Warm Hearts

by Barbara Delinsky

  His eyes were hot and intense, echoing the silver light of the moon as it shimmied over the waves. He raised a hand to her cheek, tracing its sculpted line, the curve of her jaw, her ear. “I want to kiss you, Les,” he rasped. “I want to kiss you everywhere.”

  If his words hadn’t sent fire through her veins, his restless hands would have done the trick. Straining closer, Leslie tilted up her mouth in sweet invitation, then gave him everything when he accepted her offer. There was no teasing, no feint and parry, but rather an all-out meeting of minds, of hearts, of bodies.

  Her lips parted before his thirsty advance, moving with and against him just as anxiously. When his tongue plunged inward, she opened to receive him and suck him deeper. She needed to know of his hunger, absolutely loved the feel of his consuming her, indeed wanted him to know every dark niche within.

  All the while, his hands charted the outer landscape of her femininity, sliding around and across her back, over the gentle swell of her hips, the firm contour of her bottom. He lifted her, pressed her more closely, set her down and began again.

  Deep within, a gathering of fire had begun. Never before in her life had Leslie known such an intensity of need. But then, Oliver’s body was perfect. Arching against him, she felt its every contour. Her hands scoured him, mapping the breadth of his shoulders, the tapering length of his torso, the slimness of his hips, the solidity of his thighs. Around the latter her fingers splayed, sliding up and down as the sinewed cords beneath his slacks grew more taut. She felt the tremor that buzzed through him and found satisfaction that she could have caused it. But her satisfaction was quickly burned to a crisp beneath the flame of a hunger that flashed through her own limbs. When Oliver’s voice came, thick and low by her ear, she quivered all over.

  “You’re not wearing anything under this, are you?” He drew back only to see her face. In the moonlight it had a pale silver glow and looked all the more fragile.

  “No,” she whispered, eyes strangely innocent.

  “For me?”

  She shrugged shyly. “I wanted to feel … sexy. I did.”

  “Do you now?”

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed.

  “And … if I took the pareo off, would you still?”

  Her pulse had taken such a giant leap that she could only nod. It was what she wanted, what her entire body craved. Somehow hearing his intent was all the more erotic. She reached back to the knot at her neck, only to have his warm hands pull her arms away.

  “Let me,” he murmured, dipping his head to kiss her slowly, languorously, before turning his attention to the knot. His eyes held hers while his fingers worked, gently pulling at the ends of the cloth, steadily loosening them.

  When she felt the fabric slacken at her chest, Leslie felt a moment’s hesitation. There was nothing at all glamorous about her body. And though he’d seen most of it already, there was something very … special about that part he’d now see for the first time. But it was too late to go back, she knew. If the determined look on Oliver’s face hadn’t told her so, the soft tendrils of excitement skittering in the pit of her stomach would have.

  Slowly he drew his hands forward, unwinding the fabric and letting it fall to the sand. As though sensing her need for support, he instantly put his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them gently as his eyes fell to delight in her.

  “Oh … Les…” he managed brokenly.

  She caught in her breath. “Is it … am I…?”

  Only then did he look back to see the unsureness on her face. While one hand tightened on her shoulder, the other slid up to her neck. “You were worried?” he asked in surprise.

  “I’m not gorgeous.…”

  Helplessly drawn by the golden sheen of her skin, his gaze fell, to journey with his hand in a slow descent. The texture of his palm was the slightest bit rough in contrast to the butter-smooth skin of her breasts. His fingers seemed that much stronger than her waist, her hips, almost able to circle her thighs. But when they feather-touched the golden curls he’d never seen before, his hands were all male and dynamite.

  In response to their tender force, Leslie reached out to clutch his shoulders in support. “Oliver!” she whispered hoarsely.

  “You were worried?” he repeated dumbly as his hands flowed down and around and back up. Everywhere they touched she felt ready to explode. Again she moaned his name.

