Sunshine and the Shadowmaster

by Christine Rimmer

  “The very same. She hates herself for reading them. But she can’t stop. Just like me.” It occurred to her she’d put her foot in it, so she hastened to amend, “Oh, what am I saying? Of course I don’t mean I hate myself for reading your books. I don’t at all. It was the other part, about not being able to stop reading them, that’s what I meant.”

  “Heather,” Lucas said. “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “Oh, good. I’m so glad, because I...”

  All of a sudden, he rose from the sea chest.

  She found herself looking up at him. “Because I...”

  He closed the distance to her chair. Her eyes tracked each movement. She felt like a rabbit, frozen in an open field, watching the steady, stalking approach of a hungry mountain lion.

  He stood looking down at her. “Because you what?”

  She grasped the spindly back of the chair as if it could save her from the inappropriate thoughts that were racing through her mind. “I just wouldn’t want you to think that I hated myself for...”

  “Reading my books?”

  “Yes. Because I don’t. Not at all.”

  “I’m so relieved.” His voice was like honey, pouring over her warm and slow. “Stand up.”

  “I...what?”

  “Stand up.”

  She considered his command, fully aware that it wasn’t something she had to do. She could simply tell him no and that would be that.

  But the thing was, she wanted to stand up. Those invisible electric wires she’d felt on the drive from Monterey were crackling between them again. And the barrier of the chair was...interfering with them. The wires seemed to pop and snap in complaint, demanding that she stand up and step free of the chair. That she face him with nothing but an inch of air between them and give all the hot, wondrous currents a straight line from him to her and back again.

  “Heather.”

  She stood, and slid around so that the chair was behind her.

  “Better. Now kiss me.”

  She reminded herself that she had no intention of making love with him right now. “I don’t think—”

  “Right. Don’t think.”

  “No, really, I—”

  “Don’t argue. Just kiss me.” He held out his hands, to the sides, palms up. “I won’t do anything. I’ll keep my hands to myself. You do everything. That’s how it’ll be. For now.”

  “But Lucas.” She got out the words, though all she wanted was to rise on tiptoe and press her lips to his. “It’s not what we’re supposed to be doing, kissing. We’re supposed to be getting to know each other. Getting to understand...” The words trailed off. She’d completely forgotten what they were supposed to be getting to understand. “I...” She ran a hand back through her hair. “Um...”

  “May I point out something?”

  “I...”

  “When two people want to touch as badly as you and I do, it becomes...artificial to hold back.”

  She gulped. “It does?”

  He nodded. “In fact, holding back is getting in the way, for me.”

  “Getting in the way of what?”

  “Of getting to know you better.”

  She really hadn’t thought of it that way. “It is?”

  He nodded again. “All I can think of when I’m with you is that place on your neck that I love to suck....”

  Heather realized she wasn’t breathing and forced herself to draw air into her lungs. She knew exactly the place he meant, on the right side, at the pulse. Right now, that place was throbbing. She had to restrain herself from rubbing it with her hand.

  “Wait,” he said, “that’s not entirely true.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to...?”

  “...kiss that place on your neck? Yes, I do.”

  “Then what?”

  “There’s more.”

  “There is?”

  “Mmm-hmm. There’s the soft skin behind your knees.”

  Her knees started quivering. The skin in back of them felt like it was shimmering, itching, yearning...

  “I want to lick you there.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “And that’s not all.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Uh-uh. There’s also the sweet, slick taste of your tongue and the feel of your—”

  “Lucas, I...”

  “You’ve got your two weeks.” His voice was rougher, now. Nubby velvet rubbing at all of her most sensitive places, crazy-making. “Let’s make the most of them. I want you and you want me. Here. And now.”

  He was so compelling. And what he said did make sense, now that she thought about it. Maybe—

  But then she remembered Mark.

  He seemed to read her mind. “Mark is downstairs, sound asleep. He’s not going to bother us. And he isn’t going to know what we do in the night.”

  “If we—”

  He snared her hand then, and laid it on the hard ridge at the front of his black slacks. The casual intimacy of the gesture stunned her—and sent all her nerves singing, sent her blood roaring in her veins.

  “This is part of what we’ll be to each other, when you marry me,” he said. “Part of getting to know each other. A major part. Now kiss me, Heather. Kiss me now.”

  All her good intentions of waiting until things were more settled between them seemed to have flown out the window. She couldn’t help herself. Her hand relaxed, cupped him.

  “Yes,” he whispered, his voice all honey again.

  She put her hands on his shoulders, rose on tiptoe and touched his lips with her own.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Heather’s lips met his. Soft, hesitant, so very vulnerable.

  Lucas resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her and pull her close, though he wanted nothing so much at that moment as to feel the pliant length of her against him, to crush her breasts against his chest.

  She mewed; a tiny, needful sound. Like a kitten begging to be stroked. But he didn’t stroke her. Not yet. There would be time for that. There would be the whole night.

  He concentrated on kissing her, keeping his hands to his sides, letting her lead the way as he’d told her he would.

