The Star Princess (27 page)

When Ché locked the door behind them, the breeze stopped. Ilana couldn't contain her happiness and did a little pirouette. "This was the best idea."

She lifted her arms and wriggled her fingers at him. "A hug." He stepped into her open arms, and she pulled his warm, hard body close. Pressing her cheek to his chest, she inhaled his smell. A hug was okay, wasn't it? But, God, she wanted more. She thought of what Linda said, about not letting him go, and then shoved the thought out of her mind. It wasn't that simple. The whole idea of her and Ché together— well, it was too complicated for words. "Thanks," she said, softer. "Thanks for today. I mean it."

He moved her back to look down at her. "You were the one who decided it was time," he reminded her. Then he grinned. "And what a time it was!"

She laughed. "You're just as happy about this as I am."

"And why wouldn't I be? After tearing your leaden feet off this Earth— finally."

"Leaden!"

"Not only that, Ilana. I lived to tell about it. Warriors have come home from battle with lesser tales of courage than that."

She laughed. "Well, now you'll have a good story to tell the family when you get home."

"I'm afraid they wouldn't believe it."

"Neither family would." She sobered for a moment, searching his equally serious face. The subject of their families was always intrusive, because they both knew that news of their friendship and intimate living arrangements would raise eyebrows on both sides. Everyone's eyebrows except Ian's, she thought.

"But they're not here," she said. "Only we are. Let's open that champagne."

He lifted the bottle. "It is warm."

She breezed into the kitchenette and opened the freezer. "Voila! Ice cubes." She carried over the plastic tray. She started plopping the cubes one by one into the flutes and then stopped. "Unless you want to ruin the mood by making me wait until you chill the bottle."

"Nothing will ruin our moods today, Ilana." He popped the cork while she added more ice to the glasses.

When the flutes were filled and foaming over with champagne, they lifted them. To taking chances," she said, and gave him a meaningful gaze. If he didn't start getting the hint that she wanted him tonight, wanted to sleep with him, then she was going to have to be more proactive.

He dipped his head in that grave and charming Vash way of his, and gave no hint that he'd caught on to her desires. To the rogue."

Her flute paused halfway to her mouth. "Rogue?"

"I have admitted this to no one." His mouth tipped slightly. "A rogue lives inside me. Always has. It is he who urges me to take risks, to go against advice, to be impractical when conformity is expected— or even required. But when I think back over my life, the moments instigated by the rogue are the ones which stand out as the times when I felt truly alive."

Her throat closed. It took a few tries before she could breathe again. She tapped her flute to his. To the hijacked garden carts of life, Ché."

"Indeed." Their flutes made a musical chime as they connected.

"Drink up," she coaxed. Whatever it takes to loosen you up. Closing her eyes, she took a healthy sip of champagne. It was dry, crisp, and perfect.

Giddy, and not entirely from the champagne, she came up on her toes and kissed Ché lightly on the lips, then pulled away slowly. He appeared more pleased than surprised. "See? There are lots of ways to celebrate," she said.

She put down her glass. Her heart was beating faster now. The role of seductress was one in which she felt comfortable— usually. But not only had Ché rejected her once before, she wanted him. Badly.

She stepped closer and combed her fingers through his hair. The sun had bleached out the short ends, contrasting with his tan that had deepened during the weeks spent in LA.

Her pulse was flat-out racing now. Making love with Ché would either get him out of her system or make matters worse than they already were.

Probably get him out of her system, she decided. That was the way it had always worked in the past with men.

He stood very still as she took her time exploring the rugged curves of his face, and his eyes closed as she brushed her thumb over his lips. He was fighting her, she realized, trying to pretend she wasn't touching him like this, that it didn't feel as good as she knew it did. "Resistance is futile," she whispered without a trace of threat in her voice.

He kissed her thumb, reached for her wrist, turned her hand over, and pressed his lips to her palm. She almost groaned aloud, aching from temptation. Until now, the only thing that had kept them from each other was total physical abstinence. They'd just blown that sky high.

