by Marsh, Susan
Lust and a need for immediate release threatened to overwhelm him as he gazed down at her. Her glorious hair was fanned out around her on the pillow like a glossy halo, but with her lips so tantalisingly parted, the allure of her languorous green eyes wrenched him as no angel ever could.
Resisting the temptation to rush her, he thanked the fates he’d been blessed with iron control.
‘I believe I owe you,’ he murmured, watching her eyes swirl with awareness, tracing her edible mouth with his thumb. He was scorchingly minded of those other lips, the dark crimson portals plump and glistening for him. ‘I always pay my debts.’
She traced his collar-bone with a subtle hand, and beneath her sleepy lashes her eyes gleamed assent. She stretched out her slim arms, offering herself in such total surrender he thrilled to the promise of oblivion in her white body.
He started with little kisses, first her mouth, the delicate line of her jaw, then her throat and the valley between her breasts. Heartbreakingly beautiful, her breasts were full and firm, the nipples as red and ripe as strawberries. He tasted them, giving each a sly little teasing nip with his teeth. The electrified response that rippled through her slim form energised his own wild blood.
The words broke from him. ‘I’ve never met a woman who affected me like you.’
Her wry, incredulous smile twisted something in his chest. Didn’t she believe him? At once he needed to convince her. In some mysterious, primeval way, his inner sadness fused with an urgent need to embrace all that was bright and true and life-affirming. In the grip of some frenzied force, he was seized with a passion to make love to Cate Summerfield in earnest.
A warning voice piped up to remind him of the dangers of getting involved but he blocked it out. With a fierce intensity he explored every curve and hollow of her smooth, pliant body, her every small writhe and sigh like anaesthesia to the aching hole in his chest. He used all the skills at his command to heighten her desire, deliberately inciting a trail of fire all the way across the gentle mound of her stomach and down to her silky tangle of curls.
He paused there, tantalising her anticipation. She stilled, and stayed motionless, her breath on hold, prickling with suspense, her longing almost tangible. He could feel her struggle with her pride, not to give in. Not to beg.
She said at last, her voice beguilingly hoarse, ‘What now?’
He raised his head. With a charge of satisfaction he saw his own fire reflected in her shadow-darkened eyes.
‘Now, I’m going to kiss you properly.’
To his complete amazement a long, slow blush suffused her upper chest and throat and washed into her cheeks. Intrigued, he stared at her for seconds, grappling with the vague implications. Who’d ever have expected Cate Summerfield to be shy? With tender amusement he kissed the patch of soft curls at the apex of her thighs and said silkily, ‘Would you care to open for me?’
Her smouldering glance thrilled through him in a delicious communication of yearning mixed with uncertainty. It was so provocative. Tentatively she parted her thighs, a little at first, then wider, opening to him at last in such irresistible seduction, such utter, giving submission, he was moved with a passionate fervour to delight this warm, generous temptress and pleasure her to the hilt.
He positioned himself between her knees. Her erotic primal scent summoned his every masculine instinct with a compelling call. Red-hot, healthy blood surged to his groin.
First, he kissed her with his lips, enjoying the quivers of pleasure rippling through her. Then he raised the temperature with a tongue kiss, and ravished her with tender relish until her moist inner walls spun into a spasm that rocked through her body. He waited until her sobbing little sigh abated and she grew still, then slid up beside her.
Like the male animal he was, he burned to plunge his aching rod into her straight away and possess her slim white body until she bucked beneath him like a wild filly. Anything for blissful oblivion. But his conscience reminded him it was too soon for her. Give her time. Let her cool down a notch.
She lay silently for some moments, studying him almost as if she could read his mind—thank God no one ever would—then she roused him from his contemplation by placing her hand over his heart and whispering with earnest sincerity, ‘That was truly the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced.’
Jolted, he leaned up and gazed at her in bemused wonderment. What lacklustre lovers had she had in the past? Curiously touched, and at the same time reluctant to think about her with any other man, especially that cocky little ginger-haired guy, he kissed her lips, then dropped down again with his head beside hers on the pillow.
