Angel's Baby

by Pamela Browning

  She gasped as his mouth curved hotly into the sensitive hollow in her throat as if his lips were made to fit there.

  “I don’t know how you’ve found time for reading,” she managed to say. “We’ve both been so busy ever since we’ve arrived in this—oh, Stuart, that feels so good—in this suite.”

  Stuart lifted his head, smiling at her in lazy amusement. “In this suite, in this sweet bond of matrimony, in this sweet state of—oh, please touch me, Angel, the way you did last night—sweet, sweet,” and he guided her hand until it curved gently around the most manly part of him.

  “I never knew that what honeymooners did in complete privacy could be so exciting,” she said, sliding her hand against the hot hard flesh.

  “Neither did I. Oh, Angel, if you only knew how good that feels, how much it makes me want you, all of you, in every way,” he said breathlessly, moving into the rhythm she set.

  Was it possible to become intoxicated with lovemaking? Angel asked herself dazedly. Was it possible to go crazy from this kind of touching? To want to do nothing else but?

  She certainly thought it was, because the way he was feathering his hands down the sensitive skin over her rib cage made her feel as if every cell in her body were about to burst into flame. What had happened to Angel McCabe, the calm, cool, self-possessed person she had been only a few short days ago, the person who had been psyching herself up for sex, knowing that she’d have to go through with it, avoiding the very thought of intercourse, planning to fake a climax? That person seemed to have disappeared, and a new one—this Angel McCabe who was swooping eagerly from one delightful crest of sensation to another—had taken her place.

  She felt herself going soft and pliant, yielding to him with such sweet surrender that she could hardly believe it was true. But it was true, and real, and wonderful, and the two of them fit together as if they were made for each other.

  He groaned, his mouth fused with hers, melding his angles to her curves, igniting a heat deep inside her. The taste of him was intoxicating, like heady wine, like the champagne they had drunk the night before, and she was giddy with desire. His mouth explored hers in a leisurely way, his tongue insistent, and she was awash in sensation, drowning in a flood of passion. He surprised her by taking her lower lip between his teeth and sucking at it gently. Her mouth opened greedily for hot, lingering kisses, her hands still full of his strength and his power and his might.

  “I knew it would be like this,” he said, pulling his mouth from hers, and she only uttered a soft cry and buried her face in his neck, inhaling the musky male scent of him, reveling in the scrape of his beard against her cheek.

  “I didn’t,” she whispered. “I didn’t know anything could be like this.”

  “Kiss me,” he demanded roughly. “Let me have your lips.”

  She raised her head, looked deep into his eyes, was lost in his longing and made it her own.

  And then he was kissing her with all his being, caressing her with his whole body. He hadn’t even entered her yet, and she was frantic and straining and wondrously, joyously alive—alive as she had never been in her life—and in a rush of feeling she knew that this marvelous, unbelievable gift couldn’t be happening, not to her.

  But it was.

  In her release, she heard him murmuring, “Angel, Angel,” and she tensed in convulsive shudders that seemed to go on forever until at last, when she thought she would die from sensation, she subsided limply in his arms. She heard Stuart laugh in sudden exultation. Dimly she realized that bringing her to such a lofty peak made him happy, exhilarated him, and she felt swept away by a surge of deep gratitude mixed with totally unexpected euphoria.

  Before she had entirely caught her breath, Stuart slid a hand under her knees and swung her up into his arms, staring down at her with delight and an eager, hungry passion. He was still aroused, his manhood pressing against her, showing her that he wanted her, needed her, and was not about to let his ardor subside.

  “God, you’re responsive,” he said, and she wanted to tell him that she had never been responsive before, and that the reason that she was able to let go with him was that he knew exactly how to evoke all the best sensations. But there was no chance to say anything before he was kissing her again, his mouth covering hers with a demanding urgency.

  Then he was striding into the hot tub, down the steps, depositing her in the swirling hot water and leaning over her, kissing her, pressing her back against the curved seat. His knees slid between her legs, and she lifted her own legs up out of the water to wind them around his back, pulling him down to her beneath the bubbles until their bodies effortlessly became one.

  “This is more of what honeymooners are supposed to do in this private honeymoon suite,” he said, his eyes laughing down at her as he sank into her warmth and softness.

  “Was all of this outlined on that placard in the bathroom?” she murmured.

  “The placard left a lot to the imagination,” he said. “I mean, there weren’t any diagrams or anything.”

  “Thank goodness,” she managed to reply. “I’d hate to think of how busy we’d be if we had to follow diagrams.”

  “Especially since my imagination is working overtime as it is. You can’t imagine what marvels a naval architect could dream up in a watery situation like this one,” he said.

  “I can’t imagine anything,” she gasped. “I know nothing about boats.”

  “All you have to know at this point is that they float,” he said. “And you have exactly what it takes, Angel, to float mine.”

  “We wouldn’t go anywhere without all your wonderful rowing,” she murmured against his neck as he slowly moved in and out.

  “At the moment, I would be hard put to tell port from starboard,” he whispered. He held her close as he rolled over, reversing their positions so that she was poised above him.

