First Things First

by Barbara Delinsky

  She began to think that she must have sunstroke, for rational thought eluded her. She was supposed to be a writer, listening raptly to everything he said. Forsaking that, she was supposed to be subtly “deprogramming” him, weaning him off his fascination with the Maya, so that she might eventually be able to convince him to return home.

  Yet all she could think about was how spectacular he was and how very much she wanted to be with him, really with him.

  By the time they returned to the Jeep, she wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and beg him to ease the fire that burned deep in her belly. To hell with reason. Her senses had long since taken command.

  “Are you tired?” he asked.

  She was gazing into his eyes, mesmerized by their silver glow. “No.”

  “Hot?”

  “Very!”

  “Wanna cool off?”

  “Do I ever!”

  She waited for him to sling her over his shoulder and cart her into the Mayaland Hotel, but instead he opened the door of the Jeep and eased her inside.

  “Where are we going?” she asked in dismay.

  He slid behind the wheel and grinned. “To the caves.”

  “The caves?” All she could picture was a dirty hole in a cliff, with rattlers serenading and a slab of hard stone as a bed. Not quite the seductive scene she’d wanted.

  He reached over and took her head. “You’ll see.”

  Feeling clearly dejected, she turned her eyes to the road. She wondered if Sam sensed her mood, or her madness, and she glanced back at him. His features were at ease, his profile breathtaking. Dark, sweat-dampened hair fell over his brow. His nose was straight, aristocratic but fitting. His mustache was full over his lip, and his chin was strong. A faint shadow of a beard touched his jaw and gave him a rugged look that meshed well with his deeply tanned skin.

  He looked at her once, then did a double take. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice deeper than usual.

  “I’m fine,” she answered softly. She was even better when he brought her hand to his thigh. His flesh was warm, textured by a virile spattering of hair. Unable to help herself, she shifted her hand slightly to better feel his strength.

  “Chelsea?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  He moved her hand higher on his thigh until it brushed the ragged hem of his cutoffs. “I hope I don’t go off the road.”

  “Should I help steer?”

  “Uh … no. You’re doing enough as it is.” He didn’t look at her, but she saw the telltale flush spread up his neck.

  She felt no remorse. Hadn’t he been the one to kiss her that first day? Hadn’t he been the one to start it all?

  “Where is this cave?” she asked impatiently. Hard rock couldn’t be that bad. Of course, she could do without the rattlers …

  “Not …” He cleared his throat. “Not far.”

  She wondered if it would involve a long trek once he stopped the Jeep. She wasn’t sure she was up to that. “Is it really cool there?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Sam … come on!” She wasn’t in the mood for mystery.

  He merely sent her a wicked half grin and moved her hand inward along the faded denim of his shorts.

  She blew an exasperated breath up toward her hair, then, with her free hand, raked the long curls from her forehead. She put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, hoping that blocking out the sight of Sam would somehow still her clamoring senses. It might have, except that her hand grew all the more sensitive and she could feel the edge of his hardness and it inflamed her all the more. She swallowed, then took a deep breath.

  “Chelsea?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. Let’s get there, already.”

  “I’m with you,” he said very softly. “Almost there.”

  They didn’t talk then, and not even the wind eased the heat about them. Chelsea kept waiting for her body to calm, for its passion to cool. After all, the moment had passed, hadn’t it? The drive in the Jeep should be like a bucket of cold water, shouldn’t it? You couldn’t prolong these things and expect them to stay at the same explosive level … . Could you?

  It seemed an eternity before the Jeep turned off the main road onto a rutted one, a second eternity before it finally ground to a halt and Chelsea looked around. They were in a tiny clearing and there were no cliffs in sight. Only jungle.

  Suddenly the image in her mind was revised and she pictured an earthy kind of cave buried somewhere deep in the wilds. Rattlers and hard rock were one thing; rattlers and jaguars and garrapatas and dirt embedded with God knew what other creatures were quite another.

  “I don’t think I’m going to like this,” she mumbled under her breath.

  Sam, who was fiddling in the glove compartment of the Jeep, chuckled softly. “You’ll like it.” He tossed his head toward what she made out to be a small path into the woods. “Come.”

  Chelsea followed, staying close behind him. She wrapped her arms about her middle and cast worried glances to either side, but Sam seemed fully confident in his stride, so finally she just concentrated on his back.

  And it picked up right where it had left off, the admiration and the yearning. Droplets of sweat dampening his T-shirt between his shoulders. The fluid shift of those shoulders with each step he took. Well-formed arms swinging easily by his sides. Narrow hips barely twisting as he walked.

  Chelsea decided that Sam had to be the most superb animal to ever walk through the jungle. All litheness and grace, he seemed fully in command, while she, on the other hand, felt distinctly out of control.

  “How’re you doin’?” he asked over his shoulder.

  She was less than two feet behind. “I’m fine.” Her voice sounded breathless, so she forced a more convincing tone. She had to swallow first. “You seem very familiar with this path. Do you come here often?”

  “Whenever I can. It’s a special place.”