What was it about bringing a woman to orgasm that could move a man so deeply, shake him to the foundations, and make him feel so tender and protective? Although, he had to admit it hadn’t happened to him before quite like this. Was it just him this dark night, or Cate Summerfield?
He was reminded then that she needed protection. Muttering an exclamation, he reached over to the drawer in his bedside table, searching till he found the packet that had lived there, unmolested, for two years.
He paused, the packet in his hand. Memories, sharp and unbidden, rose to the surface.
With her body taut and thrumming like a violin, pleasured, but, oh, so ready for more, Cate lay on her side, waiting. She saw him still, saw his lean, strong face clench and grow harsh. On an instinct she sat up, firmly took the packet from him and opened the wrapper.
Compelled by her grave, steady gaze, Tom choked back the past and allowed her to help him slide the condom onto his sweetly agonised shaft, her slim, pale fingers trembling.
His eyes lighted on her fingernails, unpainted and neatly trimmed. Her naturalness and lack of artifice moved him in a strangely poignant way. From somewhere the thought crept in—and he must have uttered it aloud, for it left a bloody gash as if it had been ripped from him—’He would have liked you. He wasn’t always such a bad old guy.’
Her eyes widened, then filled with tears. ‘Oh, Tom, Tom.’ She put her hands on his shoulders, then moved onto his lap and kissed him deeply with her arms around him, her breasts pressed against his chest, cramming his aroused penis against her lower abdomen with maddening, torturous delight.
The scent and silky softness of her skin and hair tormented his senses unbearably. He blamed the alcohol, for her sweet compassion played unmercifully on the bizarre state he was in, and he felt as if there was so much more in her kiss than mere desire. At least, he needed there to be.
The tough, hardened shell locking in his pain threatened to crack and splinter open. As the kiss broke and he gazed at her he’d never have believed it possible that he, a man, could be composed of so much rawness. He tried to rationalise it, explain it to himself, but his brain felt like a boiling pot of things he was tired of thinking about.
The only thing he could be rock-sure of was that he felt deeply and overwhelmingly affected by Cate Summerfield. He heard himself saying, and he’d never meant it more, ‘I want to make love to you. You’re … of all the women I’ve known, you must be the sweetest … You’re the one … The one I’ve been … I’ll adore you for ever, Cate Summerfield. Do you know that?’
He seized her and pushed her down on the pillow. Her mouth was bruised from kissing, but he needed to kiss her again. There was no way he could stop. She responded at once with the same burning hunger he felt himself. He invaded the sweet interior of her mouth with his tongue, mingling their hot breaths in triumphant possession.
He broke from her and searched her eyes. They were dark, lustrous with anticipation. ‘You’re my lover now,’ he rasped. ‘I won’t share you,’
Her eyes widened in surprise, and for an instant her shallow, panting little breaths suspended. Then he slid over her, he parted her thighs and took fierce possession of her soft yielding form.
He watched her face, thrilling when she closed her eyes as he entered her, her lashes perfect arcs against her cheeks. He heard himself groan with the intense, sea
ring pleasure as her deliciously tight sheath closed around him.
Though yearning to lose himself in her vibrant body, he forced himself to move softly at first, to rock her gently into his rhythm. He controlled his straining urgency to let go. And although every stroke was the sweetest, sizzling torment, urging him on to harder, faster thrusts, he waited with her until he felt her taut body relax.
Then he felt the tension in her muscles give way to sensuality, felt her long, slim legs wrap around him to take him in further, heard her wrenching little cry of pleasure, and there was no more holding back.
Moving inside her sweet, honeyed flesh, he abandoned his bitter self, forgetful of grief and deceit. Possessing Cate Summerfield utterly suddenly seemed the purest of goals. It was an exhilarating ride to freedom. As he reached the glorious summit he felt her muscles contract into spasm around him, and knew the fabulous rapture of total release as his hot, life-giving seed spurted forth.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SUNSHINE filtering through the silk drapes suggested that the day had advanced beyond early morning. Unfamiliar sounds drifted in, and Cate took a few seconds to realise where she was. Her eyes focused on the Streeton. Of course. Tom’s bed, and she was alone in the tumbled sheets.
