Day Dreamer

by Jill Marie Landis

  When he spoke of his need, when his heated touch communicated his desire, she experienced such a swift, aching longing of her own that to deny him would be to deny herself.

  She spread her fingers and lay her hands on his bare ribs, guarding her touch so that images from his past were closed to her. She wanted no part of the past tonight, nor would she think of the future. This moment in time was all that was important now—the twinkling star-washed sky, the sound of the sea … and Cordero.

  When she touched his ribs, he shuddered and closed his eyes. She heard him sigh before he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers. She thought the kiss he had pressed upon her that afternoon had been demanding, but it was nothing compared with the way he compelled her to open to him now. His tongue delved, warm and searching, arousing her with a suggestive imitation of a more intimate act.

  He let go of her face and clasped her to him, pulling her up against his bare chest. His heart pounded against hers. His hands were everywhere at once. She gasped when he cupped her breast and she moaned when he took her peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger and gently teased it through the fabric of her gown until she arched against his arm.

  He dipped his head to her breast, took her nipple in his mouth and suckled through the thin layer of cotton. Celine clasped his head in her hands, ran her fingers through his dark, wavy hair and pressed him closer, demanding he take more, silently urging him to suckle harder until she cried out with the pleasurable pain of it.

  She went nearly limp in his arms, panting, aching, wanting him. Longing she had never experienced before welled up inside her so violently that she did not think she could bear it another moment more. She clung to him, certain she would shatter into more pieces than there were stars in the Caribbean sky.

  He pulled back to stare into her eyes. It was a long, searing look that spoke volumes. Then in one swift move he slipped one arm beneath her knees and carried her into her room.

  As he drew aside the mosquito net and lay her across the bed, as he fanned her hair out across her pillow, his rough, man’s hands were as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss. Desire drove her to reach for his shoulders. She moaned in frustration when he pulled away to unbutton and slip off his pants. As Celine watched his every move, hungering for him to begin again, she tried to convince herself that she was not like her mother, that this was her husband, that she was no whore.

  Unable to take her eyes off him, she watched Cord step up to the bed. He stood before her brash and bold, the moonlight illuminating the hard planes of his well-defined body, the tense, set line of his jaw, his erection. The moon revealed nothing soft or pliant, nothing warm or giving about him. He spoke no false promises of love or countless tomorrows, but his body gave silent testimony to his need for her.

  He took the flounce of her nightgown in his hands and Celine raised her hips. Cord drew the fabric up along her thighs to her waist. He knelt beside her, then stretched out full length until she could feel his heated flesh pressed along her side. Reverently he placed his open palm in the hollow over her navel and began to slip it lower until he was stroking the soft mound between her thighs.

  No one had ever touched her in this gentle, intimate way. She wanted to weep with the magic of it; she wanted to weep with the joy and heady sensation of it.

  He dipped his head and kissed her navel as his hand and fingers continued to work their spell. She closed her eyes. Her hands kneaded his shoulders as he moved over her. He trailed kisses ever closer to that most secret spot hidden at the apex of her thighs. When she felt his tongue touch the bud hidden at the core of her melting, pulsing heat, Celine ceased to reason, to worry, even to wonder.

  She gave herself to the frantic beat of her heart and the driving tempo that set her hips undulating beneath his mouth. Afraid she was coming apart, she reached out and grasped the headboard. She arched off the bed, giving herself to him, urging him to take more. Panting, moaning over and over, she strained for release. When it came, she cried out, a strangled scream that was lost on the wind, tangled in the sound of the pounding surf.

  Cord wrapped his arms about her hips and lay his cheek atop the silken nest of curls. He waited until she stopped shuddering, waited until she sank back onto the pillow and he felt her fingers slide through his hair as she stroked his head. When she’d reached her climax and a cry of release was wrung from the depths of her soul, he had nearly spilled his seed. But now, as she lay replete, his desire was at a higher pitch than he would have ever thought possible. The scent and taste of her was driving him wild.

  Cord released her, eased himself to his knees and slowly drew her nightgown off her breasts. Her eyes were closed. The trace of a teardrop along her cheek glistened in the moonlight. He kissed it away.

  I don’t love her. I will not love her, he reminded himself over and over as he gently lifted her shoulders so that he could draw the nightgown over her head. Careful not to tangle the fabric in her hair, he tossed the nightgown to the floor.

  She is my wife. We are bound by empty vows and an exchange of money, nothing more.

  He reached between her legs and found her warm and wet and ready for him. With a touch, he urged her to open her thighs. Bracing himself above her, Cord looked down at Celine. She was staring up at him in the darkness, watching him, waiting. He moved his hips until the tip of his member was poised to enter her. He lingered there, his goal within reach, willfully and gratefully enduring the sweet torture of self-restraint.

  She is my wife.

  He allowed himself a fraction more, sliding in smoothly, slowly, until the head of his shaft was buried inside of her. The welcome heat was too much. He knew he would go mad if he tarried longer. In one swift, sure plunge, he tore into her and buried himself to the hilt. She cried out. He grasped her hips and held her still. He knew he was hurting her, knew his fingers would brand bruises on her hips where he clung to her, but he wanted to be inside of her as long as he could—an eternity, if possible.

