"All day," he whispered raggedly, "It's been driving me insane." He pulled another tie, slowly, so slowly, and this time the weight of her released breasts pulled the fabric apart. He swallowed. "I knew you weren't wearing a bra."
She pulled in a hot lungful of air. Without the wind, the air was hot. It seemed to fill her breast, expanding, and she felt the fabric part more, felt a wonderful excitement at the way his blue eyes turned black on her. She said raggedly, "It's too hot for a bra. I need all the air movement on—all the ..."
He pulled another tie, but this time his fingers were trembling and she could feel the shudder of his hand against the flesh of her midriff. Slowly, another tie. And another. Then there was nothing holding the two sides of her bodice together. The lacy cotton lay barely covering the peaks of her breasts. Below the blouse, his eyes tangled with the elastic waistband of her skirt as it caressed her, almost concealing her navel.
His fingers possessed the edge of her blouse just a breath away from the undersurface of her breasts, then stilled. His chest stilled too, only his eyes moving as they explored the warm white line of her flesh, the relaxed cleavage of her breasts disappearing in two womanly curves under the blouse, the soft tenderness of her midriff.
"I can see your nipples," he groaned, and she felt her nipples rising to his words, thrusting against the thin blue fabric of the blouse. "All day, when I look at you, and—" His eyes closed, painfully, briefly. She saw his throat work. "I could see you wanting me."
There was no doubt of how he wanted her. His jeans could not conceal his need. His eyes said more than his lips ever would. She felt a sharp pain, the foreknowledge that there would never be another day as sweet as this one. Then her fingers lifted and tangled in the fine, stiff hairs of his chest. She felt his jerk as her palm brushed through the tangle of hair, caressing the hard erection of his male breast.
"Joe ... I'm not very used to ... I—"
"I know." His chest seemed to cave in, the air from his lungs expelled in an uncontrolled blast. She felt his fingers curl on the edge of her blouse, the hardness of his knuckles digging faintly into her midriff. "Dinah, I …" His touch lightened, drawing one side of her blouse open. The sun caressed her breast, the hard turgid peak of her nipple. "You …" She saw a shudder go through his body, then his hand possessed her breast, a gentle touch that asked nothing, cupping and holding, no more.
The world was still. Joe's face, vulnerable and open as it had never been before. Dinah could feel herself spread out below him, her arm flung wide, her hair a sensuous maze on the deck, her skirt a wild invitation.
"The wind won't come up for a while. It's the still, hot part of the day." His voice sounded almost normal, but she could see his eyes, the heaving of his chest under the mat of his chest. Slowly, in his eyes, she saw his emotions come under his control until she could feel nothing of what was inside him, only her own need, her own vulnerability.
Could he see the love in her eyes? She knew that he was going to draw back. His fingers released her breast without the beginning of the sensuous caress that had been advertised in his eyes a moment ago. He was afraid. She could feel it, knew the reason because it was in her too. Their touch went too deep, was more than the mere physical.
She whispered, "Joe, when did you—Has there been anyone since ...?"
Since his wife. No. She knew the answer. It was there, not quite hidden in his eyes. He said in a low voice, "Why should I—" and she didn't know what he meant to say, but he shook his head and began to draw away from her.
She closed her fingers on the other side of the blouse, drew it open and felt the sun everywhere, warming. "Please," she said carefully, but her love was there in her voice no matter what she tried to hide it with. She whispered, "Joe?" and she would have thought from the hardness of his face that he was not moved by the warm softness of her woman's breast, except that his eyes turned black.
"I've been frozen," he said harshly. His eyes closed, opened again before the lashes could touch his cheek. "You ... I—Ever since I first saw you, you've been like that damned sun melting the ice and—Dinah, I—" His fists clenched, then opened, and he said dully, "I'm not—I can't promise anything."
"No promises," she said softly. She loved him so much, needed to take the cold core of his loneliness and warm it with her love. It was not possible for her to turn away, to close herself off from the wonderful warmth of loving this man. "No promises. I'm not asking you for anything except ... just now ... today."
