by Margaret Way
She threw off her akubra, feeling the cool air on her overheated scalp. Her fingers speared into the red-gold silk of her hair, loosening it within its ponytail. Then, with something approaching wonderment, she lifted her head to study the painted ceiling.
It had to be a strange creature from another world. One skeletal white hand was lifted in a gesture that seemed to her more like a farewell than a greeting. The yellow head was as round as the sun, with red rays drawn all around it, and something like wings, but not wings, more like primitive flying devices, protruded from the shoulders. The feet were like the claws of a wedge-tailed eagle.
"A visitor from another world," Brock remarked quietly. "I just hope we haven't disturbed him."
"Oh, goodness me, no!" Shelley shivered as much from the mesmeric power of the cave drawing as the sudden drop in temperature. "It's really quite eerie. And who are all these people?"
She shifted her gaze to the scores of little stick figures who appeared to be dancing to some irresistible ceremonial music.
"I feel privileged to see this, don't you? Do you suppose he's a god? He looks like he's come from another world, like the famous Wondjina paintings in the Kimberleys. Nonhuman beings."
"It's hard to get interpretations," Brock said, moving closer to the rock wall to examine the little figures so simply drawn yet so brilliantly conveying movement. "That fellow up there on the ceiling looks like a sky traveller, or a mythical being who settled down in this particular cave. There must be tens of thousands of cave paintings all across the Centre and the North. Ours survive because they're right off the tourist map. Are you feeling any better?" He risked glancing over his shoulder to where she was standing.
"I'm loving this," she said. "Aren't you glad I made you come up here?"
To temptation that had never been surpassed? Brock thought. .
"What a day!" he said with fierce intensity, his face all taut planes and angles.
"Yes, what a day!" she echoed, herself filled with torrents of emotion. "It all seems too much to contain. I'm so sorry. Brock, for the way you're being treated. When I think how your grandfather-"
"Deceived me?" he cut in, starting to prowl restlessly around the cave. Movements that put her irresistibly in mind of a caged big cat.
"I was going to say made you a p-promise." Her voice wavered at some expression in his eyes.
"We should go, Shelley." He was determined to resist his feelings and made severe by the effort.
"Yes, I'm sorry. You didn't want to come up here anyway."
She bent her head, a flower on a stalk, apparently not even daring to look at him for too long. The tension was tremendous. Like an actual grinding force. Everything would be all right as long as he didn't touch her.
She stooped to pick up her hat and then, straightened in one graceful motion that was unconsciously sensuous. Brock was unbearably aware he wanted her to keep going.
She was almost at the entrance when directly outside the cave a bird whistled so loudly, so shrilly, it was like an actual alarm. Already unnerved, she started violently. The involuntary cry that emitted from her throat was a shade hysterical even to her own ears.
"Oh, damn!" She knew she wasn't handling this terribly fraught situation well. She was too inexperienced. Brock had lived in her imagination for too long. She wanted him to reach out and hold her, not stare at her in that sombre fashion. How could a man with shimmering eyes look so brooding'? There was strong emotion she knew he wanted to keep under control. Anything could send it crashing.
She moved urgently then, her pride coming to the rescue. Inadvertently she brushed his body as she passed. He wasn't blocking her path, but somehow she almost walked into him.
Sheer yearning! It had to be the incense from the desert plant. She was almost drunk on it, reeling slightly on her feet, her heart going madly. Her hand came up to half-cover her face.
It was then Brock lost it. With a bitter pang he realized there was no stopping him now. Her innocence and beauty disarmed him, and he was an emotional mess. He wanted her as badly as he'd ever wanted anything in his life.
He reached for her on a sharp intake of breath, with a swift movement sliding his arms down over her, pulling her to him, enfolding her slender body. It was no use trying i(, fight this. He had left behind reason.
His mouth closed almost brutally on hers and her li!),, gave way instantly under the hard consuming pressure, as
though his passion for her beat down all resistance. Thr sheer delicacy of her tongue! She was so small when mea
sured against him, yet she seemed to fit his body perfectly, as if she were made for his pleasure.
She was wearing a white ruffled blouse with little buttons down the front. Buttons his questing hand found, undoing them with an expertise he wasn't proud of, flipping the soil fabric back so he could take the weight of her small silky soft breast in his hand, thumb and forefinger caressing the already erect nipple. A berry on cream.
He could feel the tremor that ran through her, hear all the fluttery sighs that rose and fell as he gave attention to her other breast, bending her backwards and lowering his head so he could take that sweet berry into his mouth, barely grazing it with his teeth.
It was better than his fantasy. A groan came from low in his throat. With every minute his desire was growing fiercer, fully-fledged.
Let her go. Let her go. Free her! A voice in his head made some attempt to stop him, urging restraint. Only she was clinging to him, her responses inflaming him further.