  “I can’t wait,” she murmured, and saw his cheek bunch into a grin. “Much farther?”

  “Nope.”

  A minute later he came to a full halt, and Chelsea barrelled into him. She left her hand on his back—as good as excuse as any to touch him—while the rest of her retreated several inches.

  “See it?”

  She stared at a large outcropping of rock ahead. It wasn’t terribly high, certainly not high enough to harbor a cave, at least not one a human could fit into. “No.”

  He reached around, took her hand from his back and drew her forward. “Don’t look up. Look down. There. At the bottom of the rock.”

  “It’s a hole.”

  “It’s the start of a tunnel.”

  She took a step back but came up against his sturdy form. “Uh, Sam, I’m not sure about tunnels.”

  He put his cheek to her temple and spoke softly, soothingly. “You weren’t sure about the descent from the Temple of the Warriors either, but you made it, and it was worth it, wasn’t it …? Well, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she replied hesitantly. “But that was wide open. This is different. What if I get claustrophobia?”

  “You won’t. The entrance is the only tough part, and we should be grateful. If it were any wider, more people would know about it. It would be an invitation to every tourist around. This way we’ll have it to ourselves.”

  She leaned back into him, finding reassurance in his strength..At that moment she was almost willing to have him take her on the jungle floor.

  “Relax,” he murmured encouragingly. “Once we pass the entrance, the whole thing opens up.”

  “Opens up … to where?”

  He straightened and took her hand. “You’ll see. Come on. I’ll go first so I can help you down.”

  Before she could protest, he was slipping feet first through the hole. To her surprise and immense relief, the hole appeared larger close up. Sam had no trouble levering himself thro
ugh with space to spare. Then his hand reemerged and he was tugging her ankle.

  “Sit down and slide. I’ll catch you.”

  With an unsteady breath she sat down, eased her legs through the hole and slid into his arms. She was astonished to find that he was standing upright. Clutching his arms, she very cautiously looked around.

  “Are there bats or any squirmies in here?” she whispered.

  His grin was just visible through the light from above. “Nope. Just us.”

  “And this is your cave?” All she could see was rock and darkness.

  “This is the beginning.” He reached into the pocket of his shorts, drew out the small flashlight he’d taken from the glove compartment, and clicked it on to reveal a passageway. It was narrow, but high, and nowhere near as threatening to Chelsea as the entrance had been.

  Holding tightly to Sam’s hand, she walked carefully behind him. The rock made a steady descent, with steplike inclines at points, steeper drops at others. At each of the latter he turned to help her, lifting her comfortably down, then proceeding. Twice the tunnel curved sharply. The light from the entrance had long since disappeared.

  “This is spooky,” she whispered, quickening her step so that she was even closer to him. She wrapped both arms around his free one and hung on fiercely.

  “It’s just dark. Wait—watch your step—here’s the last drop.” He helped her over it. “And a final turn.”

  They followed it around, and then the tunnel was behind them. Before them was an open cavern whose roof arched into a dome thirty feet above and whose sides exceeded even that in width.

  Sam snapped off the flashlight and returned it to his pocket. “Well? Whaddya think?”

  Chelsea was standing with her mouth open. “I think it’s absolutely beautiful!” she breathed in awe. Around one side of the cavern, leading off from where they stood, were random wide slabs of stone. Beyond was a crystal-clear pool, lit by a natural spotlight that beamed down from an open hole in the apex of the roof and bathed the entire cavern in an aura of blue. Huge stalactite formations hung into the pool on one side, their tapering tentacles perfectly visible through the still water. “How did you ever find this place?”

  “I didn’t. A pig did.”

  “A pig?”

  “A farmer not too far from here noticed that his pig was wandering off for hours at a stretch. One day he followed it—right into this cave.”

  “Unbelievable!” Chelsea whispered, taking in the silence, the serenity, the spirituality of the place.

  When Sam moved forward toward the largest and flattest of the stone slabs, she followed. Once there he turned to her. “Want to swim?”

  Her eyes widened, hesitant. “Can we?”

  “Why not?”

  “This cave has probably been here for hundreds and hundreds of years. It seems somehow … sacred.”

  “I’ve swum here before. The water is wonderful. Filled with calcium, they say. Your skin feels marvelous when you get out.”

  Chelsea’s gaze skipped from Sam to the water. It looked inviting. And she was sweaty. A slow smile curved her lips. “I bet it’d feel great.” Then the smile faded. “But … we don’t have suits …”

  His chiding look told her exactly what he thought of that problem. When he reached down and tugged up his T-shirt, her eyes widened all the more.

  “Sam?” She felt it all, back in full force. What had been momentarily suspended during the descent into the cave surged back with a vengeance to set her insides aquiver. Her pulse began to race when, with a very natural but nonetheless sensual twist of his torso, he pulled the T-shirt over his head and dropped it onto the rock.

  His gaze was suddenly more intense as, deliberately but without haste, he covered the small space between them. His broad chest loomed before her, bronzed and patterned with a manly coat of hair, muscles rippling ever so slightly when he reached out to caress her shoulders.

