Her hands were just as busy when she pushed his hair off his face and forehead before moving down to the front of his shirt. Rafe gently pushed her hands away when he removed his firearm and placed it on the nightstand on his side of the bed. Clothes and undergarments were strewn on the bed and floor in their rush to become one.
“Let me love you,” Simone whispered against Rafe’s throat. “Last night was yours. Let this night be mine.”
Rafe nuzzled the side of her neck. “Do you know what you’re asking?”
Reaching over, she switched on the bedside lamp. The smoldering flame in her lover’s eyes sent a shiver of anticipation throughout her body. “I know exactly what I’m asking—darling.”
He smiled. “What do you want me to do—baby?”
Going to her knees and leaning forward, Simone pressed a kiss over his heart. “Sit down. Please sit down,” she repeated when he looked at her as if she’d spoken a language he didn’t understand.
Rafe complied and pressed his back to the headboard. He felt like the pervert that Simone had once accused him of being when his gaze feasted on her full breasts rising and falling above her narrow ribcage. He’d always proclaimed himself a leg man, but had changed his mind when he saw her naked for the first time the night of the storm. The image of her oil-slick breasts with succulent, dusky brown nipples were forever imprinted on his brain.
He couldn’t stop the groan that slipped out when he felt his sex harden. “Do you want to put on the condom?”
Suddenly Simone felt awkward. It was her intent to seduce Rafe, to do all the things to him that he’d done to her that wrought the most exquisite pleasure imaginable. She shook her head. “No, you can put it on. But not until I tell you,” she added after he’d taken the small packet out of the drawer to the nightstand.
She sat back on her heels and stared at the stranger sharing her home—a stranger who made her feel and do things that were totally inconceivable to the old Simone Whitfield-Kendrick. Everything she’d wanted to share with Tony she’d offer Rafe.
Her marriage, fraught with disappointment, frustration, repressed rage and discontent had made her less than a willing bed partner. It was only when Tony turned on what’d been his two-hundred-watt charm that she submitted to his subtle seduction.
Tall, muscled, golden and unabashedly virile Raphael Madison made her ache with desire. He’d pretended they were engaged, that they’d planned to marry, but he’d lied. They were a man and a woman, and in the week their lives had become entwined and they’d become lovers.
Moving closer, she straddled his thighs. They shared a smile. The throbbing of his blood-engorged sex against her belly kept time with their laboring breathing. “Don’t touch me,” Simone ordered in a quiet voice when his hands came up.
Bracing her hands on either side of Rafe’s head, she breathed a kiss over his mouth. The feel of her mouth on his was barely perceptible; she pulled back as he sought to deepen the kiss. She beckoned, he came and then without warning she withdrew, leaving him frustrated and wanting more.
Simone became bolder when she embarked on an oral journey that began at the hollow of Rafe’s throat. Her rapacious tongue flicked over his shoulders, breastbone and over nipples darkening like ripe cherries as she suckled him as a baby its mother.
Rafe felt as if he were being held underwater. If he didn’t breathe, then his lungs would explode. He wanted to put Simone on her back, bury his swollen sex inside her moist heat, but banished the notion when he remembered her warning not to touch her.
Everything, everyone he’d known or met faded into obscurity when he felt another kind of moist heat—her mouth. Rising off the mattress, Rafe bellowed like a wounded bull.
“Please, baby! No!”
What was wrong with him? He was pleading with a woman to stop the most exquisite pleasure he’d ever experienced. Then, without warning, he felt a familiar tingling sensation at the base of his spine.
Reaching over, he forcibly pulled Simone’s head from between his thighs, flipped her over on her back and entered her in one strong, swift motion. It took only seconds to realize she felt different. He’d forgotten to put on the condom.
Simone emitted a small moan of protest when Rafe pulled out, yet sanity returned seconds later, her body opening and receiving his latex-covered sex. Bending her knees, she looped her legs around his waist, holding him fast as he rotated his hips, each thrust deeper, harder.
