“Especially when you don’t speak French that well. I admire resolve in a person, and you possess more than any single individual I know.”
She liked that he thought so. “What happened to him?” she asked after a moment. “To Colonel Baker?”
The major lowered his head and seemed to contemplate the gloves he held in his hand. When his gaze lifted, his mouth was tight.
“One night two years ago we were on patrol. I’d been here for six months. Near the Baharia oasis, we captured the biggest hashish shipment in history, and broke Omar’s supply line. Three days after he returned to Cairo, the colonel was attacked and left for dead. He took a bullet in his back. Omar was the man who’d fired the shot, but he had an alibi that night, and Colonel Baker’s accusation was attributed to delirium. Nothing could be proven.”
She held his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
He looked at a donkey passing on the street. “I was still at the oasis, and didn’t learn about the attack for almost a month. The bullet is too close to his spine to ever attempt to operate.” He met her gaze. “I’ve done what I could.”
Fallon helped her mount. He adjusted her foot in the stirrup.
“You’re a fraud, Major Fallon,” she said as he bent over her boot. He raised his face inquiringly. “You work so hard to extol less than a virtuous demeanor. But for all the trouble you go to get yourself disliked, inside you are really soft and fuzzy.” She grinned. “Quite likable. Sometimes even charming.”
“Is that so?”
“Borderline nice.” She pinched his cheek and laughed.
Conscious of his hand still warm on her ankle, she tilted her chin. “Why do you always look at me like you’re trying to figure me out?”
“I’ve never heard anyone laugh the way you do.”
She splayed her mouth with a gloved hand. “Am I too loud?”
“Very.” A salacious smile tilted his lips. “But in a good way.”
They remained smiling amiably at each other in the sunlight, the day still young, and filled with the promise he’d made her last night.
Suddenly mindful that he was aware of the subtle shift of her thoughts, she crossed one hand over the other on the saddle and looked at the small colorful stone house with bougainvillea hanging in clay pots. “Why haven’t you denied the gossip about Yasmeen and you?”
“Because the truth makes no difference to people.” He mounted and swung his bay gelding around. His hands reined in the high-stepping horse. He looked very good in the saddle as his eyes moved over her with a thoroughness that quickened her stomach. “And I learned a long time ago not to care what people say or think about me.”
She wanted to feel that manner of mental liberation. He dressed in native clothing. He’d stuck a gun against the head of one of the most powerful opium underlords in this country, then ridden back into the desert and dared her with his eyes and his lips to lay with him. Christopher didn’t intimidate him—for once, her brother’s protective presence didn’t eclipse her own.
She wondered if he’d ever been in love.
But not enough to break the mood and ask him.
They rode out of the quiet little neighborhood where Colonel Baker lived and into traffic. It was mid-morning, the busiest time of the day. Sunlight gleamed off white walls. The air was still fresh and the city alive with noise. He kept beside her as they rode down the avenue, and Brianna realized that they were headed toward the waterfront.
Michael shut the door and leaned against the portal as Brianna made a slow turn in the room. Her skirts rustled with her movement. She removed her hat and then gloves, one finger at a time. He said nothing, simply watched her languid movements, the expression in her eyes. Dark curls fell in windswept confusion down her slim back.
“This place is beautiful.” She ran her a finger along the bamboo mural on the wall.
Dust floated in the pale streamers of light, stirred to life by the invisible current of Brianna’s passing. When he’d bought the houseboat some time ago, he had not inquired as to its décor. Nor did he care. But now he was glad for the pleasant surroundings.
He watched Brianna move to the adjoining doorway. Sunlight filtered through the blinds and laid a crisscross pattern on the wooden floor. He could see the corner of the bed and a plush yellow chair from where he stood. He reached behind him and clicked the lock.
The noise drew Brianna around.
If his intent wasn’t clear in his eyes, all she needed to do was look lower and find it pressed against his trousers. He’d already unbuttoned the jacket of his uniform.