  He smiled at her and curved his hands around her breasts. “These are mighty big sails for such a small ship,” he said. She made no effort at all to smother the easy laughter that came to her in that moment; she was exulting in his admiration of her. Oh, she liked this, she really did! The water buoyed her up and made it easy for her to control the depth of penetration. Without even thinking about it, she eased into a vigorous rocking motion that soon had Stuart gasping and bucking against her.

  “I think we’re about to go sailing over the bounding main,” he said, and despite the lightness of his words, Angel was mesmerized by Stuart’s intent, absorbed expression as he concentrated on his own pleasure. And something else showed in his eyes, too, an extraordinary fascination with what he saw in her own. In that moment, they shared an all-encompassing intimacy such as Angel could never have imagined if she had not experienced it.

  His completion was sudden, and she was so caught up in his response, in his elation, that all she could do when he cried her name was to collapse in the circle of his arms and listen to the frantic pounding of his heart until it subsided into a steady, rhythmic beat.

  His hands were wet as they caressed her hair. She rested on his stomach, still pleasurably filled by him, her head cradled against his, the bubbles eddying around them. Birds sang nearby, a steady cascade of trilling notes keeping time with the melody in her heart.

  “Anchors aweigh, my darling, my wife,” he whispered against her hair, and she smiled, feeling the curve of his lips against her temple.

  “This water seems a lot hotter than it was a few minutes ago, and so am I,” Stuart said finally, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “What do you say we go back to bed?”

  “Why?” she said, not wanting to move, not wanting to uncouple. She had never felt so much at one with anyone before in her life, and she didn’t want it to end.

  “Why not?” he replied.

  “Because...I like this,” she said, with a hint of bewilderment.

  “So do I,” he said, laughing at her. “I like it so much that I can hardly wait to do it all over again.”

  “Maybe we need time
to recover,” she said, wriggling her hips so that he was drawn even farther inside her. “Maybe we need a rest.”

  “Maybe you’re talking complete nonsense,” he said, looking down at her with affection.

  “I suppose there’s only one way to find out,” she replied demurely.

  “Oh, there’s probably more than one,” Stuart said, entirely serious, and after a while, clinging together, dripping, they went inside and tumbled amid steamy sheets until they fell back exhausted, sated and suffused with well-being. And then they slept, entwined in each other’s arms.

  * * *

  STUART, lounging back against lacy pillows after an hour’s nap, said, “I could stay right here at the Kapok Tree Resort Hotel forever.”

  “We can’t, Stuart. I told Toby to have Barky Flynt meet us in his boat at the marina at one o’clock,” Angel said as she traced his spine with one lazy hand. “We can’t stay another day.”

  “Can’t you phone this Barky guy and tell him we want to postpone going back to Halos Island?” Stuart said, his words muffled by the pillow. Angel’s hand swooped lower, and if they only had time, he thought he’d turn over on his back and show her exactly why he wanted to stay. Even now, just thinking about it, he felt a telltale stirring in his nether regions.

  “Barky doesn’t have a phone, and Caloosa will run out of food,” she said. Her hand traced the scar tissue on his back. “How’d you get this scar?” she asked.

  Stuart had prepared himself for the question, but even so, he had a difficult time answering. “An accident,” he mumbled.

  “What kind of accident?” She asked it idly, only mildly curious.

  He paused before answering. “Oh, it was something that happened on Nantucket. Do you think we have time to order something from room service?”

  He held his breath, but Angel only said, “I’ll phone and ask room service to bring coffee. Is that okay?” Safely diverted from her line of questioning, Angel fluttered her hands up his backbone and across the back of his neck before winding them in his hair. She seemed fascinated with the texture and curl of it, twining separate strands around her fingers.

  “Sure,” he said, relaxing again. “And maybe a few rolls. We can stop for lunch on the way to the marina.”

  “I’d better call now,” she said, leaning over him to reach for the telephone.

  After she made the call, he reached out and brushed her hair away from her face to reveal the smooth, clean line of her jaw.

  “What are you doing?” she said, her eyes again focusing on his face.

  “Admiring the view,” he said. He felt an unaccountable rush of tenderness toward her.

  “Oh,” she said, looking away as if she were embarrassed.

  “You really are something special, Angel. You’re a stunning woman, a fantastic-looking woman.” He didn’t add my woman, but he would have liked to. After last night and this morning, it would be hard to think of her any other way.

  “I am a woman with too-big breasts and too-wide hips,” she said, drawing away slightly.

  “You’re perfect,” he said, sliding his hand up her flat stomach and cupping one of her gently curved breasts. “Your breasts are perfect.”

  She looked at him, clearly disbelieving, which astonished him. Someone who looked like Angel should know how lovely she was; surely other men had told her she was beautiful, hadn’t they? He would have asked, but such a question seemed inappropriate.

  She looked down at her full breasts. “At least I should be able to nurse a baby successfully,” she said, easing away from him and pulling the sheet up over her.

  Stuart tugged the sheet back down again. “I love looking at you,” he said.

  She stared for a moment, either refusing to comment or unable to speak, he wasn’t sure which. “As for your hips,” he went on, “they’re perfect, too.”