  And lead the way she did. Splendidly. Her mouth nuzzled his. He parted his lips. She took his tongue into her own mouth.

  He held back a groan as she broke the kiss. She began to caress him. Her slender hands brushed his shoulders, molded the shape of his chest. She went to work on the buttons of his shirt, bending her head to her task. The buttons fell open. She put her hands, so warm and soft, on his bare chest, then rubbed them, flat palmed, against his small nipples.

  He did groan then, but it was a small sound, quickly quelled. He let the shirt drop down his arms and tossed it behind him, onto the sea chest.

  “Oh, Lucas...”

  He savored the sweetly ragged tone of her voice. She splayed her hands on his chest again and kissed him, at his breastbone, her lips opening in the mat of hair there, her tongue sliding out. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, giving himself up to her. And then he looked down at her once again.

  “Now, take off your shirt.” His own voice sounded ragged, too, harsh with the effort to control his desire.

  She looked up at him. Her greenish eyes with their gold lights seemed glazed, tender and a little afraid.

  “Do it.” He softened the command with a whispered, “Please.”

  She took her short-sleeve knit shirt by the hem and raised it over her head, dropping it behind her on the desk chair. Her gold-shot red-brown hair tumbled around her bare shoulders, crackling with electricity. He wanted to shove his fingers in it, to know once more its silky feel against his hands.

  And he would. Oh, he would.

  Her bra was plain, white and functional—as he’d known it would be. He stared at it for a moment, wondering why the sight of it increased his already considerable excitement. Because it spoke so clearly of her basic innocence, he suppo
sed.

  “Take off the bra.”

  She swayed a little, then steadied herself, lifting her chin and reaching behind her to undo the back clasp. The bra fell away to join the shirt on the chair.

  Naked from the waist up, she seemed to regret her own boldness. She tried to cross her arms over herself.

  “Uh-uh,” he said. “I want to see you.”

  She took in a long breath and forced her arms to her sides.

  Her breasts were full and round—maybe fuller than he remembered them. Because of the baby, he supposed. And now that he could see them, he found they were as pale as fine porcelain, the nipples a tempting dusky pink. He wanted to touch them, to kiss them.

  But he wanted to see all of her, here, in the light, even more. It was of the utmost importance. The other time had been in the shadows. But not anymore.

  “The rest.” His tone was hoarse, rougher than he intended.

  She obeyed, unsnapping her jeans, shimmying them down. They gathered at her ankles, stopped by her shoes. Her panties were like her bra—plain and functional. They were made of white cotton, waist-high and cut low on the thighs. Before he could really look at them, she knelt. He looked down at the sweet bumps of her spine as she untied her tennis shoes, slipped them off and got rid of her socks as well. She stood again then, an easy, graceful movement and kicked her jeans away. His breath stuck.

  This was the essence of her allure. The wide, innocent, hungry eyes. The tumbling hair, the fine bones and the ripe breasts. And plain, white panties. The most purely responsive woman he’d ever known—and in his younger years, he’d known more than a few—and she wore the underwear of a Catholic schoolgirl.

  He made himself breathe again. “The panties,” he said.

  She hooked her thumbs in them. And then she gave a slow smile that managed to be both innocent and seductive at once.

  He almost lost it right there. “What?” he demanded.

  “These are all I have left, Lucas.” She looked down at the panties. “And you’ve still got everything on but your shirt.”

  “So?”

  “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  He made himself play along. “Well, then what do you want me to do?”

  She slid her hands under the elastic of the panties, considering. He sincerely hoped he would not explode.

  “Take off the rest of your clothes,” she instructed.

  He did, quickly. She watched, her eyes still as wide and innocent as ever. But when he got to his briefs, he stopped.

  “We’re even,” he said.

  “Yes.” She looked wary. “So?”

  “You first.”

  “No. At the same time.”

  He couldn’t believe her. That other night, he’d been the leader. She’d responded to his every whim and caress, but he had run the show.

  This was different. He’d meant to let her take the lead a little, but she was actually playing with him. He was enchanted.

  He put his thumbs under the elastic waistband of his briefs. She matched him, thumbs under the elastic of her plain, white underwear.

  “On a count of three?” she dared to inquire.

  He nodded.

  “One, two, three!” She yanked, bent and jumped out of the panties.

  He didn’t move.

  She straightened, the panties in her hand, and saw that he still wore his. “You cheated!” she accused.

  He looked at her. “Come here.”

  “Oh, Lucas.” The panties fell to the floor.

  “Come on. Come here.”

  Now she was biting her lip a little, grown shy suddenly. But she closed the short distance between them. He took her hands, put them at his waist, guided her thumbs beneath the elastic waistband.

  “Make us even,” he said.

  And she did. She peeled the briefs slowly down and away, brushing him twice with her fingers and making him gasp.

  When the briefs were gone, he said, “Touch me.”

  Her warm, hesitant hand encircled him. He closed his eyes, thought of the percentage he was paying his agent, of the speech he was supposed to be giving to a book club in Washington, D.C. three weeks from then that he hadn’t got around to writing yet. But concentrating on business did no good.