“This is a dahabeeyah,” she said as he pushed off the door with a restlessness that was foreign to him. “I hear the crew outside. Are we going to sail?”
Her heart was racing. He could see it in the rise and fall of her breasts, hear it in the waver of her voice.
“I promise to have us back before late afternoon.”
“Is this place yours?”
Without touching her, he leaned his palms against the wall and caged her between his arms. “Does it matter?”
“Then I’m not the first woman you’ve brought here?”
He looked down at the top of her dark head. “My lack of celibacy was never a point of supposition.”
“No. I suppose it wasn’t.”
“I haven’t any tea prepared,” he said, so close that he could smell her essence. “Though, if you want some—”
She raised her face and met his gaze. “I didn’t come here thinking that you were going to serve me tea, Major.”
“Michael.”
He bent his head and touched his mouth to hers. He wanted to hear his name on her lips.
Just once, he wanted her to say his name.
He was dimly conscious of movement beneath his feet as the dahabeeyah cast off from shore. She tasted of fine coffee. Her cool hands rose to cup his jaw, and she deepened the kiss, drawing him into her arms. Her tongue met then thrust against his, seeking, exploring, burning. He might have pulled away to reassert control but he was drawn by the sheer power of her pull. His hands left the wall and tightened against her waist, pulling her hard against him.
He would hold himself back no more.
Slanting his head, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her to the depths of her soul.
Or maybe it was his own.
She was soft and warm, and vibrantly alive. Little-Miss-Spoiled-For-Life-With-One-Kiss was a damn fine kisser, and he found that he wanted to be inside her.
He pulled away to breathe. Her lashes fluttered open. Her face was flushed, her mouth wet, her crystalline blue gaze bright in the pale light. “When was the last time you had your menses?” he asked.
“What?” she blinked. “I…”
He laid his hand beneath her chin and tilted her face. He’d rarely seen her blush and was surprised that she did so now. “There are ways to prevent conception, but nothing is perfect.”
“I should start in a few days. I—” She reached her hand into her skirts. “I’ve also thought of that.” Pulling out a velvet pouch, she walked past him into the saloon—the front room where she’d set her gloves and hat. “I’m unsure how these work. I mean, it was explained, but not entirely. They are worn by the man.” Her eyes lifted to his. “By you, on your…it prevents conception. So I’ve been told.”
“Indeed.”
He watched her nervousness with amusement, amazed. He had an idea what she had in that little bag of hers, and wasn’t even going to ask where she’d secured French lettres.
Brianna tipped the contents of the bag beside her gloves. When he remained leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, she turned inquiringly.
“Do you think they’ll fit?” he asked, as amused by her optimistic outlook of his stamina as he was by her one-size-fits-all reasoning.
He wouldn’t be able to fit into one of those. She probably had no idea the affront that she’d just paid him.
She looked back at the pile. “No one said anything a
bout size.”
He approached her and turned her into his arms, setting out to relieve her of her clothes. His hands went to the buttons on her demure jacket. It cinched her waist and accentuated her curves. “I have my own.” He put his mouth against her neck. “Not as many as you brought, but enough for today.”
Her tongue darted out from between her lips. “Major, I—”
“Brianna.” He leaned his hands against the bar at her back. “Why won’t you call me by my—”
“You taste like peppermint.” Rising on her feet, she wrapped her arms around him. “I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to be seduced.”
He slid his thumb across her bottom lip. Her pull palpable, he was conscious of the primal need to claim her, of his own seduction. His eyes remained on hers. With the callused pads of his fingers, he unbuttoned her blouse and freed her breasts into his hands. Her corset had shoved them high. She was beautifully formed, nature’s perfection against his hands. A slight shiver went over her when he touched her.
He watched her slumberous eyes close, felt the raw hunger swell inside, then bent his head and took her mouth. Her body arched against him. His hands kneaded her breasts, stripped away her jacket, spread across her back, to finally fist into her hair. He savored her taste, the small groan she made, the feel of her body in his arms. She was like warm velvet, soft and responsive to his touch. Her nipples, hard and tight, pressed against his chest. She’d scraped his jacket away, and lowering his arms behind him, he let it drop to the floor beside hers. Her blouse followed. He unhooked her stays. She balanced on the balls of her feet, leaning into his body as her mouth returned to his over and over again, seizing more than his senses. He was physically drowning.