A clock on the cabinet showed it was close to ten. The evening before rushed back. Oh, God. What had she done?
Bathed in a heavy feeling of something world-shaking having happened, she sat up gingerly and put her hand to her head. So far, so good.
Gently, gently. The soles of her feet met the sensuous, silken Tree of Life and rested there with reassuring steadiness.
Satisfied her head could take it, she padded into the bathroom and stood for long, satisfying minutes under soothing hot water. There was a pleasing soreness between her legs, and her insides melted in recollection. Her heart beat faster as images began to sharpen in her mind. Tom in bed, his strong arms around her. How sexy and tender he’d been, though there’d been such pain behind his smile.
She was overwhelmed with the sense of something powerful and intense having taken place between them, far beyond mere sex. Some of the things he’d said had been so beautiful, so full of promise, she hardly dared to dwell on them for fear of jinxing the possibilities. She hoped they weren’t just uttered in the heat of the moment, to be repudiated in the cold light of day.
She wrapped herself in a white towelling bathrobe left hanging behind the door, and hugged it to herself in case Tom had worn it before her.
She pulled off the shower cap and studied her face in the mirror for signs of wear and tear. Apart from puffy pink lips, her skin looked surprisingly fresh, her eyes clear and bright. Despite the late night, and her tremulous hopes, she felt as chirrupy as a starling. And ravenous.
At the door she hesitated, conscious of a certain apprehension, then walked out, the bathrobe trailing, her bare feet soundless on the boards. A glass jug of orange juice had been placed on the kitchen bench, and there was a promising fragrance of coffee. She helped herself to the juice, and took it with her in search of Tom.
She found him in the dining room with the blinds drawn, amid a sea of newspapers. He was brooding into space, his black brows heavily lowered, painkillers and coffee at his elbow, a broadsheet spread before him on the table. She saw at once it was the Clarion. He was barefoot, in jeans and a black vest, his bare bronzed arms and a day’s growth of dark beard giving him a bad-boy sexiness that clutched unbearably at her insides.
Tom raised his eyes. Wrapped in his bathrobe, Cate Summerfield looked as fresh and radiant as the spring morning. Though his throat felt as parched as the Simpson Desert, his testosterone levels perked up and he forced a growl. ‘Hello … How—how are you?’
A cloud of some soapish, feminine fragrance wafted his way.
‘Fine, thank you. Never better. Excellent, in fact. Did you—did you sleep well?’
He hesitated. He had a stirring flash of that instant before sleep had overwhelmed him, her lissom body pressed against him so she could hold him. So he could feel her heartbeat.
‘Certainly.’ Perhaps he sounded gruff, even a little defensive, but a man had his dignity.
She bent and lightly kissed him on the forehead, and more of the heady scent rose from the valley between her breasts. His blood stirred to the knowledge that she was probably naked under that robe.
Cate pulled out a chair, noticing him flinch at the minuscule scrape on the floorboards. ‘Sorry.’ There was heaviness in the lines around his eyes. ‘Do you have a headache?’
He waved his denial but she wasn’t convinced. The painkillers suggested otherwise. And his coffee looked virtually untouched. He lowered his gaze to the Clarion. Shutting her out. She scanned the columns upside down. He’d gone beyond the front page, so she had no clue as to whether her story had made it. Was that why he looked so forbidding? She scrolled through what she’d written in her head. What had she said that he wouldn’t like?
She sat down, and her body surged with remembrance of the night’s passions. His bare bronzed, muscular arms were so tempting she had to fold hers on the table to stop herself from reaching across to maul him. She examined him covertly in search of a clue to the correct morning-after tone. She had the distinct feeling he wasn’t concentrating on his reading.
‘Er … Cate—’ he drew a long breath ‘—look … I should apologise.’ With a grimace he raised his eyes to hers. ‘Last night. I had a bit to drink. I don’t usually … but I’m not making excuses. There is no excuse. Don’t— er—read too much into anything I might have said.’ A flush darkened his bristly cheek.