  She was driving him crazy. He really was going to lose it.

  He gave in and reached for her, pulling her close. Her body met his and both of them moaned.

  He kissed her, letting his hands roam, down the delicious bumps of her spine, over the sweet pair of dimples at the top of her hips. He cupped her buttocks, pulled her up and in, rubbing himself against her.

  She was sighing and whimpering a little, her hands clutching his shoulders. The bed wasn’t far. Four steps and they were there. He guided her down, his hungry mouth already roving.

  He took her breast, closing his mouth over one tender nipple and drawing it in, laving it with his tongue. She writhed and moaned. He took the other breast. She arched her back and held him close.

  He cupped her breasts in his hands, while his mouth traveled down, over her ribs, to her soft, still-flat belly, and then lower still.

  “Oh. Oh, Lucas...” She sighed. “Oh, you shouldn’t...”

  “Shh. You’re beautiful, Heather. So beautiful. Everywhere.”

  She moaned some more, and then she stiffened and cried out. He drank in her completion, drawing it out, making it last and last, until she was clutching him, begging him, contradicting herself in broken phrases.

  “Lucas. Please. Don’t. Stop. Never stop....”

  He rose above her then, and she eagerly reached for him. He buried himself to the hilt in her. Her long, slim thighs locked around him.

  He rolled, quickly, or he would have finished it then. From the top position, she looked down at him, sweetly dazed, her breasts flushed, her eyes half-closed. He took her legs and folded them on either side of his thighs. She caught on immediately, and began to ride him.

  She set the rhythm—slow, then fast, then slow again. He knew she was building once more. He encouraged her, bringing his hand between them and finding the little bud of need. She threw her head back, rocked frantically—and shattered for the second time.

  She fell against him, her hair spilling over his neck and shoulders, her sweet breath fanning his chest. He stroked her hair, combed through it with his fingers, and kissed the top of her head.

  After a while, she moaned again, a questioning little sound. She could feel him, and knew he hadn’t finished when she did.

  “Lucas?”

  He lifted himself, pressing higher up into her.

  She cried out, so soft and sensitive now, in the aftermath of fulfillment. He knew he could bring her, quickly, to the brink again.

  But he didn’t. He dropped back to the bed and lay still. They had all night. And he meant to make it last. He meant to bring her to a point where she wasn’t sure where her own body left off and his began.

  And then, when the boundaries of ecstasy had all been crossed, when she was as vulnerable as she would ever be, he would extract from her the vow he sought.

  Far back in his mind, it was true, lay a small kernel of regret that it should be necessary to go about getting her agreement this way. However, it couldn’t be helped.

  She claimed she needed two weeks to make up her mind. But he didn’t buy that. The real problem was Jason Lee. She might put him off forever, mourning for his sainted brother.

  “Lucas?” She broke through his troubled thoughts.

  And then, as she too often did, she surprised him. She slid to the side and was gone, making him moan at the movement and catching him off guard, so that he didn’t think fast enough to hold her there.

  “Oh, Lucas. Yes. I see what you mean.”

  “About what?” He was throbbing, aching, missing the soft warmth of her. He rolled his head a little, shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth.

  “About being beautiful. Because you’re beautiful, too.”

  And then her hand close
d around him.

  “Heather....” He was lost, out of control. Completely at her mercy in the space of mere seconds.

  And then her mouth was there, moist, awkward and wonderful, taking him in. He managed to reach down and bury his hands in her hair.

  At last, vanquished, he threw his head back and let her do what she would with him. There was no point in fighting it. She had taken control.

  His own finish came at him like a zephyr. It hit and exploded, shattering him into a million bursting shards of light and sensation. He let it have him.

  When it was done, she cuddled up beside him and kissed him on the neck. He drew her close, savoring the sleek, satiny feel of her.

  “Lucas?”

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s getting late.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe I should go to my room now.”

  He held her a little tighter. “No, you shouldn’t.”

  “But...”

  “Shh. Rest a little. Get your strength back.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we’ll start all over again.”

  * * *

  Deep in the night, he commanded, “Marry me.”

  She didn’t reply.

  He tried again. “Marry me.”

  “Lucas, we agreed...”

  “Marry me.”

  “I can’t. We need...”

  “What? What do we need?” He put his hand on her.

  She cried out, her body lifting in immediate response to his caress. But she would not give up those two weeks of hers.

  Some time later, when she lay slumbering beside him, Lucas had yet to get the answer he sought.

  He’d put aside what scruples he possessed tonight, certain that it was the only way to get her to say she would marry him.

  And it hadn’t worked. She’d held out.

  He considered the coming morning. Perhaps he could give it one more try then.

  Yes, he thought, when she wakes beside me. When she’s blushing with sweet shame over the things we did tonight. I’ll put on the pressure again in the morning. And she’ll come around.

  But then he let out a small grunt of self-disgust. Who did he think he was kidding? She’d held out against him up till now. He didn’t see how waking up next to him in the morning was going to make any difference at all.

  * * *