VIII
A black silk and lace peignoir set lay across the foot of the turned down bed. Lora gaped at it for a moment, touching the nightgown with disbelief. It was beautiful, what there was of it. Long and slinky, with spaghetti straps and a bodice that was nothing more than flowery panels of lace to the waist. It was a sexy dream of a nightgown—and there was no way she was going to sleep in it. Not with Max sharing her bed. It was bound to give him ideas, if he didn’t have them already. It gave her ideas, and that was quite bad enough.
Dropping the nightgown as if it had burned her, Lora looked with some desperation about the room. Her own clothes were gone, but there was a neat pile of things folded upon the rose plush overstuffed chair that was twin to the one Max had vacated. Examining them, Lora saw to her relief that there were jeans, a hot pink t-shirt with the words “Go for it!” scrawled across the front, and a rainproof jacket. There was also a pair of panties, tiny black satin and lace panties which must have belonged to the owner of the peignoir set. Evidently, the lady did not believe in bras, or Lucia had forgotten to include that necessity. In any case, there was no bra to be found, though Lora searched through the pile twice in case it should have gotten caught up with the other clothes. Other than that, there was everything she needed, including a pair of sneakers. Ortega was well prepared for female visitors, it seemed. Perhaps there was even a woman staying here? The place was huge enough so that two dozen guests would never know of each other’s presence if their host did not wish it.
Lora heard splashing from the bathroom and started. She wanted to be dressed by the time he returned. Hurriedly, she pulled on the french cut panties, which barely covered her most vital parts, and the jeans, which were designer variety and so tight that she had to hold the zipper closed with one hand and zip with the other. The knit t-shirt was snug, too; without a bra Lora felt positively indecent. The owner of the clothes was a size smaller than Lora about the hips and perhaps two sizes smaller through the bosom. Grimacing at what she could see of herself, Lora crossed to the mirror set into the wall opposite the bed, fearing the worst.
Looking at her reflection, she saw that her fears were confirmed, and then some. Dressed in the too-tight jeans and the hot pink t-shirt with no bra, she looked more like a sex-hungry adolescent than a conservative Republican high school English teacher. If Howard Birnbaum, the principal, ever saw her like this, he would probably fire her on the spot. The tight jeans molded her hips and legs, emphasizing the curves of one and the length of the other; Lora was afraid to turn around and observe the affect on her behind. The clingy material of the t-shirt did not conceal a thing. Instead, it emphasized the full curves of her breasts, hugging the soft round globes and the taut nipples. She would have to wear the jacket over the t-shirt at all times, or at least until her bra dried, but she couldn’t very well wear a waterproof jacket to bed—could she?
Lora thought about it, then shook her head. No, she couldn’t. Casting a wary glance at the open bathroom door—the immodest swine didn’t seem particularly worried about the possibility that she might walk in on him—she was reassured to hear an off-key hum and the sound of more splashing. If she ate quickly, she could be in bed with the covers up to her chin by the time he got out of the tub.
The dinner was excellent. Lora fell upon it like a starving person, regretting only that she did not have time to really enjoy the chicken baked in some kind of dark, savory sauce and the accompanying side dishes. She wolfed every bite, barely chewing as she kept an ear and an eye trained on the bathroom. There was coffee, too, darker and more bitter than she was accustomed too, but surprisingly good and served in a delicate china cup with an intricately wrought silver teaspoon. Looking at her now empty plate, Lora saw that it too was china. Sevres china, to be exact, she discovered with surprise, looking at the mark on the bottom. Ortega certainly lived first class, she thought, and that raised the question for the dozenth time: What exactly was it that he did? She probably was better off not knowing. . . .