  Celine thought his thrust would rip her apart when he filled her. His fingers bit into the tender flesh of her hips, imprisoning her beneath him. She tried to move, to break free of the tearing fullness, then slowly realized he was silently urging her to lie still. She closed her eyes against the ebbing pain and clung to him, afraid to move, afraid he would do something to make the searing pain begin again.

  His rapid breath was hot against her ear. Chills ran down her spine, and she shivered. He groaned. He filled her. In her and above her, he was poised, taut as a bowstring.

  She was his now, his wife in more than name and title. He was inside her, part of her, stretching her, filling her. She ran her hands down his smooth, well-muscled back, over his ribs, down to his hips. The idea that they were joined by flesh further aroused her. The pain was barely remembered. They lay as one, coupled on the crisp, cool sheets. The sea breeze caressed them. The mosquito net cascaded around them, a filmy cocoon.

  Cord was afraid to release her hips, afraid she would move in an attempt to escape the pain and send him over the edge. He tried to gentle her with a kiss and trailed his tongue around her ear and down her neck.

  He felt a honeyed warmth melt around him. He began to move inside her, slowly at first, hesitant to hurt her again. She went still, waiting, barely breathing as she continued to stroke his back with her fingertips. With agonizing slowness he withdrew until he had all but left her.

  “No, please … stay,” she whispered.

  His control shattered. Cord threw back his head with a cry of release and drove himself into her over and over again, pouring his seed into her womb.

  His pounding heartbeat slowed, and he held himself above her on his elbows and watched as she opened her eyes, then turned her gaze to the open balcony doors. He was happy to have been able to give her satisfaction earlier; he knew she had not peaked again when he did.

  “You were a virgin,” he said, feeling more awkward than he ever had in any moment of his life.

  “You make i
t sound like a sin.”

  “It won’t ever hurt like that again.”

  Her mouth was too tempting. He felt compelled to kiss her again, this time lingering over her lips, savoring the taste of them.

  When he eased out and off of her, a momentary sense of loss settled over him. They lay naked, side by side, barely touching, savoring the cool breeze that wafted over their heated skin. Celine longed to ask him what he was feeling, desperate to know if she would ever again experience the soul-searing explosion of sensation that had come earlier when he had taken her over the edge. Had the same ultimate release caused him to cry out?

  “What are you thinking?” Cord asked.

  It sounded more like a demand than an idle thought.

  “Is it always this way?”

  “I told you it will not hurt again, unless you are forced against your will.”

  She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “You would never force me.”

  Once more he was moved by her trust. She knew him better than he knew himself.

  “I did not mean the pain,” she said. “I meant the other, the …”

  “The pleasure?”

  “Yes.”

  Cord wondered how he could guarantee such satisfaction would come again when before tonight he had never felt such intense pleasure with a woman.

  “It’s always different, and yet the same.”

  She wished they were better friends; she might have asked him to try to explain. As it was, she was too embarrassed.

  One thing was clear to her now: Her fears had been dispelled forever. She knew she was nothing like her mother—for it would be impossible for her to engage in an act of such sheer intimacy with strangers night after night, even for all the money on earth. She would starve first.

  The mosquito net luffed and sagged as the trades calmed. In the quiet stillness there was no sound but the hum of frustrated, bloodthirsty insects hovering outside the net and the whisper of Cord’s rhythmic breathing. She thought of what they had just shared. What would it have been like had theirs been a love match? How could it have possibly been any more intense?

  “Don’t expect me to love you, Celine. I don’t have it to give.”

  If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he had read her mind.

  “We all have love to give. It’s just harder for some than others,” she said.

  He worked so very hard at keeping the barriers around his heart that she wanted to reach over and take his hand, wanted to assure him he was not alone. Instead she asked, “Would your cousin Alex have wanted you to close yourself off and cease loving? You said that he loved you. Would he want to see you live out your life with a heart of stone?”

  “A heart of stone feels nothing, neither love nor pain. I have lost everyone I have ever loved.”

  “And so you would rather live without love than risk that again?”

  He rolled over. “Why are you so damned desperate to help me?”

  “I’m still naive enough to believe what I was taught by a very wise person,” she said.

  “And what is that?”

  “That love cures all ills, heals all wounds.”

  “I’m not ill or wounded.”

  “But you are hurting all the same.”

  “Let it go, Celine.”

  Afraid he would go back to his room, she stopped pushing, but couldn’t help adding, “I would be content to see you smile more often.”

  He ignored her comment and lay back down. Celine fluffed her pillow, smoothed it out, then reached down for the sheet and pulled it up to cover her nakedness.

  “Are you finished wriggling?”

  She settled back with a sigh and closed her eyes. “Yes.”

  Cord listened to her deep, even breathing. He had never slept through the night with a woman, and just because Celine was his wife, he saw no reason why he should start now, no reason save one—that he was loath to leave her.

  The desire simply to lie there beside her infuriated him. She rolled toward him and snuggled closer in sleep. He reached out and pulled the sheet up over her shoulder.

  Love. A waste of time and a source of great pain. Love was for fools and the foolhardy who were willing to be hurt.