Then his head descended, his lips tasting her sweetness and drawing back, his eyes touching the warm curves of her breasts. "I wouldn't want you to get sunburn," he said raggedly, and his mouth took sweetness from the slope that led to one hardened peak of her arousal while his head shadowed, protecting her from the sun.
She found the sun-bleached wildness of his hair and her fingers tangled in it, drawing his lips to hers, tightening as her lips parted and his tongue possessed the dark sensitive secrets of her kiss.
"One promise," he said, and his voice was sure and deep. The trembling of his hands was gone as he pushed the blouse from her shoulder and kissed the hollow that was exposed, drew up to explore the line from shoulder to breastbone where her tan ended. "The sun wanted to kiss you like this," he said huskily, his mouth moving onto the whiteness, his lips against her skin as the words passed. "It will be good for you. I promise you that, señorita."
He kissed her eyes. She smiled and something inside wanted to cry but there was no pain, only joy. She looked, saw his lips curved in a smile and even if he turned away tomorrow she would know that there had been love in his eyes. "I keep my promises," he said softly. "And I promise you won't think it's overrated this time."
Her voice teased unsteadily, "Are you that good? Or is it that Mexican machismo? I guess it is catching." His lips descended along the slope of her breast and she lost her breath, then gasped, although his kiss had not reached her nipple yet.
She felt his hot breath on her nipple, felt her breast swell with aching fullness. His voice growled, "We're that good." His lips touched, just barely touched the hard peak. Her fingers clenched in his hair, her body twisting, seeking closeness. "You know that we're that good."
Words, she thought as he drew back again. He was going to destroy her with waiting, with words that excited her as much as touches. She could feel the pressure building, a need she had never experienced before. Her hands slipped to his shoulders, explored the bunched muscles, the smooth planes that were hardness and satiny smoothness, the soft cushion of his chest pelt.
"Then do something about it," she urged, shameless now.
His fingers trailed from her shoulder to her waist, feeling the swellings, the hollows, the trembling. "Slower is better," he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of her hip, her thigh through the skirt. "I love to see the sun on you. There's a sail over there." His eyes grazed past her breasts, over the glistening, quiet water. "Miles away," he said softly. "He has no idea that we aren't just sitting here fishing."
His eyes came back then. Her fingers curled around his shoulders, and she found that she was not strong enough to pull him down to her. She drew herself up into his arms, against his chest. He smoothed the blouse down over her shoulders, away from them, and his arms were hard against her smooth back, drawing her close, her skirt tangled around his legs as he bent his head and took her lips in a hard kiss that lasted forever.
They were both trembling when he lifted his head. She pulled closer, if possible, felt the hard curve of his male breast crushing her softness.
"Dinah ..."
"You're not going to tell me that you're not prepared?" She swallowed.
"No," he growled, and she felt his laugh. "You won't catch me twice that way." Then something went molten in his eyes and she found herself spread out on the deck, his hard body following her down, his lips tracing all the curves, his hands smoothing the barriers away.
And then it was her lips, her hands. His ragged jeans giving
way to her fumbling exploration, her gauzy skirt. Her lacy briefs. His leg, hard and exciting, parting hers.
The sky spinning. The sound from her lips, from deep inside her. A groan, like a wild thing. Then her body, too, driven wild by caresses she had not dreamed of. His lips everywhere, the salty taste of his shoulder under her mouth, the hard ridge of his abdomen.
Then a pause, the trembling of his hands as he did what was needed to protect her. His hands and his lips, his body taking hers, his tongue probing for the source of the shuddering cry from her throat. She thought the world exploded, the sun ignited in a hot fire that would burn forever, hotter and hotter and hotter.
Deep inside, the pressure welled up. The sun. The man. The thrusting rhythm that was taking her apart, driving her to a wild need beyond living, beyond loving, beyond ...
She heard her own cry from a long way off. Then, while she was still trembling, her throat sending out soft, husky sounds of a fulfilled ecstasy, she felt his explosive release. His arms gripped her hard, everything rigid, motionless for a timeless instant, then one final thrust sent his body into a shuddering spasm that left him spent in her arms.