A louder splash warned her that her reprieve was at an end. Springing up while the last gulp of coffee burned her throat, she sprinted for the bed, diving under the covers and pulling them up to her chin. The bed had just stopped quivering when he walked into the room clad only in a bathsheet that he had wrapped around his waist and that hung nearly to his ankles, making it look as if her were wearing a long, native style skirt. His hair was damp and tousled from the steam, and the overlong ends curled around his neck and ears. He had shaved the stubble from his chin, revealing a light cleft in its center. Without the bristle, he looked younger, handsomer, not so much the thug. If he had only rid himself of the swooping mustache, Lora thought, he could have passed for a businessman or lawyer. Beads of water still clung to the broad bronzed shoulders and hair-roughened chest, emphasizing the clean lines of muscle and sinew. She was surprised once again by how lean his waist and hips were in comparison with those massive shoulders. . . .
“Look all you want, babe, but I feel I ought to warn you that I’m getting ready to drop the towel.”
The dry voice brought Lora’s eyes shooting back up to his face. She had been staring, she realized with squirming embarrassment as her eyes met his. There was a gleam in those obsidian depths that she didn’t dare try to analyze. He knew that she liked what she saw when she looked at him, knew that she found him attractive. She knew that he did. It was humiliating in the extreme, but there it was. She could only hope that he would not take advantage of her weakness.
Lora had been so busy being embarrassed that she had quite forgotten what he had said. When he dropped the towel, his eyes steady on hers and his face quite unembarrassed, she gasped.
“I did warn you,” he said as Lora shut her eyes. But it was too late. The image of that hard-muscled, hair-shaded, beautifully male body was seared into her brain. Without his clothes, he was gorgeous. . . .
She kept her eyes shut and her face turned away until she felt the bed sink with his weight as he got into it at the opposite side. The bed was enormous; they needn’t touch at all, Lora thought with relief. She heard the click of the lamp on his side being switched off, and relaxed a little. They both needed sleep . . . Just because they were sharing a bed was no reason to be so uptight. He had not tried anything the night before, despite the humiliation he put her through. He would not try anything tonight. . . . All she had to do was control her imagination—and her wayward impulses—and go to sleep.
She felt the weight of his upper body across hers, and shrieked. The shriek was automatic, and she was swallowing it even before his hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes had flown open along with her mouth. She stared up at him wide-eyed, alarmed, uncertain, and yes, if she had to admit it, even secretly a little excited. That sexy hairy naked chest was just inches from her barely covered breasts and electricity seemed to be coursing between them where they didn’t quite touch. He was staring down at her, his eyes alive with some emotion she couldn’t name. He wanted her just as she wanted him. Should she fight him, or . . .
“What in hell is the matter with you?” The growled question made her blink. Funny, it didn’t sound at all loverlike. . . .
“You—I—”
Her stammerings, coupled with her expression, must have given him the picture, because the scowl lines puckering his forehead and bracketing that hard looking mouth eased. The mouth itself twisted slightly. Lora, staring up at him from her prone position just inches beneath him, was more confused that ever. No, she thought, he definitely didn’t look loverlike. . . .
“My God, you do have rape on the brain, don’t you? I was just reaching over to turn out the lamp. You left it on.”
He sounded disgusted. Lora felt her face turn beet red, and didn’t even attempt to deny that she had thought what he thought she had thought as he continued his aborted movement to turn off the lamp.
When the room clicked into darkness, he returned to his side of the bed and turned his back to her. Lora was left staring, mortifie
d, into nothingness. She had made a fool out of herself, again. The only thing that was saving her from suffering the most abject humiliation was that he seemed to think she feared rape. Lora made a face in the darkness. He was wrong; she didn’t fear rape, but she did fear him. And the affect he had on her.
Lora supposed that she was a little old-fashioned about sex. She was not a virgin; she let Brian make love to her just about whenever he wanted to, which usually worked out to about once a month, logistics being what they were. And before Brian there had been a boy at the beginning of her senior year in high school, Mark Dyer, with whom she had “done it,” in his vernacular, exactly twice. Both times in the backseat of his ancient Mustang; the first time she had been a virgin, so she could not have been expected to enjoy it. The second time, while not physically painful, could best be described as embarrassing. All that fumbling, and his hands hot and sweaty against her skin . . . They had been going steady, and she had thought they were in love. Certainly he had told her that he loved her while he wheedled her into letting him go a little further on every date. They might have gotten engaged and married right after high school as a lot of kids did but for the accident. After that, she had been needed at home, and Mark had just sort of faded out of her life. He went away to college, and later she heard that he graduated and took a job selling insurance. Anyway, he never came back to Augusta. She stayed home and, after a year, started taking classes at the local community college.