It was wonderful. It was terrible. Both in equal measure. His will was gone. The only thing that mattered was having her in his arms, his hands caressing her magical flesh, his mouth taking hers, over and over. Even in the driving heat of his passion he knew he was receiving as well as taking. They were kissing each other with such ardour and abandon anything seemed worth it.
He lifted her off the ground, pressing her body against him so she could feel his powerful arousal. Her sweetness flooded him, making him realize what his life had been like before he'd met her again. Shelley the woman-not the enchanting schoolgirl of his memory.
She was yielding her whole body to him, her face burrowed into his neck, the glorious tangle of her hair all around them.
"You should stop me." His voice was urgent as he tried desperately to collect himself, a light sweat gathering over his body.
"I can't," she whispered. "I don't want to." She couldn't get enough of what he was doing to her.
"Even when you know what's going to happen?" His hand moved to her lower back, pressing her ever closer to him.
"I told you, I don't care." She laced her arms around his neck. "What has my life amounted to up to now? Nothing. I've had no soaring joy. Don't ask me to forego it, Brock. I can't. I'm going into this with my eyes wide open."
"But you're a virgin?" he asked with intensity.
"There's no point in denying it."
"Shelley, Shelley," he moaned, "What am I going to do with you?"
"Make love to me." Her impassioned voice resonated in the cave. "Don't worry about it. You can't bring me to this pitch then stop. It's a safe time for me."
"I wish I could believe that," he said harshly.
"Look into my eyes." She held his face with both hands, staring back at him. "On my honour. I would never trap you, Brock Tyson."
"Trap me? My God!" That struck him as absurd. He could feel her whole body quivering in his arms, her naked breasts positioned against his chest like white roses. "You must tell me if I hurt you."
"You won't hurt me," she murmured, already feeling a series of piercing aches start up between her legs. They were painful and exquisite, as if minute splinters of glass were causing tiny hot slashes within her womb. It was an unnameable rapture that demanded fulfilment.
Gently, Brock urged himself, though he was feeling anything but gentle. He felt as though he had an endless capacity to ravish her. But he had to go slowly. He imposed control on himself. This would be her fir
st time. An expc rience that would stay forever in her memory. It had to be blissful, not full of regret.
He laid her out on the sand, her lovely limbs extended, smoothing her clothes away from her until her naked body was fully exposed to his sight.
She was exquisite, more beautiful than he'd imagined. He bent over her reverently, placing his hands on her breasts, curved pink and white. His tongue teased the nipples while his hands moved freely along the length of her silky flesh, smoothing, caressing, down over her hips, her thighs, her waist, her taut quivering stomach, until he reached the tiny lick of flame that guarded her sex. He opened his mouth and entered her very gently with his tongue.
"Brock!" Her whole torso arched up in galvanic shock, almost lifting off the ground.
"I won't hurt you." He half lay across her, watching her face. Her expression revealed pleasure out of control, terror. For moments the two were fused as she struggled with revelation.
Never, never had anyone touched her there. Now Brock was, in the most intimate way a man could touch a woman. The excitement was so violent she felt unable to prevent herself from opening to him.
He lifted her light slender legs, as weak as a kitten's, and slid them over his shoulders, pausing for a moment to gauge her reaction. Her responses were more important to him than his own ever-intensifying hunger.
Now her eyes were tightly shut, but he murmured to her as he explored her body, whispering beautiful endearments like a ritual for her alone.
She felt him rise above her to take her mouth deeply. Felt his dark shadow. The scent of herself was on his tongue. Her small breasts thrust against his hands. There was so much heat inside her. It was like being slowly consumed.
He drew out the stimulation, teasing, taunting, adoring, himself lost in erotic pleasure, until she was losing all breath, her head lolling back, her arms and legs spread wide. It was then he slid down over her, his body slick with sweat, no longer able to contain himself or the urgent passion he felt for her.
This was the moment. Their moment. His shaft was rockhard and then he was inside her, on his way to ecstasy. A starburst of pleasure he had never experienced before.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As HER senses began to return Shelley opened her eyes to Brock's face. He was leaning over her as she lay naked on the sand. She was sighing voluptuously without knowing it filled with the strange feeling that her body wasn't her body any more but his.
"Shelley!" He stroked the wild tangle of damp curb away from her face. "Are you all right? I was a little worried."
She didn't answer, but continued to stare into his eyes, jewels in a dark copper mask. Her initiation into the rite of love seemed to be the only real thing that had happened to her in her entire life. Even the terrible trauma associated with the drowning of her beloved twin was steeped in mys tery, almost like a ghost story.
"You wanted me as much as I wanted you." He spoke with tenderness. This from a man who had so recently shown the full range of wild passion.
"I think you must love me a little," she said dazedly, huge eyes lustrous, her breath still unsteady.