Her heart took a dive. ‘Oh. You mean—about me being your lover?’ As for him adoring her for ever … This didn’t seem like the time to bring it up.
He gave her a quick startled glance, then returned his saturnine gaze to the paper, his mouth sternly compressed. She sensed turbulence in the airwaves. Surely he couldn’t really be reading.
She grappled with her disappointment. He wouldn’t be the first man to regret the romantic things he’d said. What could she expect? They’d only just met, for God’s sake. Just because there’d been moments that had moved her quite intensely … She supposed now he couldn’t wait to get rid of her.
Or maybe he’d gone dramatically off her after reading the article. If it had been published. Suddenly her burning need to know asserted itself.
‘Is that the Clarion, Tom?’
He glanced up at her, then closed the paper and handed it across.
With trembling hands she whipped it around to the front page. Halfway down blazed Mike’s best shot, the grim one of Tom arriving in the car park. Under the headline ‘HEIR STEPS INTO BIG SHOES’—the copy editor’s words—was her name, followed by the first section of her story. The rest was continued on page seven, alongside a photo spread. She stared, marvelling for fabulous seconds as her precious words leaped out at her.
People all over New South Wales would read it. Gran would read it. And in tiny, elegant print at the top of the three magnificent little columns they would read Cate Summerfield.
She felt the quick rush of tears and her heart gave such a bound she had to hold herself stiff for fear of it bursting through her chest wall. But, searingly conscious of the grim subject of her piece sitting right there, she sat holding the paper with both hands and maintained her poker face, until something gave her the courage to glance at him. His mouth had relaxed its sternness, and he was watching her, his eyes glinting with such knowing amusement, she felt encouraged.
‘Er … I hope you didn’t find what I said too—confronting.’
‘Not at all,’ he growled politely. ‘I so enjoy your pithy style.’
She couldn’t prevent a grin from breaking through her mist, but it wasn’t nearly enough, and the fabulous joy bubbled up inside her until she was forced to spring up out of her chair and wave the paper in the air while she danced a few ecstatic steps.
‘Oh,’ she cried. ‘This is good. It’s so good, Tom
. It’s really, really good.’
Tom Russell laughed, then winced and put his hands to his temples. Then, exactly as if he wasn’t suffering the most vicious headache in Sydney, he got up out of his chair and grabbed her around the waist and kissed her, scraping her face with his bristly jaw in the most satisfying and sexy way. Not the kiss of a man eaten up with regrets.
‘Explain to me,’ he growled, holding her, ‘what a man’s socks have to do with anything. Only a rag like the Clarion would publish such half-baked psychobabble.’
‘The most widely read rag in the country,’ she crowed. ‘The thinking man’s rag. The rag that carries the culture of a nation.’
‘The rag that’d collapse at the first sign of some half-decent competition,’ he retorted caustically.
‘Ah,’ she taunted, giddy and aroused from the kiss, ‘but where will that come from?’
He stared frowningly down at her for a second, then released her. Rubbing his jaw, he excused himself, murmuring something about shaving. She uncurled her toes. Even hungover and unshaven, she could have eaten him alive.
‘Try some of that orange juice,’ she risked calling after him.
She’d only brought the one change of clothes, a shortish skirt and a white top to wear under a light sky-blue cardy. After she’d dressed and applied a discreet measure of makeup, she retrieved her things from the evening before and packed them into her overnight bag.
Tom strolled out, showered, clean-shaven and fresh-smelling. She noted that the jug of orange juice stood empty.
His sharp eye fell on her bag at once. ‘Where are you going with that?’
She hesitated. ‘Home. One night was what we agreed.’
‘It was …’ He rubbed his ear. ‘Only I’m not sure that would be for the best. What about tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Well, we haven’t accomplished everything we need to do.’
‘Oh.’ A wild little hope raised its head. ‘You mean—convincing Malcolm Devlin?’