  Framing her face with his hands, he tipped it up to his. “You’re magnificent, sweetheart. Every inch of you. So warm—” he brushed his lips to her nose “—and soft—” he licked the line of her cheekbone “—and full where you should be full, and moist just there.…” His lips became pulsing things then, capturing hers with a frenzy that spoke more eloquently than anything else might have done. And Leslie surrendered to their argument, giving herself up to the fire of the moment, choosing to believe she was indeed as magnificent as he’d claimed.

  For a minute, held and holding breathlessly onto him, she savored the feel of his clothing against her skin. It made her feel naked and naughty and sensual. Yet when she burrowed her head against the column of his neck and opened her lips to the heat of his skin where his shirt fell open, she wanted more. Naked and naughty and sensual were very lovely narcissistic things to be. But what she felt for Oliver went far beyond narcissistic.

  As she kissed the bronzed hollow of his shoulder, her hands worked feverishly at the buttons of his shirt, releasing one after the other, finally tugging the material from his pants and brushing it away. Then, with a sigh of delight, she set her hands loose on the playground of his chest, feeling as though in being able to touch him at will she’d been given the greatest gift of all.

  “That’s right,” Oliver moaned, pressing his hands to the small of her back to keep their lower bodies close despite the inches that separated them above. “I’ve wanted you to touch me for so long—to feel your hands on my body.…”

  “Tell me what you like Oliver,” she whispered as she spread her fingers wide and ran them up his sides. When her thumbs grazed his nipples, he jerked. Returning to them, she circled their tips, tormenting them with the pads of her thumbs until he moaned again.

  “Like that,” he gasped, his eyes closed, his chest laboring in the effort to breathe. She found that to please him, to bring his body alive, was a joy in itself. Growing bolder, she bent her head and replaced her fingers with her lips. With the tip of her tongue she danced along his flesh, dabbing the hardened nipple with a sensual moistness, grazing it with her teeth. This time in response his groan was one of sweet agony. Crushing her bottom with his hands, he ground his hips to hers.

  His voice was a low, unsteady rasp, his eyes wild with fire when he tore her head up. “I don’t know how much more I can take, Leslie,” he warned. “I’ve needed you so badly all week—and now.…”

  Setting her back, he attacked the buckle of his belt. It was released, along with his zipper, in an instant. But as he would have thrust the fabric down, Leslie reached out.

  “Wait!” she cried, then at his stricken look realized his misconception. “No,” she whispered, stepping closer, “it’s just that I want to do it.” Arching against him, her hands at his waist, she stretched to reach his lips. Her breasts strained against his chest, creating a heady friction that gave even greater heat to her kiss. Then, offering him her tongue by way of exchange, she slid her hands beneath the band of his briefs, sought and found what she wanted, and stroked him tenderly. Fully aroused, he was thick and hard. She found herself breathing as heavily as he was, needing to touch him, yet needing so much more.

  Oliver moaned again, and a shiver shook his limbs. Setting her aside almost roughly, he thrust slacks and briefs down over his legs and cast them aside, then caught her again.

  At the contact, she cried aloud. It was new, rich and electric.

  “Oh, Les.…”

  “Yes, yes.…”

  “Come here!” The last was a command ground out from his chest moments before he slid his hands down the ba
cks of her thighs and lifted her, spreading her legs, fitting them snugly around his hips. Then, poised on the brink of her, he dropped smoothly to his knees and gently lowered her backward. Only when she was fully cushioned by the sand did he retrieve his hands. With one he propped himself up, with the other he reached down to unerringly find her warmth.

  “Please, Oliver…” she pleaded, moving against his hand in frustration.

  “Do you want me?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  His fingers caressed her longingly. “You’re ready.…”

  “I’ve been ready for so long—I don’t think I can stand much more.…”

  “I can’t,” he grated hoarsely. Planting his other hand near her shoulder, he moved his hips against hers.