  She shifted in her sleep. Her hand slid across the sheet and came to rest against the wall of his chest. The touch was light, innocent, given unconsciously, yet to Cord it spoke volumes. They were connected now by more than vows. They had come together as man and woman, flesh to flesh, in an exchange as old as time.

  They were man and wife. There was no harm in sleeping in her bed. Besides, here in this room there were no memories waiting to haunt him, as there were in the master suite. He would sleep with her, he decided, until just before dawn.

  But he would not love her.

  Foster and Edward, bare-legged, in nightshirts and shoes, crept down the hall each carrying a candlestick. As soon as they stopped outside the master suite, Edward pressed his ear to the door.

  “I don’t ’ear nothing,” he whispered.

  “Try the knob,” Foster urged.

  “Try it yerself, Fos.” With a flourish, Edward blew out his candle, and then Foster did the same.

  As far as they could tell from outside, the master suite was dark and silent. Foster reached around Edward and slowly turned the doorknob. The heavy door opened without a sound and swung inward. The two men tiptoed over the threshold and stared at the empty bed on the dais.

  “ ’E’s not ’ere,” Foster said, somewhat surprised.

  “You don’t suppose …” Edward sounded hopeful.

  “Maybe we’re in luck.” Foster led the way to the connecting door to Celine’s room.

  “I don’t ’ear nothing,” Edward said again. This time he tried the knob himself.

  Foster shifted behind him, pressing closer, eager for a look. The floorboards beneath their feet creaked in protest. Both men froze and held their breath. There was still no sound from within.

  Edward gave the door a gentle push and opened it a crack.

  “I can’t see anything.” Frustrated, Foster shifted so that he could see over Edward’s shoulder. “Oh, my.”

  “What? Tell me.” Edward was shaking with anticipation.

  “There, on the floor—”

  “I see ’em. Cordero’s pants …”

  “And a nightgown.”

  Foster whipped the door closed, at the last moment, remembering to shut it without a sound. He hurried to the middle of the master suite, glanced back once at Celine’s door and tried to contain his joy.

  “They did it, Eddie! They did it. There’s ’ope now, real ’ope that this marriage will take.”

  Edward shook his head. “I was about to give up ’oping. It’s been weeks now and they ain’t so much as kissed, as far as I know. Oh, Fos, this is the best thing our Cordero ever done, ain’t it? Maybe things’ll be different for ’im now.”

  “We can only ’ope, but the moat ’as been crossed an’ the fortress taken, so to speak.”

  Edward patted Foster on the arm. “You’ve a real way with words, Fos. Sheer poetry.”

  Celine had not expected to find Cord in bed with her when she awoke the next morning, but neither had she expected the sinking disappointment she experienced when she realized he was indeed already up and gone. She brushed aside the mosquito net and felt herself blush when she found her nightgown draped over a nearby chair. She picked it up and carried it over to the tall armoire in the far corner of the room.

  All of the gowns that had belonged to Jemma were hanging there alongside two or three that had been Cordero’s mother’s. After choosing one of the old gowns and brushing her hair, Celine left the room, tempted by the delicious aroma of breakfast. Ill at ease with the thought of seeing Cord again, not knowing how to act after their intimate exchange, she decided to take her cue from him—if he was not already about his business.

  She found him at the dining table, lounging with one arm draped over the back of the chair
, staring into space. Ada was in the middle of what sounded like a recipe recitation.

  “And then I take a little piece of toast—generally it’s good to use toast points, but not entirely necessary—and I evenly spread the glazed—” Catching sight of Celine in the doorway, Ada looked up, blinked and smiled. “Why, good morning, my dear. We were hoping you’d be down before Cordero has to be on his way. It’s such a thrill to have him take over for me. I don’t know what I would have done if I had to see to all of this much longer. Why, I recall one year, just after the hurricane … When was the hurricane, Gunnie?”

  “Eight, mebbe nine year ago now,” Gunnie said without breaking stride as she brought out a plate for Celine. It was mounded high with enough food for three. The servant set the dish down at a place setting at the table and left the room.

  When Ada paused to catch her breath, Cord stood up and held Celine’s chair while she gathered her skirt and sat down. She could not stop the rush of heat that scalded her cheeks.

  She dared to glance up at him over her shoulder, and found him frowning down at her.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Is that my mother’s dress?”

  Celine nodded. “Foster and Edward thought that some of your mother’s things would be cooler than the ones that I have.” She started to rise again. “If you don’t want me to wear them—”

  He waved her back down. “Not at all. It’s just that I thought I had seen it before. It’s out of date,” he added.

  “I don’t care about that. It’s a lovely gown.”

  “Speaking of Alyce,” Ada interjected, “she said she is so very happy both of you are here. She’s glad I won’t have to be so lonely anymore.”

  “Is this a jest, Aunt Ada?” Cord’s tone was forbidding.

  “Why no, dear, it’s no jest. I thought you and Celine might have discussed this already.”

  It was Celine’s turn to be the recipient of Cord’s demanding stare. She tried to smile.

  “Discussed what?” He stood tensed, his hands fisted at his sides, his forehead creased with a frown.