She was trying to take in all that had happened. The tiny aches and hurts in her body told her it was no fantasy. They really were one flesh. She knew this man, body and soul, but never in her most erotic dream could she have conjured up such an extraordinary sexual encounter. A great storm of emotion when her every want her every need had been fulfilled. How long had it lasted? She didn't know. She might even have lost consciousness so great was the stimulus.
He remained above her, gazing into her eyes. "Perhaps I do." His answer was barely audible as he bent to kiss her.
"How do you feel? I tried hard to be gentle but I must have hurt you."
"At the beginning," she answered gently. "But then I was-possessed. I wanted everything you did to me. You're the most wonderful lover. You've taught me what making love is all about."
He stroked her cheek. "Lovemaking only becomes special when a man and a woman truly care about each other. Then it's a communion of bodies and a communion of souls."
"Yes," she agreed dreamily. "I didn't know it was possible to feel like this. The downside is, I don't think I can get up. I don't think I want to. I want to stay here in this cave with you for ever. I'll always think of it as our cave." Tears filled her eyes.
"Please don't cry, Shelley," he begged, his tongue gathering up a single tear, only to swallow it.
"Don't you know women cry when they're happy?"
"That's all right, then." He slowly leaned forward to kiss her waiting mouth, his lean body superbly naked, totally unselfconscious with it. "I want you again," he confessed. "You've seduced me."
"I want to." Delicately she let her hand move down over his velvety body, feeling it tremble beneath her touch.
"So what are we going to do about it?" he demanded, his voice deep and husky. "I was supposed to be taking you home. I should be back on Mulgaree, mourning my grandfather, guarding my own interests."
"Instead you're with me," she whispered, lifting her arms to link them like the lightest chain around his neck. "I think we've earned ourselves a little piece of heaven after what we've both endured."
"To have you like this always," he muttered, sliding an arm beneath her beautiful naked body so perfectly constructed for his loving, entering her again powerfully.
The entire family in its wisdom was waiting for her when she arrived back on Wybourne. It was sundown and the sky
was a glory of deep crimson and gold, with long streaks of pink, yellow and amethyst on the horizon. It was a spectacular change after the blazing blue of the day.
"Where have you been?" Amanda demanded to know before Shelley even put a foot on the verandah where they were now assembled. "You left Mulgaree hours ago. Where have you been?" she repeated, frowning blackly.
"With Brock, obviously," Shelley said, trying desperately to act normally, convinced she couldn't possibly after her life-changing experience. When she wanted her family they were never there. When she didn't want them she had their undivided attention. "That was him flying the helicopter. He's pretty upset. What business is it of yours anyway. Amanda?" Shelley did a rare thing. She rounded on her sister.
"Come into the house, Shelley." Her father rose from his planter's chair, giving the stem order. Once a handsome man, with good features and black Irish colouring, Patrick Logan looked what he was: a sick wreck, his looks and health eroded by drink and grief. But at least he was sober. Her mother, too, was present, hovering like a blonde shadow of herself near her father's shoulder. In their youth and up until the death of their little son, the Logans had been a popular, fine-looking couple, hard-working, with every expectation of a good life in front of them. The tragedy had affected both parents profoundly. Both had cracked wide open.
"You've got sand all over you," Amanda accused, her eyes moving all over her sister, cold with suspicion. "You haven't been up to any tricks with Brock Tyson, I hope? He has that reputation."
Shelley flushed violently. "That would be the first thing you'd think of, wouldn't it, Mandy? You've got such a lilywhite reputation yourself."
"That will do, Shelley," her father suddenly roared. There was no way Shelley was allowed to attack her older
sister. "Amanda is right to ask. We were worried about you. Philip Kingsley has rung several times."
"What on earth for?" Shelley felt a great spurt of anger. Who the hell did Philip think he was? Her husband?
"He wanted to know why you weren't home," her father replied, as though that were reason enough. "You left Mulgaree shortly after two p.m. We all had fears you might have crashed."
"More likely Philip had fears I was with Brock," Shelley answered sharply, forgetting to keep her tone respectful. Her father had a hair-trigger temper, though he had never struck her. He knew she wouldn't have tolerated that. Maybe he knew as well. "Philip is very jealous of Brock. I'm sorry if you were all worried. Brock wanted a little time out. He landed in the
desert. He's always loved it there. It gives him comfort."
"So that's where you got the sand?" Amanda continued to stare at her sister, picking up immediately the fact that there was a change in her. Shelley, after an afternoon in the heat of the desert, looked ravishingly pretty. And ravished? Amanda glared at her.
"I'd really like to take a quick shower. May I? It was so hot."
"Make it very quick, Shelley." Her mother spoke for the first time. "We have things to discuss."
When she returned, in fresh clothes and smelling of boronia, her family was sitting in the living room, her father staring at his knees, her mother with her eyes shut, Amanda almost on fire with impatience.