The dahabeeyah could sink, and he would not know it. Somehow they reached the adjoining door. Her riding skirt and petticoat slid to her feet with a swoosh. Followed by her drawers. He stepped over the discarded clothes and they tumbled onto the bed. The ropes groaned. The frame cracked. Her eyes flew open with a helpless gasp and she panted brokenly.
Michael caught himself above her. Braced on his palms, breathless, he looked down into her unfocused gaze—then joined his mouth to hers again, sucking her tongue between his lips. He felt the feather-light touch of her hands against his chest, her palms opening over the powerful, corded muscle that delineated his shoulders and curved into his back. Her nipples ruched against his hand. Then his lips replaced his hand and he suckled her through her chemise before he gathered the cloth in his fist and pulled it over her head, leaving her wearing only her stockings and shoes. The contrast was erotic, and he pulled back to see all of her splendor. Her skin was flawless, her breasts full and high, her nipples flushed.
Their gazes met and held. She’d never been touched the way he was touching her now. It shone in her eyes as she watched his hungry gaze go over her. “Are you frightened?” he quietly asked.
“Of you?” She shook her head—and something touched him, broke free inside him.
Her fearless passion for living, her sensuality, her innocence, was an irresistible lure, a shiny bauble in a pile of ashes that had become his life. She twisted around and entwined her body with his.
Her flesh was warm and soft and malleable beneath his fingers. He slid his hand, dark against the paleness of her stomach, to claim her completely. “Tell me what you want.” His breath touched her lips.
“You.”
“Show me. Show me what you want.”
Her hands went to his, hesitating, before she nudged them lower. “I want to know what it’s like to be touched by you.”
He moved a finger inside her, intimately stroking. Her body tightened around him. She was wet and hot. He felt her maidenhead. She did not look away from the intensity in his gaze, and he could not look away from her. “Why, Brianna?” His words were strained. “Why me?”
Her eyes drifted closed on a fragmented gasp. His fingers moved over her. “I…” She fumbled for words. “Because…you’re not afraid of anything.” The whisper touched his lips. “Because you would.”
Her musk mingled with the scent of roses on her skin.
The garters holding up her stockings pressed into the top of his thigh. She watched his eyes drift upward until he’d pinned her with his gaze, and he felt the kick of her heart against her ribs. She’d heard him laugh below his breath, and sensed the dark undercurrent beneath the sound. “It’s nice to know I’m wanted for something, amîri.”
“I…”
He knew she was too lost to understand what he’d meant, lost to the magic of his fingers, to the primal force that became him. She became a twist of emotion, a knot of fire. Small sounds emanated from the back of her throat. “Do you like this?” His voice was a harsh rasp against her ear. “Tell me.”
“Yes. Yes, I like it a lot.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No!”
His mouth caught her cries. Instinctively, she arched against him. His kiss continued down the salty curve of her neck. Determined to take what he wanted, he was also determined to give her what she needed—but not yet.
Her breath broke as he pulled away, leaving her stunned and boneless on the rumpled bed, watching the reflection of the water dance on the ceiling. She slowly turned her head when he returned naked and stood in front of the bed.
She pushed up on her elbows, her dark hair spilling around her face. Michael felt the heat of her blue gaze go over him like a painted stroke, and he wanted more of her touch, more of the fire that claimed his senses. When he could bear the weight of her gaze no longer, he touched her chin gently, and she jumped, her gaze leaping to his.
Brianna couldn’t breathe.
“It will hurt the first time.” His eyes touched hers.
She watched as his long fingers worked the French lettre over the thick length of his arousal. The moisture left her mouth.
“Are you frightened yet, amîri?”