  They looked into each other’s eyes then, aware of the moment as of no other before. To Leslie, it was right—right in every way, form and fashion. Not only did her body want Oliver, but her mind and her heart did as well. Regrets would be nonexistent, regardless of what the future held. For the moment to come promised to be the culmination of something very special to her as a woman. Pulse racing in wild anticipation, she grasped his hips and urged him in.

  Ever wary of hurting her, he rocked slowly, surging forward by degrees, conquering her by inches. Her mouth opened in silent exclamation at the beauty of it, the slow filling, the exquisite heat. When at last he was fully buried within her, he dropped his head back and let his breath out in a soulful rush.

  “You have no idea, Leslie.…”

  “But I do,” she cried, lifting her hips and hooking her ankles together at his waist. “I do,” she breathed, tightening herself, closing her eyes with the sweet, sweet pleasure of knowing that Oliver was deep inside.

  On arms that trembled, he lowered his head to envelop her mouth. Then he began to move his hips, slowly at first but with growing speed and power as the flight of passion caught him up.

  Leslie was with him every step of the way. Her lips answered his hungry nips, her hands roamed in greedy caress through the damp sheen of sweat rising on his skin. She felt his strength and the rock-hard boldness moving within her and, coaxed by instinct, caught the rhythm of his fire.

  In those instants what existed between them was raw and primal and devoid of identity other than that of an all-consuming and mutual need. Labels would have been useless; Oliver was no more the glamorous male model than she the private preschool teacher. The pleasure they brought each other was direct and intense, unsullied by anything either of them might have been or done or wanted before in their lives. There were just the two of them, making love at that moment; nothing else was of consequence.

  “Oliver!” she cried from a daze of passion, her body alive with a fire frightening in its intensity.

  “That’s it, sweet,” he urged, plunging ever deeper, “more … oh, yes … there.…”

  She cried his name again, strained upward, then dissolved into spasms of ecstasy. In the next instant Oliver, too, stiffened, then let out an anguished moan of joy as his pleasure went endlessly on.

  At last, totally spent, he collapsed over her. Then, when her gasping grew as loud as his, he quickly levered himself up on his elbows to relieve her of the worst of his weight. His gaze its most tender, he looked down at her.

  “Does that smile mean that you’re happy?”

  Her throat felt suspiciously tight. She nodded.

  “I’m glad,” he said softly, brushing his lips against a corner of the smile in question. “You are beautiful. That was beautiful.” He paused for a breath between each brief burst of words, then slowly slipped to her side, leaving one thigh firmly over hers. “Well, what do you think?” His tone verged on the giddy, yet she knew that deep down he needed to know that he’d pleased her. She also knew that it had very little to do with ego, and she was enchanted.

  She brushed the dark wave from the dampness of his brow, then repeated the gesture when it fell right back down again. “I think,” she began with mock deliberation, “that for a professional ladykiller you do just fine.”

  “I’m glad,” he murmured, “because if my past has been worth anything, it’s been to make me better for you.”

  “That’s a sweet thing to say.”

  “It’s what I feel, Leslie.” He was suddenly serious. “You do know that it’s never been like that before, don’t you?”

  Because she wanted to believe him, she nodded.

  “You also know that I’m now very sandy.”

  “You ain’t the only one.” Before she could say another word, Oliver was on his feet, dragging her up with him. “What are you doing?” she cried, then pulled back on her hand. “Oh, no, Oliver Ames, it’s chilly in there this time of night! You’re not getting me in there.”

  “It’s only the air that’s chilly,” he chided, dealing with her resistance by sweeping her into his arms.

  “Oliver! You’re supposed to be limp and sleepy. You can’t do this!”

  “I’m doin’ it.” His feet were making definite tracks, and not toward the house.

  “But, Oliver!” She held tightly to his neck when she heard the splashing at his feet. “Oliver!” He bounced farther into the waves. “Come on, Oliver!” When the water touched her bottom, she strained upward, only to slide helplessly down when he released her legs.

