The fresh scent of coconut soap grew stronger as he neared. Then that finely chiseled face that lost none of its appeal up close tilted, angling slightly to my right to avoid the clash of noses.
Everything about this first time was awkward enough without the age-old wisdom of the schoolyard reminding me that which way a guy tilted his head indicated down which leg of his pants he hung himself. The handful of boys and men I’d had the opportunity to test that theory on proved it only slightly more probable than not. And now my inner giggling schoolgirl was obsessing over whether he was a “righty” as his tilt indicated, or a rebel lefty, unbound by convention or an intervening pair of pants.
When our lips met, I had no expectations beyond a quick sampling, cool and judgmental, of any chemistry that might reside between us.
Wholly unexpected was that surge of desire that overwhelmed me at first touch. Chemistry? The whole lab was burning as I inhaled the essence of him, sending flickers of flame deep into my pelvis and down my legs, melting them with the intensity of the passion.
I felt his surprise as our lips ground together. His free arm circled my waist and drew me close as he stepped into me, so it wasn’t just the narrow plane of our lips kissing but our whole bodies, from the heave of our breasts to the tickle of our stomachs to the jolt of our hips to the sizzle of our thighs.
Rigid desire rose, a hard rod that bumped against the silk of my inner left thigh through the cotton layers of his scrubs and my khaki shorts. He was indeed, I noted casually, a righty.
My own free hand roamed the wide expanse of his naked back, squeezing handfuls of solid flesh and muscle as it went.
Jengo let go of our other hands then, freeing Mark’s to slide up between our bodies to cup the swell of my right breast, and mine to spread over the hard muscles of his butt and press him closer. It took all the control I had to not give in to the undulating rhythm of the primal dance that would signal an invitation for this night to go further.
Then a third arm snaked around my hips and the sudden pressure on my outer thigh had nothing to do with Mark’s proven virility. Through the corner of my slitted eyes, I saw a little gorilla face smiling up as Jengo hugged us even closer together.
If it hadn’t been for that small distraction, I might yet have given in to the heat of the desire burning hotter and hotter the longer and deeper our kiss went on. But when Mark’s tongue pushed inquisitively at the entrance to my mouth, asking permission to enter, I gave his bottom lip a final nip and slipped my lips away.
For a moment, I thought my body would betray me as every muscle clenched in protest and he responded with a well-timed thrust of those firm hips, another plea for me to finish the night with him.
I opened my eyes to the echo of the invitation sparkling in his.
My resolve wavered, but in the end I gave my head a gentle shake. “Not tonight,” I whispered, although already I could feel the pangs of regret prickling through the passion still burning hot between us.
Jengo grunted at my thigh.
There was still time to say yes.
Still time to change my mind.
Still time to give in to the wild desire that drummed in me with every beat of blood through my veins.
Still time.
Until there wasn’t.
CHAPTER 10
MARK
Disappointment flared sharp at Kayla’s refusal, but only because my body had been so well primed. She wasn’t some frat night party conquest or bar pickup to be used for a night and then tossed aside.
Holding her, kissing her had been an experience like no other. Not that I hadn’t held and kissed other women. Not that I hadn’t responded to them as well, with the same rush of lust, with the same invitation to slake our heady desire. I couldn’t remember another time when the answer was no; then again, the whole purpose of those other encounters was driving to a yes. That yes was the whole reason we had come together in the first place.
With Kayla, there had been no such expectations. Sure, that no could have been an ego-bruiser, evidence that the only women who wanted me were the ones looking short-term, ready to be satisfied by a one-night stand. Except Kayla’s no was conditional—not tonight—leaving open the door to later opportunity.
I wasn’t a fool. Of course it could have been a polite blow-off. Like the exchange of phone numbers in the morning’s stark light and the promise, “I’ll call you soon.” But there was something about the way Kayla said it, how she looked when she said it that made me believe she was sincere.
Maybe, too, it was being here that convinced me. Here in remote Africa, deep in the unchanging rainforest. Here on the plantation passed down through the generations. There was a quality of permanence about Kayla. She stood with an anchor in the past and a promise of future written in her eyes. In between that past and future was the quality about Kayla that most appealed to me—comfort.
I felt that comfort with me still, even after she led the little gorilla to his nursery and closed the door to her own room and I closed the door to mine. Comfort was in the smell of the sheets, the quiet of the big house, the orphans sleeping in peace, and the Rottweiler on vigilant guard.
It felt like a household.
And, strangely, right before I drifted off into a Percocet-fueled sleep, it felt like family.
I woke to the memory of Kayla’s warm lips and the gorilla’s trusting hand in mine, and to the smell of breakfast pork cooking in the kitchen. If not for the pain in my side, I would have indulged myself with a few minutes more just lying in bed and enjoying the memory, the smell and the strong feeling of rightness about the morning.
The pain, though, was a reminder how little right there was in the world.
There was no sneaking up on Kayla. Gus whined a greeting to me as I stepped into the kitchen where a barefoot Kayla was busy at a commercial-size stove that had to be twice as old as her. At the table, Jengo peered at me over a bowl of dry cereal. On the other side of the table was the bottle of Percocet and a small glass of juice.
“Good morning.”
Yes, I decided, hearing the lilt of Kayla’s distinctly clipped voice, it was a very good morning indeed.
“Good morning.” I wondered if I looked as rough as my voice sounded. I downed a Percocet with a swallow of juice, watching Jengo mimic me with a bite of cereal and a swig of juice from his bottle. I grinned at him and he grinned back. “It seems we understand each other.” He grunted back in agreement.