Her lashes drifted higher. “I want to touch you,” she breathed, and feathered her hands over him, touching him as intimately as he’d touched her, watching him close his eyes.
“What is this made from?”
“You don’t want to know. But it’s better than rubber.”
The backs of her knuckles rasped the swirl of dark hair that surrounded his sex—hair the same color that arrowed up his abdomen and sprinkled his chest. “You are not what I imagined,” she whispered.
He pulsed with life.
His head fell back on his shoulders. “Why is that, amîri?”
She felt awkward and young in his very male presence. She didn’t want her inexperience to show, but it did just by looking at him. “You are far more than I dreamed,” she said.
“Christ!” He grabbed her hands and placed his knee on the mattress between her thighs. “That’s good.” His lips brushed hers. “Because I’m going to give you more than you ever dreamed.”
Locking his fingers with hers, he kissed her, plunging his tongue between her lips, bringing them both back to the precipice where they’d been earlier. With a sigh—or was that a moan?—she let him kiss her into submission, and no matter the searing tightness in her own body, let him seize from her what she wanted so desperately from him.
“I want to touch you.” Her voice was a rasp.
“No.” The word trapped between their lips was uncompromising. He took her down with him to the bed, flesh to flesh. “Not like that. Not right now. When I come, it will be inside your body.”
He sank lower against her, drawing first one breast then the other into his white-hot mouth, sinking still lower, over her concave stomach. She twisted restlessly beneath him. Pleasure and desire became one. His mouth was thorough, his possession of her body complete. Before she could grasp what he was doing, he put his face between her legs. Dark, silky hair brushed the inside of her thighs.
Then his mouth pressed intimately against her. With a tortured cry, she clamped her hands in his hair, the rush of heat shattering her frail resist
ance. She mumbled incoherently. And she opened her legs farther, sinking against the thrust of his tongue, surrendering to the wet plundering heat that engulfed her.
When her gaze again came into focus, he was above her, reading her wicked mind with an amused glitter in his eyes.
And the inherent dare that was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes.
He knew her.
He knew her body better than she did. She wanted to know his.
Twining his fingers with hers, he spread her legs. He was not a small man. Not any part of him. Her eyes were fixed on his, and his on hers. She felt him hesitate, then push through her maidenhead. She had heard that the first time would hurt. That a woman would bleed from the invasion. The pressure between her legs increased.
And it did hurt.
When he entered her, her hands fisted against his.
“I’m not in, Brianna.”
“Don’t…stop.”
“Relax.” His voice was gravelly against her ear.
Her mouth was too dry to allow speech.
He withdrew slightly, then pushed, gaining another few inches.
Without warning he pulled her up, still partially impaled on him. Her bones melted against him. He sat her on his lap, her weight driving him deeper into her body, until he was buried.
“Hug your knees to my waist,” his whisper bade. His face taut with primal hunger, he waited for her to adjust to his size, then began to move inside her.
Shameless.
It was the way he made her feel.
Brianna inhaled his carnal scent, his breath; she let him fill her body, her senses.
In the wild rush of her heartbeat, she found her own rhythm and began to move. His breathing turned harsh and ragged, his eye contact broke. He grabbed her hips. Her mind clouded as he lowered his face to the fullness of her breasts and drank of her skin. She arched, pressing her rose-tipped breasts against his hot mouth, her tumble-down hair spilling over his thighs, and soon she was lost to the rocking rhythm of her own body, her labored breathing the single hushed sound between them. With a groan that was her name, he wrapped his arms around her, one palm going to her bottom, the other pressing into the thick waves of her hair. She spiraled upward as her body moved toward the elusive pinpoint of light that seemed to surround her like a misty shroud. Nothing had ever felt like this, and when the spasms fueled her cries, he silenced her outcry with the force of his hand against her nape, crushing her lips to his and kissing her deeply with a possessive urgency as powerful as her own. His breathing fractured against her lips. Swallowing his deep-chested groan, she returned his kiss, finally drinking in the sounds of his release.
Must Have Been The Moonlight Page 12