It had taken almost six years of juggling her mother’s care, part-time jobs, and classes to get her degree, but it had been worth it. She had always wanted to teach. And if teaching hadn’t turned out to be precisely what she had expected, well, she enjoyed it anyway. She liked the kids, she was good at it, it gave her self-respect and a livable if not large income. What more could one ask of one’s job?
A slight snore told her that, unbelievably, in the few seconds she had been ruminating, he had fallen asleep. He went to sleep quicker than anyone she had ever known. Lora glared at the shape of his broad back through the darkness. Deliberately, she made herself concentrate on the husky rumbles that emerged from his throat. A snoring man was classically unsexy, she thought, concentrating on the soft but unmistakable sounds. He snores, she told herself over and over, snores, snores snores . . . Contrary to all she had read about snoring and its effect on the snorer’s bedmates, even his damned snore struck her as sexy. Punching her pillow as if it was his head, Lora turned her back and shut her eyes. She would go to sleep . . . Finally, in desperation, she started counting the detestable man’s rhythmic growls. . . .
She felt toasty warm, she thought, enfolded in warmth, enveloped in warmth . . . Her eyes opened drowsily, seeking the source of that warmth. Abruptly her body stiffened. A bare masculine arm encircled her waist; a long-fingered male hand lay against her rib cage, just inches from her right breast; soft male breathing ruffled the hair just over her ear. Her back was pressed against a naked male chest, her bottom cuddled into the saddle of equally naked male hips. And even through the too-tight jeans, she could feel his male reaction to her closeness. He was hot for her, hot and hard and ready—and asleep.
This knowledge, which Lora confirmed with a sneaking glance backward at his face, eased her trepidation slightly. She liked lying against him this way, liked the tingles that radiated out along her nerves from every place where their bodies touched. She liked feeling the naked heat and strength of him—without any real risk. What harm could there be in lying here enjoying the delicious feelings he conjured up in her, as long as he knew nothing about it? She could close her eyes, and fantasize. . . .
She did, and her fantasies were of him. The image of him as he looked without his shirt, without any clothes at all, tantalized her. All those bronzed muscles and that thick mat of hair—he was so big, so strong, so male. And he was touching her, holding her . . . Lora felt her body quicken, and for just an instant her eyes fluttered open. She should end this fantasy, before it reached its logical conclusion and entangled her even more thoroughly in this mess. But he felt so good against her, and her body was aching, and he was asleep.
He sighed, shifting slightly, and his hand moved to cover her breast. Lora froze, her eyes wide open now. She should push him away, push herself away, get up, do anything but just lie there burning beneath his touch. But he wasn’t moving, and another lightning glance back at his face showed her that his lashes still lay dark and heavy against his lean cheeks, and his mouth was still parted slightly as he breathed in and out. He was asleep—and she could enjoy the fantasy a moment longer.
Slowly, she relaxed, her whole being concentrated on the heat of that strong hand as it gently held her breast. His hand was so light on her, and yet so heavy and warm. . . . Her nipple tightened against his hand, butting into the cupping heat in a silent demand for attention. Lora felt the tightness throughout her body. She squirmed a little in answer, and her breast inadvertently pushed against his palm. His hand tightened in response—and Lora sucked in her breath. But he still seemed to sleep. Other than that one small, seemingly involuntary reaction, he did not move.
Her body felt as if it had suddenly burst into flames. The fire radiated from the hand that held her throbbing breast, from the feel of his hardness burning through the jeans covering her round bottom, from the heat and strength of every inch of his flesh where it seared her through her clothes . . . Her insides were turning to liquid because of him, and he wasn’t even awake. Thank goodness he wasn’t awake. Her bottom shifted in involuntary reaction to her body’s needs, pressing closer against the tantalizing shaft that didn’t even know she was alive.