She wasn't sure who started it, but the next thing she knew they were kissing; it was that natural. At first, their lips skimmed and touched, small, sipping kisses, tender and affectionate. She couldn't help sighing, couldn't help thinking about how so few men had made her genuinely sigh. Warm fingertips lingered. Hands caressed. Only the sounds of their lips touching and of their breathing interrupted the absolute silence in the room.

Then Che's fingers skimmed across Ilana's throat and collarbone. She ached for them to reach lower. But he made no move to cross the invisible line he'd drawn all those weeks ago when he said he didn't want casual sex with her. So the kiss stayed tame, however much she wanted more.

How could he not want more? The attraction was there. The hunger was there. The time was right.

She sighed again and arched against him. Ché kissed his way to the hollow under her earlobe, nuzzling her there. She laughed softly and shivered, hunching her shoulders. His voice was a deep murmur in her ear. "Are you ticklish, Ilana?"

"Not ticklish. Sensitive. You know all my sensitive spots."

"Not all," he confessed.

If he weren't wearing those damned gray contact lenses, the gold would have taken her breath away. She cleared her throat because it felt suddenly dry. "Why don't we start from the top, then, and work down?

"Show me the rogue, Ché." Holding his gaze, she took his hand and placed it on her breast. Her top had a thin shelf bra for support, and that was all. She could tell by the tightening of his mouth that he could feel every contour covered by the stretchy fabric.

One convulsive flex of his hand, and her nipple contracted. Her chest rose and fell with her breaths. Her arms hung at her sides, her hands in fists. She couldn't look away from his eyes, though it was so intensely intimate to watch him as he touched her. She'd gone up in an airplane today, a tiny little rickety plane. She could do this; she could let him look into her soul.

"Ilana… " His voice sounded thick, huskier than ever. His gaze dropped away from her face, to his hand covering her left breast. His thumb rubbed across her tight nipple, and it was as if the sensation were hardwired to a place between her legs, each stroke of his thumb setting off tiny explosions in her nerve endings.

Her knees became disturbingly weak. She placed her hand over his. Breathing hard, she said, "We probably shouldn't take this any further unless it's going to go somewhere."

His breaths were just as uneven as hers. She recognized the sharp hunger in his face. To her, he looked suddenly very male. Not quite a stranger, not quite frightening, but a man who could enthrall her with sheer sexual magnetism.

She took the chance and moved closer until their stomachs touched. He had a choice: He could put his arms around her or push her away.

He put his arms around her.

She pressed her cheek to his chest and smiled. His hands were flat on her back, keeping her close. His heartbeat was like thunder. He wanted more. She wanted more. What was stopping them other than some irrelevant Vash honor code? Or was he as scared of taking the relationship to the next level as she was?

She reached for his T-shirt and tugged it from the waistband of his jeans. "Now, where are you hiding that tattoo of yours?" She tried to keep her voice light. "Can I see? I'll still respect you in the morning. I promise."

He grabbed her wrists. He was so damned strong.

"Easy, Ché," she crooned. "You're doing great. Just great. There's no need to worry." She tried to reach the top button on his jeans, but he wouldn't let her. It was equally difficult to keep her smile from showing. "Look, I know how to do this. Just hang in there and you'll be okay. I know how to fly, if you know what I mean."

Suddenly he tipped his head back and laughed. With shocked satisfaction, she saw amusement, surprise, and wry delight light up his eyes. "That is precisely what I said to you in the airplane."

She grinned and nodded. "When you thought I was going to panic. And it worked."

He released her wrists so he could wipe his eyes of laughter-induced tears. "And you think because you ask to see my tattoo that I will panic, too?"

"No. But if I ask you to make love with me, I think you might." She brought her hands to his waistband again. Raised her brows. "I flew today. You gave me the confidence to do it. My decision was spontaneous, maybe impulsive. And I don't regret it for a minute." With a jerk of her wrist, she opened the top button of his fly. For the first time she noticed the sizable bulge there— not the faint beginnings of interest, but a full-fledged erection. "I don't think you will either, Ché."

"Ilana… "

"Look where we are. It's so romantic. It'd be so special here. Isn't that how you wanted it? I thought your people considered sex something beautiful, a holy act between consenting adults."