She felt the pulsing that began like gentle waves washing up on the beach. They grew stronger, more turbulent, as gusts of fiery desire shook her from head to toe. She trembled like a fragile leaf in a storm.
The hot tide of passion took over completely, and Rafe and Simone surrendered simultaneously to the uncontrollable joy that made them one with the other.
As she lay savoring the aftermath of the lingering passion, a wave of sadness swept over Simone. She’d lied to Rafe and to herself. Sleeping with him wasn’t just sex. It was about making love, and she’d made love with Rafe.
A silent prayer escaped her parted lips as she prayed for strength. She had to remain emotionally detached, or she would find herself making the same mistake of not being able to let go.
I will be able to let him go. The silent vow reverberated over and over in her head. By the time sleep came calling, Simone believed that she could and would.
CHAPTER 15
Simone sat on a stool at the workstation in the mudroom, gathering the supplies she needed for a wedding bouquet made of stephanotis. Because she didn’t grow the exotic star-shaped white flower called Madagascar jasmine, she had special ordered them from a local florist.
Reaching for a plastic box filled with wires to support the stems of flowers to prevent the heads from breaking off, she went completely still when an arm went around her waist.
“Don’t, Rafe.”
“Don’t what?” he whispered near her ear. “Don’t touch you? Don’t want you? Or maybe don’t even like you? Which one is it?”
Resting the back of her head against his chest, Simone closed her eyes. “None of the above,” she admitted.
Rafe tightened his hold around her body. “When are you going to stop and take a break? You’ve been in here for more than five hours.”
After he’d accompanied Simone to a local florist where she’d picked up a special order, she’d returned to the house and retreated to an area in the mudroom that to Rafe resembled a shoemaker’s workshop. She informed him that as soon as Ian Benton was sentenced, a contractor would begin laying the foundation for the outbuildings for a state-of-the art greenhouse, a large area to store her supplies and spacious counters to assemble her floral designs and a laboratory. Her pronouncement of “I’m going to be tied up for a while” translated into her working nonstop for more than five hours.
“It will probably be another five before I’m finished.” Simone opened her eyes to see Rafe scowling at her. “What’s that look all about?”
“When are you going to eat?”
“I’ll eat when I’m finished with the bridal bouquet.” She’d spent the morning and afternoon making boutonnieres for the father of the bride, the groom, four groomsmen and four attendant bouquets for a Friday-evening wedding. The trend of Friday-night weddings had become increasingly popular over the years. And as with most wedding flowers, most were assembled the day before the wedding.
Easing her back against his chest, Rafe lowered his head and kissed her eyelids. “Can I at least bring you something to drink?”
A soft smile parted Simone’s lips. “I’d like some raspberry iced tea, please.”
Shifting slightly, his mouth found hers. “Raspberry iced tea it is.”
Waiting until Rafe left, Simone resumed the arduous task of poking a wire through the center of each star-shaped stephanotis flower, pushing out its green center, and replacing it with a rhinestone. The bouquet was not difficult to make, but very time consuming. She’d glued seventy-five rhinestones to stephanotis wire stems. Once c
ompleted, she’d make three rhinestone-studded wire flowers into a triangle-shaped cluster, twist an eight-inch piece of wire around the wire stems and tape them. In all, she would have to make twenty-four clusters. Even after completing the bouquet, she still had to cover the handle of the bouquet with inch-wide white ribbon and glue the remaining rhinestone trim up the handle in a spiral design. Yards of three-inch wired sheer decorative ribbon, which she would make into four two-loop bows, wouldn’t be attached to the bouquet until shortly before the ceremony.
When Simone met with the prospective bride earlier in the year, she’d been stunned with the stark simplicity of the gown the bride had chosen, suggesting a bouquet with the rhinestones. It was only after seeing a photograph of the completed bouquet that the young woman agreed to go with the flowers with a subtle perfume and an ability to stay fresh through the wedding day and night.