  “You don’t have to flatter me, you know,” she said. “You really haven’t anything to gain from it. I mean, we’re going to...to make love until I conceive, and then you can go.”

  He was taken aback. He couldn’t believe that she could so easily dismiss the passion they had shown each other in their lovemaking. For him, it had been spectacular—bells, whistles, fireworks, the whole shebang. Was she saying that for her the sex act meant nothing more than fulfilling the terms of their contract?

  He didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t stop her when she got up and went into the bathroom. In a few minutes he heard the shower running, and he folded his hands behind his head and stared at the stucco ceiling, thinking over every last moment, reliving every last gasp of their lovemaking.

  Angel had felt something for him each and every time they made love. He was sure of it.

  Or had she?

  Listening to the shower running, with last night and this morning quickly fading into memory, Stuart had to admit that when it came right down to it, he had no idea.

  * * *

  ANGEL’S FRIEND with the boat, Barky Flynt, turned out to be a Key West character in a battered sailor’s hat and an oversize T-shirt that came nearly to his knees. He not only sat on the back of the seat of his runabout, he also steered with his bare feet. He had the disconcerting habit of spitting a trail of tobacco juice into the clear water along the way, but since Stuart had met a good many oddballs during the course of his sailing days, he took these eccentricities in stride. Barky even invited him to go fishing with him someday in the near future, an invitation that Stuart accepted.

  Angel seemed subdued on the run back to Halos Island, and Stuart wasn’t sure why. It might be their conversation before she’d so hurriedly gotten out of bed; it might be that she was distracted by thoughts of her work. He certainly was distracted by the sight of her sitting across from him in the boat, her ankles primly crossed above a pair of white sandals, her hair whipping wildly in the wind. She looked so cool and controlled that she only slightly resembled the ardent woman she had been in bed.

  She was his secret, he thought to himself, and he reached over and squeezed her hand. For a moment she looked vaguely uncertain, and he thought maybe he had somehow done the wrong thing in showing her that bit of affection. It wasn’t as though he could help acting affectionately toward her; after last night, he felt benevolent toward the whole world.

  That included Halos Island, which was growing larger in the distance, and the cat, too. “Looks like Caloosa is happy to see us,” Stuart said in amusement when he saw her, tail held high and crooked at the end, bounding eagerly toward the dock as the boat drew near.

  “See you bright and early Saturday morning,” Barky called to Stuart after he and Angel disembarked, and Stuart, bringing up the rear of their little procession as he carried their overnight gear, saluted him.

  As Stuart followed Angel, who was carrying the cat in her arms and crooning to her, the island seemed incredibly beautiful to him. A flowering tree—a magnificent royal poinciana—shaded the last few feet of the path to the dock, its brilliant red-orange blossoms littering the grass and sand beneath it. The house nestled at the top of the rise, its green painted shingles dwarfed by the two huge banyan trees. Stuart hadn’t realized it before, but he’d missed the place during his short absence.

  Angel hadn’t locked the door; it wasn’t necessary, she’d said. Now she turned to him and shifted Caloosa to his arms, because the humidity had made the screen door stick and she needed both hands to open it.

  “It’s good to be back,” he said, and Angel turned, her eyes questioning. “I mean it,” he said, when he realized that she looked dubious.

  “Halos Island isn’t for everyone,” she said.

  He smiled at her. “Depends on what everyone’s looking for. Take me, for instance. I like peace and quiet. I like the idea of living on a tropical island, far away from the rest of the world.” He was going to say, “I think I’m really going to like living with you,” but at that point Caloosa struggled to get down, and he set her on the floor, whereupon she immediately ran up the screen and h
ung there from her claws, looking over her shoulder at them.

  Angel went over and gently dislodged Caloosa from the wire mesh. “She’s acting out her frustration at being left alone overnight,” Angel explained. She turned around, hugging the cat to her, and Stuart thought that they made a lovely picture, the gray-and-white cat cuddled close to the blue fabric of Angel’s dress, Angel’s pale hair flowing over her shoulders. The flowers he had brought Angel yesterday morning in celebration of their wedding day spilled over the sides of a vase behind her, their blooms a riot of color.

  She moved toward the door.

  “Not so fast,” Stuart said. “Shouldn’t I carry you over the threshold? Like a proper bridegroom?”

  “I’m already over the threshold,” she said.

  “The porch doesn’t count. I’m going to carry you over the threshold of the house proper. Caloosa, too.” He scooped both of them up into his arms.

  “Stuart, put me down,” Angel said, but she was laughing as she said it.

  “Not on your life,” he said.

  She gazed at him, her eyes dancing. “Why, Stuart, I do believe you have a romantic streak,” she said.

  “I do believe you’re right,” he said before ceremoniously carrying her into the house, through the kitchen, across the tiny hall and into the bedroom, where he brushed aside the sheer mosquito net suspended from the ceiling and set her down on the edge of the bed. Caloosa uttered a put-upon meow and leaped out of Angel’s arms before disappearing into the living room.

  Stuart bent over Angel, his arms on either side of her. His eyebrows quirked upward. “Never let it be said that I shirked my duties as a bridegroom,” he said.