He shoved a hand through his hair, desperate to put distance between them but trapped by Esme sitting on his lap. Gently picking her up, Santiago sat her on the chaise and stood to pace the terrace. “It was water. Everywhere. Burning my throat, beating against my body and pushing me into the coral over and over. Tahiti is vicious when the waves are calm, but that day a storm was brewing to the south. My ankle line caught, battered me around some more. I was under for nearly three minutes. Four broken ribs, separated shoulder, cracked hip, and ripped the hell out of my knee.” She gasped and at her questioning look he continued, “Yes, the scars continue down my leg. So, now you have the full story, why don’t you go back inside?”

“Why would I do that?” Angry, she stalked across the tile to his side.

Santiago shrugged and looked away. She reached out, turning his face to hers. “You think a few scars mean anything to me? You think I’m that shallow?”

He searched her eyes for several minutes looking for something, anything, that would prove she pitied him. Sorrow was there, understanding, but there was no pity. She stood before him, naked, daring him to turn away from the moment. Esme dropped her gaze from his eyes to the scars and traced first one and then another, the touch of her skin searing the wounds as if to stop a heavy bleed. It was Santiago’s turn to draw a heavy breath.

“If you think for one second that a few scars could make me not want you. . . you’re an idiot. I’ve wanted to be with you since I was seven years old. As I grew up, the wanting to play turned into something else. I still want you Santiago. The question is do you want me?”

“Dios, yes. Yes, I want you, my Esmerelda. More than I’ve wanted anything else in my life.”

“Then take me,” she said and raised her arms to him. It was all the invitation Santiago needed.

He lowered Esme to the chaise, tracing her collarbone with his tongue, pressing kisses above and below the delicate line as she arched against him. His fingers found her breasts, the rosy tips hard and waiting. He tweaked one as his mouth lowered to taste the other. Eucalyptus. She not only smelled of the stuff, but tasted slightly spicy, just like the plant.

Esme reached between their bodies, the palms of her hands pressing against his belly. Her smooth fingers trailed over the hard muscles of his abdomen as if reading his body. The board shorts stopped her progress. Santiago started to rise, to stand so he could pull the shorts from his legs, but Esme stopped him.

“Let me,” she said and pushed her hands under the soft cotton. The shorts slid over his hips to drop over his ankles and she drew in another breath. She reached for him, her small hand encircling his erection in fiery silk. Santiago groaned, pressing his forehead against her chest. She squeezed and he felt more blood rush into his lower body.

“If you do that again, I can’t be held responsible for my reaction,” he said before flipping her so that she lay beneath him on the chaise. He took her mouth, his tongue plundering the way the rest of his body begged to. Santiago traced her ribs and abdomen, making Esme shudder. It was a powerful feeling. His hand continued its journey over her smooth hip to her upper thigh where she was wet and waiting for him.

He teased at her lips, pressing his finger into her through the thin silk protecting her mound.

“Oh, God, please. Santiago, please,” she whispered against his mouth.

Santiago wanted to play but realized he was at the brink of out of control himself. He hooked his index finger through the silk and pulled until it disintegrated in his hand. Then she was open and ready for him. He grabbed the board shorts from the floor, taking a condom from the back pocket and sheathed himself before pressing into her.

It was like coming home, Santiago thought. She was tight around him, her heat searing him through the thin condom. Familiar but different. She was no longer the young girl he remembered and yet he still knew her body as well as he knew his own. He gripped her hips, pressing himself farther inside her in a rhythm as old as time and that, too, was familiar. He remembered the pace she liked—steady like the waves in the ocean and just as powerful. He slid in and out for what seemed like eternity.

“Santiago. Santiago,” she urged, raking her nails over his back and shoulders. “Now. Now, I need you.”

He quickened the pace and, reaching between them, found her hard nub and pressed. She exploded around him, her body stiffened and then went loose. Her fabulous green eyes dilated until he could see only a sliver of green in the blackness. It was only then he allowed himself to feel, to gallop over the edge and into the surf with his Esmerelda.

*

Esme lay under Santiago, concentrating on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out. She should feel mortified, letting go the way she had. Saying the things she had. Pleading with Santiago the way she had.

She didn’t, because he had said all too revealing things, too. He had let go—at least, he’d let go once she crested the wave of orgasm. And he was still breathing hard, too. So they’d both lost control. No biggie. Now at least they knew there was fire, no an inferno of lust, still boiling inside them. Maybe over the next few weeks they could work that boiling heat into more of a simmer. Maybe she could get him out of her system altogether.

“Stop thinking, Esmerelda,” he said, rolling his tongue over the r in her name, drawing the syllables out so that the word was a caress to her ear. “Just stop thinking for ten more seconds and then we can dissect what just happened between us. Ten seconds and I’ll be ready for that.”

She knew she should be incensed at his arrogant assumption that she needed to dissect what had just happened. But she did need to talk to him about it, because being with him now wasn’t like four years ago. Then, she had been head over heels for the rich boy down the beach and gotten her heart shattered. This was an all-consuming hunger she feared might be insatiable. No, she couldn’t talk to him about that. Just the sex. They could talk about sex and a temporary relationship; it was all he had to offer and it had to be all she wanted.