The Trouble with Andrew (12 page)

“I—don't need to see,” she told him. And yet she stood there.

She had been afraid, so she had run away.

Now she was afraid again, so she couldn't come forward.

She didn't need to.

“Katie,” he said, very softly.

And she hadn't moved; she was certain she hadn't moved.

Yet suddenly…

She was in his arms. And it seemed that the moonglow was raining down on them.

And indeed, she could see all that she needed to see.

Chapter 6

K
atie wondered vaguely if she needed the darkness, the shadows and the moonlight. Perhaps she could never have done this in daylight or anything other than the pale moonglow that seemed to add a touch of magic and timelessness to the night.

It wasn't that she couldn't see him. She could. When her eyes were open, at least. But she closed her eyes as he kissed her in the hallway, closed her eyes and felt the raw burst of desire with which his lips touched her, the hunger with which he parted them, the passion with which his tongue touched her, swept her mouth. The fever seemed to sweep through her, melting, sweet, touching her lips, radiating down the length of her until she felt liquid.

So this is what it felt like to be touched by him. To know the feel of his hand at her nape, at the small of her back. Caressing her cheek and throat as his lips touched her…

But then his lips broke from hers, and his eyes seemed a pure and glittering gold in the moonlight. His breath escaped with a shuddering sound, but he forced her to look at him in the hallway, to meet the hard, handsome contours of his face and the demand within his eyes.

“Is this what you want?” he whispered tensely.

Was it what she wanted? No, she had wanted the right person to come along, to fall absolutely in love with Jordan, to fall absolutely in love with her, to picnic with her, go to the movies, have dinner, maybe go bowling, come around again and again as the months swept by until she knew it was right…

She hadn't wanted to long for an almost stranger with this sizzle of fire that defied all thought and logic.

“Katie?” He would let her go, she knew. Let her walk away, close the door. And he would close his own. No matter how much desire she felt in the arms that held her, no matter what the tension, the hunger in himself.

“Go to bed, Katie,” he said softly. His fingers brushed her cheek.

He turned and started walking away from her. She stood there for the briefest second of indecision, then she ran after him.

He turned just as she went into his arms. She cupped his face, liking the just slightly rough feel of his cheeks between her palms, finding his lips swiftly, hungrily, with her own. She pressed hard against him, loving the strength of his chest, deeply aware of the subtle, arousing, masculine scent of him. She kissed his lips hard, then teased them with a flick of her tongue, delved within them again, searched, played and hungered all the more.

She suddenly found herself off her feet, in his arms, and meeting the hard glitter of his eyes in the moonlight once again. “Katie…”

“Last chance,” she whispered, keeping her eyes on his. Then she couldn't find the rest of the words she had to say, and merely whispered, “Please.”

It was the right word. Swift footsteps and long strides brought them to his door, opened with the nudge of his foot. The moonglow was brighter here, for the boards were down and the French doors that opened to the balcony over the pool area had been thrown open, welcoming the night breeze and the magic of the moonlight.

His room was handsome, striking, masculine. A huge four-poster bed in dark wood faced the open doors. It was covered in a maroon and black patterned comforter, with a pile of satiny black pillows at the headboard. His furniture was deep, rich, hard-wood, with a maroon Berber carpet beneath the bed and walls painted in peach that opened the room and saved it from too much darkness.

But the rest of the room blurred. Katie saw the expanse of the bed, the open windows, the moon.

And she saw his face again as he laid her down on the bed, then rose above her.

She wished he'd kiss her again. That he'd come down beside her. That they might shed their clothing while touching, while holding onto the mystery and the sweet impulse. She wished he wouldn't insist on questions…

But he did.

He stood above her, stripping his knit shirt over his head. She stared at his shoulders, his bronze chest, the taut ripple of muscle at his abdomen. The fever took flight within her. He shed his shoes, his socks…

“Katie, I want you to know what you're doing—with whom,” he told her.

She felt her cheeks color. “I can go back to your guest room if you like.”