His hand tightened on her breast again. Lora’s eyes fluttered up once more, but this time she was too caught up in the clamoring of her blood to care very much if he was awake. She wanted to be touched—she wanted him to touch her. She wanted to be stroked and caressed by that long-fingered hand that was driving her out of her mind just by holding her breast. . . .
His fingers were moving, slowly, to probe the hardened nipple. Lora felt his touch through the thin material of her t-shirt and had to bite her lip to keep from moaning. Her eyelids felt heavy; they closed despite her halfhearted battle to keep them open. She should pull away from him . . . Those fingers were gently squeezing, pinching her nipple, torturing her until her breast arched instinctively against his fingers. He rewarded it by sliding his hand down her rib cage under the hem of her shirt and up again. At the touch of his hand against her bare skin, all Lora’s nerves went haywire. His hand felt so good! Her eyes shut tight, pretending that it wasn’t she who was squirming with need, arching her back so that her breast pressed wantonly against his stroking palm, thrusting her bottom backwards so that it came into even closer contact with his hard flesh. Panting, she gave herself over to the fantasy that had been consuming her for days. She wanted this—she wanted this—she wanted . . .
His other arm snaked beneath her now, holding her back against him while he rubbed her breast with one hand and the other slid down, down over her rib cage and around to the snap that closed her jeans. She held her breath as he unsnapped it, then slid the zipper down. The faint zipping noise acted like the most potent aphrodisiac on her already overheated nerves. She mewed as she felt his hand on the softness of her belly, one finger testing the hollow of her belly button before moving down. . . . The hand stopped for an instant at the edge of the tiny bikini pants, and Lora quivered with frustration. This was her fantasy, and he couldn’t stop now. . . .
He didn’t. The large, warm hand slid inside her panties, slid down until it covered the soft mound of hair, until his fingers were probing the moist secrets of her, gently touching the most exquisite pleasure points until she gasped, squirming, clamping her legs against that hand that felt marvelous between her thighs. . . . The fingers were bolder now, stroking her, exploring her, parting the quivering folds of flesh and sliding inside her. Lora gasped, feeling as if she might die as those fingers teased her, moving in and out and t
hen lingering inside her before being withdrawn to stroke her weeping flesh again and then slide back inside. . . .
Gasping, panting, quaking against him, Lora was aware of nothing but the exquisite torture that was going on between her thighs. Desire was like a spring inside her, and with every movement of that hard, hot hand he was twisting it ever tighter until at last, at last she could stand it no longer. She cried out, her head thrown back, her eyes closed tight as her body quaked and quivered with pulsating release.
Her mind fell back to earth a little slower than her body, but when it did the result was infinitely more painful. She lay there, aware that she was still cradled in his arms with his hand still in her pants and his manhood still throbbing against her, afraid to open her eyes. Dear God, what had she done? What had she let—no, be honest—egged him into doing? How could she have allowed him to . . . ? She couldn’t even put it into words. She had never, ever engaged in such an act before, not to—to completion. With Brian, there was always only a little preliminary touching. Certainly he had never tried—and she had never wanted him to—to please her in that way. She had never even thought that she could be so devastatingly pleased by such an act. Was her reaction normal? And what about him?
Thinking that, Lora could no longer ignore the throbbing thrust of him against her backside. Though she was satiated to the point of numbness if one disregarded the burning shame that was threatening to rouse her, he was clearly unfulfilled. Lora chewed her lip, trying not to make the decision that had to be made. After what had just passed, he had every reason to assume that she would now make passionate love with him. Much as she hated to face the fact, she was largely to blame for that assumption. If he chose to go ahead now, she certainly could not cry rape. . . .
He removed his hand from her pants and sat up. Lora knew that she could postpone the confrontation no longer. Rolling onto her back and gritting her teeth, she fastened her jeans, pulled down her shirt—and opened her eyes.
Wild Orchids Page 11