  “Don’t be shy, love,” he murmured hoarsely. “Here. Let me help you.” Very slowly he ducked his head and whispered a kiss on her cheek, then her nose. Assailed by suddenly shaky knees, Chelsea grasped his waist, but the feel of him, all warm and hard, weakened her all the more. She closed her eyes when his lips touched them, loving the feel of his mustache against her lids, loving the shimmer of his long fingers spreading over her back, loving his heat when one of his hands fell to the small of her back and pressed her intimately close.

  She knew then that there was no turning back, that the inevitable was about to happen and that it would be wonderful. And she knew that, regardless of the rhyme or the reason or the ramification, she was madly in love with Sam London.

  7

  HE KISSED HER with a slow growing force, titillating, persuading, inflaming her until she was breathless. It was precisely the help she’d needed, because by the time he tugged at her T-shirt she wanted it off as badly as he did.

  Tossing the shirt aside, he ran his hands lightly along her arms, but his attention was focused on her breasts, swollen and aching for his touch. He’d begun to breath more heavily by the time he met her gaze, and his voice was hoarse. “You’re perfect, Chelsea. Absolutely perfect.”

  He’d seen her before, she knew, but under very different circumstances. Now, with the setting unbelievably romantic and her sensual awareness nearly electrical, she felt proud and pleased and more hungry than ever.

  “So are you,” she whispered, laying her palms flat on his middle and inching them upward. While part of her felt a dizzying urgency, another wanted the pleasure of the moment to last forever and beyond. So she fought for slowness, splaying her fingers, acquainting them with the leanness of his ribcage, the gradual broadening swell of his chest, his shoulders.

  He moaned softly and closed his eyes, but his hands mimicked hers, climbing, smoothing, exploring, arousing. When at last he cupped her breasts and began to caress them, she was the one to moan then shiver, as he grazed her nipples and seconds later rolled them with the warm, faintly abrasive pads of his thumbs. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and whimpered softly.

  “Feel good?”

  “Oh … yes …”

  “C’m’ere.”

  He had his arms around her then and was crushing her to his chest. The feel of his strength, his warmth, his texture against her breasts sent tremors curling to the tips of her toes. His breath was coming in ragged spurts by her ear, and it seemed only natural, only right when he slid his hands into the back of her shorts to lower them to her hips. Then, while one hand pressed her bottom, the other slipped to the front and found the special warmth that branded her woman.

  She caught her breath and would have retreated had not his hand on her backside prevented it. “Sam … oh …”

  He continued to caress her, gentling her as he moved ever deeper. “It’s okay, Chels. Don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not … it’s just—it’s like fire …”

  He lightened his touch, but only momentarily. And wisely so, for she quickly found she wanted everything he did, harder, deeper.

  “Better?” he murmured softly.

  Her answer was a shuddering sigh, but her fingers were suddenly restless. No longer content with clutching his shoulders, they sought the solid musculature of his back, then his waist, then the fastening of his cutoffs. She worked blindly, her face buried in the hollow above his collarbone, and she was taking in shallow little breaths. The scent of his skin drugged her, making her feel light-headed while, lower, his gentle stroking brought her to an even higher pitch.

  Impatient, she abandoned his waistband and moved her hand over the front of his shorts. Fully aroused, his sex was a straining force against the denim and her hand. He arched into her palm, then quickly retreated and unzipped himself.

  “Touch me, Chels,” he rasped. “I need to feel your hands … I’ve dreamed of it … touch me …”

  Chelsea would have done so even had he not asked it. She’d seen all of him but this, and even aside from any prurient curiosit
y, she felt a driving need for the intimacy, the power, the satisfaction. He’d once said that “good” was relative, that it was achieved only to then be redefined into something more. So it was with physicality. Where once “good” had been holding his hand or kissing him then touching his chest and his shoulders and his back, now it escalated further. It was like sugar in the bloodstream; a hefty dose gave instant results but when the craving returned it was worse than before.

  Right now she wanted the joy of touching Sam, of bringing him joy with her touch. Splaying her fingers over his waist, she eased them into his shorts and found what she sought. All man. Large, hard and throbbing.

  “Oh, Chels,” he moaned, his body convulsing. With low murmured words, he urged her on. “That’s it …yes …God, yes …” His own hand had fallen still, but she didn’t mind because his heat was surging through her fingers, up her arms, into her breasts and then down to her belly. If anything she felt more aroused than she had before, and from his aching response, as her fingers caressed every private inch of him, Sam very obviously was in a like state.

  Then he stilled her hands and was setting her back so that he could rid himself of the shorts that barred their final satisfaction. His eyes were wide, smoldering with desire, and Chelsea watched helplessly as what her touch already knew so well became known to her gaze. Almost absently she slipped out of her own shorts, not once taking her eyes from Sam’s aroused body.

  Reaching for her hand, he led her toward the edge of the pool and turned her to him. “You’re not scared, are you?” he asked very gently, just the faintest bit uncertain. His fingers were unsteady as they smoothed her hair behind her ears.