  Even the placid light of the moon couldn’t hide the mischief in his eyes. His hands went to his neck. “Let go of me, Leslie,” he murmured silkily.

  She shook her head and locked her hands all the more tightly. “No.”

  He spread his hands beneath her arms. “Let go.…”

  “No.”

  Then he tickled her. On a reflex of self-defense, she lowered her arms … and tumbled helplessly into the waves. Never once did he totally release her, though. His hands were there at her waist to lift her as soon as she’d been fully submerged.

  “That was a dirty trick!” she sputtered. Tossing her wet hair back from her face, she scowled, but he pulled her against him once more and she melted nearly on contact.

  “Now you can hold on again.”

  “Uh uh. You’ll only tickle again.”

  “I promise I won’t.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Really.”

  She wanted to believe. “Really?”

  “Uh huh.”

  She hesitated for only a moment longer. Then, sensual slave that she happily was, she locked her arms around his neck once more. The fit of their bodies was perfect. “Only problem is that you’ve still got sand on you, and now it’s back on me.”

  “Oh?” He frowned, as though stymied by the problem. Then, with an innocent shrug, he twirled and fell backward into the sea, dunking them both.

  This time she came up laughing. When Oliver grasped her around the waist and hoisted her higher against him, she looked adoringly down at him. “That was nearly as dirty a trick as the other.”

  “But we’re clean,” he murmured between nips at her chin, “aren’t we?”

  Her legs floated around him naturally. “Uh huh.”

  “Are you too cool?”

  “In your arms? Never.”

  He tipped her back and looked at her then. The moonlight set his features in relief, giving them a masterful air in counterpoint to the tenderness of his voice. “Why is it that you’ve always got the right answers?”

  “They’re not necessarily right,” she replied lightly, “just honest.”

  “You like honesty?”

  “I need honesty.”

  “Spoken with the same vehemence I’ve heard from you more than once before.” He paused. “What happened, Leslie?”

  Her legs slipped slowly downward. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been hurt. Something happened. I want to know.”

  “You don’t really,” she said, trying to make light of it.

  “I do.” His expression echoed his words. “I want to understand why you feel so strongly about some things. Why you put that certain distance betw
een you and your family. Why you seem leery of men.”

  “I don’t know, Oliver. It’s really irrelevant … and very embarrassing.” He would think her a positive fool!

  “Then—” he swept her up in his arms, turned and started for shore “—you’d better talk quickly so that the darkness can hide your blush. I intend to hear about it … tonight!”

  “Or…?” Her arms were around his neck once more.

  “Or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else … I’ll hold you prisoner, stake you spread-eagled out in the sun tomorrow morning, and let you fry until you talk.”

  “Mmm, sounds very provocative.”

  Out of the water now, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Primitive is the word.”

  She gave a playful growl. “Primitive turns me on.”

  “Leslie, you’re not being serious—but you won’t get away with it.” He let her feet fall to the sand, holding her waist until he was sure she had her balance. “Now pick up your things, and let’s get up to the house. We’ve got some talking to do.”

  She picked up her sandals and let them dangle from one hand. “Oliver?”

  He was searching the night sand for a second sock, his body lean and glistening in the moonlight. “Mmm?”

  Inching closer, she wrapped an arm around his waist. His skin felt slick and smooth; her flesh slid easily over it. “Wouldn’t you rather make love?” she asked softly, her expression more heartfelt than seductive.

  He popped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “That, sweet angel, will be your reward. Now up!”

  6

  Actually, they didn’t make it beyond the upper terrace. Stubbing her toe on the corner of a lounge chair she hadn’t seen in the dark, Leslie needed consolation. Much later Oliver was to tell her that she’d simply wanted to make love on every level. But he hadn’t complained at the time. Rather, there had been a kind of poignant drive to his lovemaking that had surprised her, given the satisfaction they’d so recently found on the beach. It was almost as though he feared what he’d learn when they talked.