Rafe returned with a tall glass of the chilled liquid. Simone removed her gloves, picked up the glass and took a long swallow. “Oh, that’s good. I hadn’t realized I was so thirsty.”
Sitting on a stool next to her, Rafe massaged the back of her neck. “What can I do to help you out?”
She gave him an incredulous stare. “You really want to help me?”
“No, Simone,” he drawled. “I just want to sit here and count the number of freckles on your face.”
“I don’t have freckles.”
“Yeah, you do.” He touched her cheek. “You have one right here, and another one over here. Oops, I missed one.”
Smiling, she squatted at his finger. “Stop, darling.”
He caught her hand, holding it firmly in his larger one, then studied it as if he’d never seen it before. The color contrast between hers and his wasn’t as startling as he thought it would’ve been. Perhaps it was because Simone spent so much time indoors, or when working in the greenhouse she always used gloves to protect her hands from the chemicals she used to grow her flowers. Even when assembling her bouquets, she wore latex gloves to avoid bruising the petals or transferring the oil from her body to the delicate blooms.
“What’s the matter, Rafe?”
He met her questioning gaze. Today Simone appeared so much younger than any time before. It could be because she’d parted her hair in the center and braided it into two thick plaits. Or maybe it was the enchanting wisps around her face. Or perhaps it was because she hadn’t bothered to put anything on her face. Even if she didn’t apply makeup, she rarely went without lip gloss.
“Why did I just suddenly feel like I’ve been sleeping with a girl?” A slight frown appeared between the wide eyes that had the power to seduce him with a single glance.
“Who are you talking about, Rafe?”
“I’m talking about you, Simone Whitfield.”
Her frown deepened. “What about me?”
He blinked slowly and a sweep of hoary lashes touched the tops of his cheekbones, and now it was Simone’s turn to look at the man she’d been sleeping with—really look at him. There was something about his perpetually tanned face that made him look exotic. Perhaps it was his coloring or the slight slant of his eyes or even the shape of his mouth, but whatever it was it made him shockingly attractively. Marisol Sanborn had likened Rafe to Brad Pitt, but the “world’s sexiest man” couldn’t compete with Raphael Madison. Her bodyguard claimed a raw, sensual masculinity that was almost palpable. She’d watched other women’s reactions when seeing or meeting him enough to know what she felt was not imagined, but very real.
And everything she shared with Rafe was real—at times too real. Like that morning. Their lovemaking had been particularly tender, passionate, and moments before she climaxed, Simone knew that she’d fallen in love with her bodyguard. It’d taken all of her resolve not to blurt out what lay in her heart. The tears fell, and when Rafe asked her if he’d hurt her, her comeback was it was that time of the month. Her menses came every twenty-eight days like clockwork, and she expected to see it before the end of the day.
But the shift in her hormone levels had nothing to do with the ache in her heart. For the second time in her life she’d fallen in love with a man, but this time she knew she would have to let him go. She wouldn’t leave him. He would leave her.
“Right now you look no older than sixteen. But if you push it, then maybe eighteen.”
“In some states a lot of girls are married at sixteen, or even younger.”
“The average age for marriage in New York is somewhat higher than sixteen,” Rafe argued in a quiet voice.
“I can assure you that I’m not sixteen, and I have no wish to ever be sixteen again.”
“Not even knowing what you know now?” Rafe teased.
Simone shook her head. “No. Not even knowing what I know now.”
A comfortable silence ensued as they stared at each other. It was something that was occurring more often now. They’d sit across the table or relax on the back porch reading, then without warning look up and find the other staring. A shared wink and smile, and then they’d return to whatever it was they were doing at the time.
Rafe smiled, a tender light illuminating his eyes. “Show me what you want me to do.”
She handed him a spool of twenty-one-gauge wire and a pair of wire cutters. “I need you to cut twenty-four, eight-inch pieces of wire. You can use the yardstick on the other counter.”