Chapter Eight
She felt his withdrawal. His arms were still around her, his head buried in her breast, his eyes closed.
At first she thought he was sleeping. She was drifting on the tide that was the aftermath of their loving, feeling the warm weight of his body as it lay on hers. His breathing steadied, became slow and deep. She felt every breath of his through her body, felt the hard beat of his heart as it slowed to normal. Overhead, the sky was bright, the sun hot. She closed her eyes and let the feelings overwhelm her. This would be forever, waking with his body against hers, moments alone knowing that later, Joe would be there.
Always … forever. Never again the cold certainty that she was alone in the world. Loving made them one. Home. Children. Forever.
Somewhere in the dreaming that seemed real, she felt the tension jerk into his body, as if he had caught her dreams and rejected them. Then he was withdrawing. A moment's stillness, then his weight leaving her, his body turning as it rose.
As if he did not want to look into her eyes.
He pushed back his hair, stood up, looking out over the water, away from her. She could feel that he was searching for words, but he had already said the words. No promises. No future. She had been wrong, thinking that the joy would be more than the pain. It was going to tear her apart. He was going to walk away from her, wanted right now to run away, and that was going to be worse than anything that had gone before.
She was naked, her clothes a jumble somewhere on the deck. She said tightly, "The boat's not moving, is it?" She didn't wait for an answer, but said quickly, "I think I'll go for a swim."
She dove quickly, the water closing around her body with a shock that felt cool for only a second. Then she swam, hard, feeling the water slip along her bare skin, a sensuous pleasure that she had never experienced before.
She circled the boat twice, came to rest lying on her back, floating gently on the water. She could not see Joe, didn't know where he was. She closed her eyes and felt the sun, the water, and tried to feel calm enough to know how she could face him again.
Then his hand closed on her shoulder and she gasped and foundered in the water, taking in a mouthful of salt water and choking. His hands pulled her upright, his arms catching under hers, drawing her close.
"Sorry, señorita." She felt her body drifting towards his, her breasts floating up against his chest. "You float easier than me," he said raggedly. "You have these floatation chambers ..." His eyes were on the roundness of her breasts, uplifted by the water.
"I don't need a bra with water-uplift like that," she said breathlessly. There was no laughter in his eyes, they were black and disturbed. She swallowed. "Joe, I—It was just going to be—It isn't so simple, is it?" Making love, but it meant loving, too.
He shook his head, his arms releasing her. They floated, facing each other, a couple of feet between them. "We'd better get on our way," he said finally. "We've got to get to an anchorage. We—I—Dinah, I didn't want to do anything to hurt you."
He could see what was in her heart. Had she cried out her love when he was teaching her that a man and a woman together could be heaven?
She licked her lips, said quietly. "Joe, I love you." The breath left his lungs as if someone had hit him with a hard fist and she said quickly, "I don't expect anything. I—I just wanted you to know."
"Dinah—" He swallowed, said grimly, "I shouldn't have let this happen. You—I haven't got anything to give."
"Haven't you?" His eyes darkened and she whispered, "I think you do, Joe. I think it's there, and if you let yourself, you could love me as much as—I think you're afraid to."
Afterwards, it seemed that he spent the rest of the day trying to pretend that their loving had not happened. He dressed quickly, then got the boat under way using engine power while she dressed inside. Then he put the sailboat on autopilot, asked Dinah to watch for other boats, and went below to organize a meal in the galley.
***
"Partida anchorage," he announced when he had set the anchor some hours later. They were in a bay formed by the joining of two islands and Joe insisted that they take the dinghy ashore to explore. She thought it was a way to avoid being alone with her, to avoid taking the risk that the closeness would overcome them again.
Ashore, there was a small settlement of Mexican fishermen on the beach, living in shacks built from tarpaper, cardboard and driftwood. Joe lifted a hand in greeting and walked towards one of the Mexicans. He said, "Hola. Como está?" and the two men were off in a stream of social chitchat that Dinah could not understand. She caught the word playa and knew that meant beach, but the rest of it was gibberish to her. She wandered away along the flat, hard-packed sand, discarding her shoes and making easier progress in bare feet.