"It is."

"But you act like there's something wrong with lovemaking."

"I certainly do not think there is anything wrong with lovemaking!"

She was almost glad to have made him angry. Some emotion, any emotion, was better than that tight control, his warrior's resolve. "Then it has to be me. You think sleeping with me will be a mistake. And what if it is? I think we're both mature enough not to ruin our friendship over it." To her shock, her throat tightened. "Okay, just forget I brought it up." It had suddenly become painfully humiliating, having to convince him to make love to her.

Ilana Hamilton begged no man. This was the last time she asked Ché… for anything! She spun away to hide the embarrassment and emotion she felt welling up in her eyes, grabbed her glass of champagne. "I'm going to get drunk and celebrate. You can do what you want. In fact, return that phone call from your papa. You can't seem to break the umbilical cord anyway— "

He hauled her to him with a strangled sound of fury. This time his kiss was hot, hard with passion. A groan rumbled in his chest as he expertly maneuvered her backward. The edge of the table butted up against the small of her back. Water sloshed in the vase of sunflowers as he pushed her backward. The room spun and tilted, and she was flat on her back, Che's powerful body pressed to hers, his muscular thighs holding her in place.

His hands landed on the table, to either side of her head. In a sort of pushup, he lowered himself and kissed her— hard at first, but then the intensity eased a little, as if the kiss blinded him to everything else. His tongue was velvet, stroking hers in an expert, never-ending, carnal caress. After all this, she found she wanted that kiss, a simple kiss, to go on and on and on___

Ché made a muffled, drawn-out, rumbling groan. There was something so indescribably intimate and satisfying about that sound. Honeyed warmth spread through Ilana, and the rest of her body quickly caught up to what her lips already knew.

Suddenly a shudder ran through Che's body and he wrenched his mouth from hers. Breathing hard, he swore in a language she didn't recognize. Her eyes opened wide. He gave her little time to ponder the raw expression on his hard, noble face before he lowered his head and tugged off her jeans.

He kept his face down, as if on purpose, so she couldn't read his eyes. His broad shoulders blocked the light flooding through the French doors as his fingers slipped under the elastic of her panties and yanked off her thong. The wetness on her upper inner thighs cooled in the rush of air.

She felt him shift his weight, bump against the table. It creaked. The sunflowers sloshed in their vase. There was the pop of releasing buttons overlaid with Che's ragged breaths. He lowered his pants while she lay sprawled on top of a table designed for cozy romantic dinners, not the round of disturbingly detached coupling into which this had turned.

He wasn't going to make love to her at all; he was going to steal himself a round of brain-numbing sex. Steal? Ha! Hardly. Not when she was there, right along with him.

Sex for her was no different from a long jog or a hard swim, but with a bonus at the end. Physical exertion with a sweet prize waiting at the finish line. Why should she expect any different with Ché? She'd wanted casual sex all along, and now he was going to give it to her. Only she couldn't quite convince herself that this was her reward and not a punishment for her persistence.

His strong fingers glided up her to where his leg had wedged her thighs apart. It was a cold, self-assured offensive, and yet he kindled in her a breathless carnal urgency. Her mind might be confused, but her body knew exactly what it wanted. She raised her knees, squeezing his hips. But he pushed her legs down.

Knowing fingers slid though her engorged folds. He'd learned about her in the shower, knew where she was the most sensitive; pushing aside the covering of flesh, he exposed that spot to his practiced fingertips. He'd done this to women, to the courtesans at his disposal many times before. Yet a choked cry exploded from Ilana, and her hips writhed. As if she were his little puppet.

"Goddamn you, Ché." She grabbed the collar of his shirt. Wrapping the fabric in her knuckles, she used the leverage to lift her shoulders off the table. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears: guttural, tight with unrequited need. "You'd better not leave me mis time. You'd better stay until we're through."

He pushed her back onto the table. An emotion she couldn't read contorted his features. Grabbing her bottom, he lifted her hips and thrust his pelvis forward. There was no fumbling; he knew where to go. With a harsh grunt, he pushed into her and sank himself home.