He moved over to an adjoining countertop where Simone had glued a yardstick to the edge. Unrolling the wire, he quickly cut the required length and quantity. “Done,” he announced proudly. “What’s next?”
“Hey, you’re fast.”
Rafe opened and closed the cutters. “Do you have anything else I can cut?”
Simone reached for large roll of three-inch-wide wired sheer ribbon stamped with decorative medallions and edges made of wire so finely woven it resembled silver thread. “I need you to cut this into twenty-four-inch lengths.”
“How much is on the spool?”
“Four yards.”
Rafe appeared deep in thought, then his expression brightened. “You’ll need six lengths.”
Simone’s smile was dazzling. “Not only are you quick, but you’re dangerous with that wire cutter. Why is it that you write and do everything with your left hand, but cut with the right?”
He hoisted the cutters. “What can I say about being a lefty in a right-handed world? If you had a left-handed cutter, I’d still use my right hand.”
The fact that he was left-handed and a pitcher had made him a much sought-after candidate for the major leagues. His obsession with all that was baseball began when his maternal grandfather took him to St. Louis to see the Cardinals play the Chicago Cubs. The roar of the crowd, the smell of hot dogs and peanuts all paled as he’d sat wide-eyed and transfixed, watching what had become a duel when opposing pitchers threw a ball over home plate with a speed and accuracy that made his heart pump wildly in his chest, while at the same time rendering him mute. Whenever his grandfather asked him a question, all he could do was either nod or shake his head.
Spending his birthday weekend in St. Louis with his grandfather had become the highlight of his six-year-old existence. He returned home and began using pieces of corn cobs as his ball and a hand-drawn target affixed to the side of an outbuilding where his father kept farm equipment as home plate. It took years and intense concentration to perfect hitting the target dead-center, but by the time he’d entered high school and joined the baseball team, he had total control of all of his pitches: curves, splitters, sinkers and his celebrated fastball.
Gideon was opposed to him becoming a ballplayer because he wanted him to go to college and make something of himself. Well, he did make it to college on academic and athletic scholarships, earned a degree in criminal justice, and was drafted to play in the major league. But his lifelong dream was cut short with a single telephone call from his sister, who told him that their father had threatened to kill their mother because he’d heard voices telling him that she was evil and that
he’d been given the responsibility of ridding the world of iniquity.
Two days before the end of the season, he flew back to Kansas to take care of family business while his team headed into the postseason playoffs with a chance of playing in the World Series. They lost every game, and the press had a field day when he was accused of bailing on his team. Rafe wouldn’t give his agent permission to talk to the media about his personal life, and when contract negotiations came up post–World Series, he stunned everyone when he not only opted not to re-sign with his team, but quit baseball altogether.
He walked away from his dream with the proceeds from his initial multimillion dollar contract and a degree in criminal justice. Everyone said he was crazy when it was his father who was certifiably crazy. He applied for a position with the U.S. Marshals Service and hired a fraternity brother as his investment consultant.
There were occasions when he regretted giving up his baseball career, but it was short-lived when he remembered why he’d been forced to leave. And as the years passed, he became less repentant, and now that he had fallen in love with Simone Whitfield, it’d all been worth it.
He’d found her changed, softer and less angry. Pretense or not, they’d become a couple—in and out of bed.
What would’ve taken Simone more than three hours to complete by herself she was able to do in two with his assistance. She misted the bouquet, put it into a large plastic bag and placed it on the shelf in the refrigerator with the other wedding flowers.
Looping her arms under Rafe’s shoulders, she pressed her breasts to his back. “Thank you. I may have to hire you as my assistant.”
“Will I have to interview for the position?”
Standing on tiptoe, she breathed into his ear. “I don’t know yet.”
“Do I detect some reluctance?”
Simone inhaled the scent of his cologne mingling with the detergent she used doing laundry. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to work with you before I decide to seduce my employee. And I’m certain you’re quite familiar with laws about sexual harassment in the workplace.”
Taken by Storm Page 19