He was before her again, his tension bringing a whipcord tightness to his shoulders and chest. He lifted her chin to bring her eyes to his.

“I don't want you to be sorry. You don't know me that well. No regrets on this. No turning back.”

“Can't we just have sex?” she tried to say lightly.

But he shook his head. “No regrets. No recriminations,” he insisted.

“No regrets,” she whispered hoarsely.

He unzipped his jeans, and the sound sent tremors streaking through her.

He stepped from them, easily, naturally, bringing his briefs along with them.

Everything on him was hard and tight and exceptionally aroused. Her eyes immediately fell to the new area of his nakedness, then rose swiftly again, all the color coming back to her cheeks. How strange! She wanted to make love, quickly, desperately, and she still didn't want him to know that she was staring at him. Just days ago they had been strangers, and now he was stark naked just inches away from her.

Not inches away. He swept her into his arms again, stripping the comforter from the bed. She felt his naked flesh against her own, felt each ripple of muscle, each touch against her. Then she found herself lying beneath him, and he was raised above her, legs draped over her.

“One last thing,” he told her.

“What?” she asked, swallowing. A part of her wanted to run away in embarrassment.

Another part, a stronger part, knew that she couldn't bear to do so, that it was wonderful to be here, to watch him and try not to watch him, to feel his body against her own.

“Just say, ‘Andrew Cunningham, I want you to make love to me. I'll want it in the morning just as badly as I want it now.'”

“Drew, that's not fair,” she began, but she broke off as his features tautened and tensed and a small, wry smile curved his lip.

“Why not? I can say it.” His hands smoothed her ribs as he spoke, over the terry of her robe, the cotton of her gown. The friction of the material against her flesh seemed exotic. His moving palm came over her breast, the fullness of it, the nipple. The feel of it brought a catch to her throat. Her lips went dry, her breath came too quickly. And the sound of his voice added richly to every sweet touch of fire that stroked its way through her. “I wanted you from the moment I first touched you. From the very second I picked you up—”

“Out of the mud?” she asked breathlessly.

“Hey, some people like mud,” he teased softly. But then the smile faded, and all she saw was the golden glow in his eyes as he continued. “I wanted you then, when your clothing was against you like a second skin. I wanted you later, when you were freshly showered, dressed in my robe, and I wanted you later, when you were fully dressed. I want you now, and I know that come morning, I'll never try to delude myself that the storm, the darkness, the moon in the night had anything to do with it.”

His hand moved while he spoke. Slow, erotic, above the fabric still, yet using the fabric to make every motion more sensual.

“Long-winded, aren't you?” she asked him.

“I want the words, Katie.”

She slipped her arms around him, holding tight, burying her face against his chest. “I want you, Andrew Cunningham. And I won't regret anything in the morning. I—”

That was it. It seemed he had talked for so long. Suddenly, he wasn't talking anymore, and he didn't seem to need any more words from her. His lips fell upon hers with a passion that was staggering, sweeping away her breath, her thoughts. His fingers were on the tie of her robe, undoing it swiftly and deftly. His lips left hers for her throat, and he started on the tiny buttons of her nightgown, his fingers amazingly dexterous. The gown slipped from her shoulders. His lips touched her flesh where it was bare. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His fingers swept beneath the hem of the gown, and the rough, erotic feel of his palm swept up her thigh, fingers stroking the soft inner flesh, curling into the elastic of her bikini panties.

But he didn't strip them away. His lips left her flesh, and he was sitting, reaching for her. “I really wanted you when I was finding all your silky things thrown around your room,” he murmured. “I wanted to see them on you…”

He slipped the robe from her shoulders. He tried to pull the cotton gown from her body, but her weight was on it. “You could help,” he whispered.

“What? Oh!” But it didn't matter, because he swept her up, dragged the gown away, and this time, when he came down upon her, she felt the smooth heat of his flesh against her own, and the sheer pleasure and intimacy of it nearly made her weep aloud.

His fingers threaded through hers. His lips touched down on hers, on her throat, on her lips once again.