She was sitting cross-legged, sifting sand through her fingers, when he came walking slowly down the beach to her. He dropped down beside her and leaned back, looking past her towards the shacks, and the volleyball court rigged in the sand outside them.
"Joe, can you tell me about your wife?"
She saw him take a deep breath as if he was going to shut her out, then he shrugged. "I got married while I was still in medical school." His eyes found hers. She could not read anything in them. She wanted to touch him, but she thought he would stop talking if she did.
"Julie. Her family lived two doors down from ours. She was younger, played with my kid brothers. When I was at college, I came home for holidays, we'd talk ... about her skinned knees, about whether she'd pass algebra. The year before I graduated, she finished business college and got a job in Vancouver, in the West End. I was at UBC medical school. We started going out and."
He drew a line in the sand with his fingers. His voice was toneless. "We got married at Christmas, kind of shocked both our parents. Mine especially, because Dad was opposed to a doctor taking on responsibilities before he was able to make a living."
A ponga roared as it entered the bay. Joe watched as it sped towards the shore, saw the Mexican driver give the engine a final burst to send the boat right up onto the beach a few hundred yards away. Joe wiped something from his forehead that she couldn't see, and said, "Julie kept working until I finished my residency. When I was established in a practice in Victoria, she quit work."
Another boat followed the first. Someone laughed, the sound carrying across the sand. "We had two kids, Sherrie and Bruce. It was all so easy." He spread his hands, seeing Dinah now and asking something with his eyes that she couldn't answer. "Maybe it was too easy. I had it all and I really hadn't done anything to earn it. She was so damned young. And the kids. Sherry was blonde and plump. She grinned easily." He smiled, looking back at his daughter. "Bruce was eighteen months. He had dark curly hair like Julie. He was just starting to talk."
When the silence stretched too tight, she said, "Was?" and braced herself b
ecause it was in his eyes. She wanted to tell him that they could have children, but knew you could not replace people who were gone.
He shook his head, but the memory didn't leave his eyes. "I was driving. I wasn't speeding, I never did. I'd seen too much at the hospital, too many reasons not to be in a hurry behind the wheel. We were on our way home after a weekend trip to Vancouver. The kids were in the back. Julie had taken off her seat belt and was curled up in the front seat, half asleep." His voice was toneless, like a reporter reading from paper. "An eighteen wheel tractor-trailer went out of control and crossed the highway straight for us." He shrugged and lost some of the mask. "It wasn't his fault either. Some mechanical failure. I didn't really listen to the explanation when I heard it, and now—" He pushed his hair back and said with low impatience, "Anyway, that was it. I was the only one to survive."
She leaned across and found his hand. It turned and gripped hers. He said tonelessly, "I got out of the hospital. There was the funeral ... then two weeks more getting my body in shape to go back to work. Hank was on my case, telling me to take more time off, but I had to get back to work. It seemed like the only thing in my life worth doing."
She said, "I understand," and his fingers closed on hers.
"I don't know if I do. Back at work, I walked around for two weeks like a zombie. I hope I was some use to my patients." He drew in a deep breath. "The second week, I had an emergency delivery. She'd been my patient through four miscarriages, and she was working like hell to make this one work. She was almost due, and when things started going haywire, I had an anesthetist ready and we did a Caesarian. I'd talked it over with her first, and she knew that I wasn't going to take any chances with her history."
He withdrew his hand and she asked, "What happened?"
"Everything went fine. I delivered her. It was a boy, big enough and healthy, although of course he was born under anaesthetic. I closed her up and then she just went." He said harshly, "She died. There was an autopsy, of course, and it wasn't anything that had happened in surgery. She had a brain tumor that no one suspected, that there was no reason to suspect." He shrugged. "Then—I don't know, everything just seemed to fall apart. Julie and the kids, and this woman. They'd all been in my care, and somehow I hadn't managed to hold onto any of them, to—"
So Much for Dreams Page 12
