Still Waters: The Island / Below the Surface. Heather Graham
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It’s like any other city. You’re most likely not going to be hit by a drug lord unless you’re dealing or something like that.” She shook her head suddenly, looking into her coffee cup. “You ask a simple question, and I give you a paragraph. I ask a question and get a one-liner. Maybe I’m the one with the problem.”
She was startled to realize that he didn’t laugh, or even smile, as she had expected he might. He was looking at her very seriously. He reached out and touched her. Light, totally casual. He just touched her chin with the tip of his forefinger. “I don’t think you have a problem at all,” he said very softly.
There it was. The moment when she was supposed to stand and say, “I have to go.”
But she didn’t. He eased down from the arm of the sofa, next to her, his scent a mixture of the wind, sea and salt, his flesh still reflecting the heat of the sun, emitting power from every pore, and she didn’t move. She waited.
His sunglasses were gone, and his eyes seemed as dark as ebony, as mysterious as an abyss, and he was studying her, long and intently. Once again she thought it was time to back away, because then he would rise, as well, and the moment would be broken.
But she didn’t move, and his fingers slipped into her hair, cradling the base of her skull. Then, at last, his lips touched hers. At first it seemed like nothing more than a hot and teasing whisper of air; then the fullness of his mouth pressed over hers. She wasn’t avoiding, wasn’t protesting; she was set adrift in a sea of fascination and discovery, her arms rising, hands resting on his shoulders, fingertips awakened by the simple feel of skin. He kissed her hard and deep, and she felt an infusion of warmth and arousal.
It was he who broke the kiss, easing away, and his voice was definitely husky when he spoke. “I think you’re supposed to tell me that you need to get back.”
She nodded. “You should be telling me that this isn’t your boat.”
He nodded in response. “We should go.”
“Certainly. Now.”
“Remember, I told you that you should be afraid of me.”
She shook her head, studying his eyes. “I should be. But I’m not. I mean, I am. But I’m not.”
“Tell me to take you back,” he said.
She shook her head slowly. “I guess I’m just not afraid enough.”
“Still...we need to...not...”
“You’re right.”
But neither moved, and when he kissed her again, she let her fingers play down the length of his back, and she felt his hands on her. Then, he broke away again, his voice extremely deep as he said, “I really should take you back.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“What you don’t want is to be involved with me,” he murmured.
“I don’t recall saying that I was involved.”
He moved away. “Ah, Ms. Anderson, you are far too decent, believe me. So if you’ll just say...” His voice trailed off.
She smiled, her senses perfectly attuned, her mind suddenly set upon her course. She moistened her lips slightly, her smile deepening. “You want me to say I should go? I should. Do I want to? No. Am I going to? I don’t think so, but then again, that’s up to you now.”
His groan was deep and shuddering, and then he stood with a suddenness that surprised her and swept her up into his arms.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said.
“Absolutely not,” she agreed softly as she linked her arms around his neck.
Her eyes locked on his, she was barely aware that he was heading for the elegant master stateroom. The bed was huge. He managed to rip off the black-and-white cover without losing hold of her, and when he laid her down, the sheets seemed cool against the sun-touched heat of her flesh. He quickly lay down beside her. Her sarong was a tangle around them both, quickly eliminated, and she would forever remember the contrast between the coolness of the bedding and the warmth and vibrance of his flesh. They met in a passionate, exploratory kiss, lips melding, tongues sliding, mouths locked. His hands were every bit as powerful as she had imagined, his fingers as gentle, his touch as magnetic. His lips fell to her throat, to spots just below each ear, to the center of her throat once again, and lower, the tip of his tongue teasing up and down her collarbone, then lower still. Her fingers slid into his hair, testing its rich texture, blond and then ash, where it had been bleached by the sun. She felt the pressure of his body against her. With his hips and legs pressed to hers, she felt the swell of his arousal, taut beneath the surf trunks. Then his hands, adept at manipulation, released the hook of the bikini bra, followed by his lips, firm against her breasts, and his hands, caressing, cradling. His lips teased after every touch, moving over her areolas, nipples, up the length of her throat again. The frenzy of caresses wet, hot, seemed to send streaks of pure fire sailing through her bloodstream, and rushing with ardent precision into the very heart of her sexuality. She didn’t remember ever feeling as she did now, and knew that was because she had never actually felt anything this vital, this passionate, alive, tempestuous...ever before.
He paused, his eyes on hers, smile totally seductive. “This is insanity.”
“We’ve agreed on that.”
“You need to go back. You shouldn’t be here.”
“We’ve agreed on that, as well,” she whispered.
“You shouldn’t be involved with me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of being involved with you.”
“One might call this involved.”
“One might.”
He shook his head. His lips touched down again. For a moment they teased a mere breath above her own. Then the kiss deepened, and their limbs entwined as their bodies met and melded. The naked length of his chest seemed glorious, the sound of his breathing filled her senses, along with the thrum of their hearts. His flesh felt like the sun and the sea, smooth, slick, hot. He moved erotically against her, her breasts crushed to him.
She clung to him, splaying her fingers down his back, along his spine, down to the waistband of his trunks, around in front to the ties. Her fingers weren’t as adept as his, not quite as experienced. His hands covered hers, though he never broke the kiss. She was dimly aware when the trunks were gone, acutely aware when the naked length of his body pressed against hers. She felt his fingers slipping beneath the bikini bottom as he effortlessly did away with the last barrier between them, which in itself seemed an exotic ecstasy. She was pressed close to him again, and his fingers seduced a path down her spine, curved over her buttocks, brought her flush against his arousal. His lips continued to caress and assail. Then he moved, sleek, agile, shifting atop her, lips pressing against the hollows of her collarbone, teasing her breasts. His hand glided down the curve of her form, pressed apart her thighs. She felt the stroke of his touch first, and then the taunt of his tongue; felt as if she burned within, caught in a sudden, swift maelstrom of fire. Pure sensual ecstasy exalted her even as the rage of intimacy dismayed her, though for only a split second in the rush of sensation.
He was an incredible lover.
Subtle and bold. Teeth, tongue, lips, touch, all meshed in a passionate dance of sensuality that left her breathless, thundering, quivering somewhere between total vibrant ecstasy and simple delicious death. She arched, writhed, thrashed, cried out God-knew-what....
Trembled, throbbed...begged.
Involved.
Good Lord, yes, she was involved, any more involved and she would be living in his skin. She had sworn to herself that she had sense and reason and knew what she was doing, but this was...
Involved.
She was more involved than she had ever been. More touched, elated, electrified, swept away, taken...
She