His tongue found the peak of her breast. Her breath caught. A gasp escaped her. He played with the hardening tip of her nipple, laving, touching, wetting, teasing, taking it fully into his mouth.

His head moved lower against her body, his tongue slipping into her navel, trailing to her hip. Her fingers tore into his hair. She discovered her body writhing against his in a sweet, natural rhythm of its own. She'd forgotten so much, and yet…

Maybe she'd never quite known this sweet hunger, wanting something, needing… someone.

She tugged at his hair, trying to draw his face to hers, longing to touch him, longing to feel the burning that now blazed between her thighs. “Drew.” She whispered his name, then again, and still he didn't seem to feel her tug on his hair, for he still touched and stroked her body, bringing her so close to a pinnacle, drawing back just slightly. The molten heat of his kiss was low over her abdomen. His fingertips stroked her upper thighs, higher, higher, then came brushing through the soft down at their juncture.

“Drew…”

He rose above her, his hair rakishly disheveled, his features tense, his lip curling into the slightest smile. “If you've waited this long, Mrs. Wells, it needs to be good. Damned good,” he whispered softly, a note of tenderness in the passion of his voice.

He rolled her to her stomach, and she felt the searing liquid heat of his kiss at her nape, moving down her spine. Down, down, his fingertips touching, caressing. She could bear it no longer and turned in his arms, kissing his lips, feverishly touching his shoulders and chest with her fingertips, planting liquid kisses where she had touched, fascinated by his warmth, his vibrance, the ripple and life of his every movement. She laid her palm on his chest and allowed it to flow slowly down the length of him until she closed her fingers around the length of his aroused sex, drawing a fantastic groan from him, one that seemed to tear from his chest, to sweep them both away.

And she was swept away, for she was suddenly beneath him again, and the sweet, taunting play was over, the wild ride to ecstasy had begun. She trembled uncontrollably as his body seemed to sink into the very depths of her. She could feel the impalement to her heart, and with it came the slow spread of a radiating heat throughout her, as if the ball of the sun had burst within her, and golden laps of flame flared their way into her body and limbs. She met his eyes, and in the golden moonlight they seemed like gold, glowing suns, penetrating, demanding all that she could give, and giving that spectacular warmth in return. She couldn't quite meet that golden gaze, and she let her lashes flutter over her eyes while she clung to him and let the hunger and natural rhythms take them away, soaring, stretching…

She had all but reached the most fantastic pinnacle when he suddenly pulled from her. The subtropic breeze whispered in from the French doors, covering her flesh softly, sensually. She felt his stroke again, his kiss, and a frenzy filled her unlike anything she had known before. He touched her again and again, the liquid of his kiss against her cooling flesh. She tore at his hair, whispering desperately for him. Yet he took his leisure, kissing, caressing, demanding every intimacy. When she was all but in tears she felt him rise above her again, and the moonlight rippled on his bronze, tense shoulders, and in his eyes she saw that he had carefully built her hunger to match his own, and that his own desire was now erotically explosive …

His hands cradled her buttocks and he held her while he thrust rapid fire into her again and again and again until…

Climax swept her. So hard and so strong that for endless seconds she seemed to drift in a darkness where stars burst against a black sky. Then she was aware again, aware of the night, of the breeze, of the man, of the rock-hard tension in his features and the fierce constriction of his body as he thrust within her one last time, groaned and shuddered, his body slick and hard atop her own.

He fell quickly to her side, but brought her with him, his arms around her.

She had been so hot, on fire. Now the breeze whispered over her and she shivered, the air felt so cool. He pulled a sheet over them. He rose above her on an elbow, seeking her eyes.

“You all right?” he asked her softly.

She met his gaze, feeling her lips curl into a smile. “Fine,” she told him.

“I just wanted—”

“It was.”

“Umm,” he said. “Made you wonder what you'd been missing all these years?”

Her smile deepened, but she shook her head. “I haven't missed anything,” she assured him. “Because I never felt that it was …
right,
before. Not since … I was married.”