“That’s very smart of you!”
I thought Kayla was praising the gorilla until I realized she was staring at me with a smile and—dammit—a wink.
A moment later she set two mugs on the table, motioned me to sit, and poured hot coffee into them. The aroma overwhelmed the room, and suddenly I was anxious for a taste.
“Milk or sugar?” she asked.
“Would that be insulting?”
“As in…?”
“To your coffee.”
She laughed, which would have been the insulting thing if it hadn’t been such a pure sound devoid of any snark. “That’s not my coffee. Besides, we just grow the cherries. They still have to be washed and processed. There’s a washing plant a few kilometers from here that all the plantations use, so everyone’s crops are mixed together and bagged. Then the dried beans are shipped out to be processed and packaged—depending on contracts, they could go to Europe or the States for that. What’s processed regionally comes from a plant in South Africa that uses cherries grown on Kilimanjaro. It’s good coffee, but even I like it better cut a bit with milk and sweetened.”
“In that case, just milk. I’ve drunk so much sugar-laden coffee during late-night cram sessions and 24-hour internships that even thinking about sweet coffee makes me gag.”
“I have tea, if you’d rather,” she said, back at the stove.
“Not at all. It’s the sugar that’s the trigger. Besides it would feel…sacrilegious…to be drinking tea on a coffee plantation.”
Kayla l
aughed again. “True. You either become addicted or you swear it off forever. No middle ground.” She set out a laden plate and silverware in front of me, then returned with a second plate for herself. “Spiced omelettes, as promised. The cooperative here on Zahur keeps a flock of guineas, so we all have a steady supply of fresh eggs. The peppers and mustard seed and coriander are all home-grown. The ham’s from a wild pig some of the teenage boys hunted down, and the bread is baked by the women.”
Shaking my head, I reached for the white-cream butter in the bowl Kayla added to the table. “No doubt you churn your own butter too.”
“What do you think the teenage girls do while they talk about the boys who are off hunting?”
By the mischievous twinkle in Kayla’s eyes I couldn’t tell whether she was serious or not. Whoever churned it did a damn fine job, though, I thought, as I launched my way into breakfast.
A few bites of the ham in Kayla’s plate disappeared Gus’s way. Then, as we scraped the last of our plates clean, Kayla added a bowl of sliced papaya to the table, sharing it out between her, me, and Jengo, who pounded on the tabletop in obvious delight.
Like the rest of her routines, Kayla’s breakfast was efficient, well-structured and perfectly choreographed without feeling like it was any of those things. The flow felt natural and spontaneous. Only on close look was it clear Kayla was directing every wave of that flow with ease and capable hands.
Hypnotic in its way.
Comforting.
Seductive even, although not in the blatant Barry White let’s get it on right now, baby way, but in a more subtle hearth and home way.
That made her especially dangerous. She could assault from two fronts—purely physical arousal and a deeper emotional longing. Could I surrender to one without giving in to the other?
Would she let me even if I wanted to?
She had whisked our dishes off to the sink to soak and replaced them on the table with a bowl of soapy water and a soft cloth. Her warm hands on my chest startled me. “Are you ready?” She whispered, and I heard the echo of Barry White’s deep entreaty before I realized her touch wasn’t foreplay but the prelude to something decidedly less sensual.
“On three. One…” She ripped the bandage away.
Gasping at the sudden pain as dried blood and cloth were torn away, I glared at her. Already, though, she was pressing warm, soapy water to the bullet wound and the quick, superficial pain was easing, leaving only the dull, persistent throbbing the Percocet was keeping in check.
“Liar,” I accused her.
“So sue me for malpractice.”
The grin she flashed at me arrested every muscle in my body.
Suing her didn’t make the list of things I wanted to do to her right now. My hands folded over hers as she pressed the warm, wet cloth against me. I encouraged her hands towards a point south. “It’s not tonight any longer,” I whispered.
“No,” she agreed. “But we do have a full day ahead of us.” She squeezed my hands—an apology—before brushing them aside so she could dribble more penicillin over the wound before wrapping me up again.
I was already missing the feel of her hands when she leaned over and gave my lips a gentle kiss. Then quickly, before it could lead to something more, she retreated, following with a tender stroke of fingers across the hard line of my jaw and chin.
I tried to dissect her look. Regret…promise…apology…anticipation? All of the above? I peered closer, a microscope into her heart. As long as it wasn’t pity, I could still hope.
The baby gorilla slapped his hands together and gurgled something I took for approval. It seemed I could better understand him than Kayla’s enigmatic smile as she turned away.
“Right,” I muttered. There were indeed things to attend to today. No sooner had I thought it than Kayla’s laptop appeared in front of me. Pulling up my email client, I logged into my account, looking for a reply from Doctors MD.
“They’re acknowledging my request for extraction,” I relayed to Kayla who was busy at a cutting board on the counter, dicing eggplant and plantains. “They seem to be more concerned about arranging for another volunteer and for the security of the clinic and its supplies right now. What part about kidnapping and gunfire did they not understand?”
I scowled.
“Oh, wait. There’s another email. This one’s from the director. She agrees I shouldn’t go back to the clinic, and she’ll arrange for authorities from Hasa to check on it and secure it. They’ll re-evaluate the political climate after the elections and decide then whether to re-staff it or not. Meanwhile, she’s looking for a flight out sooner than the 14th.” I did the quick calculation. “That’s nine days!”
Surely that was a mistake. But no, not as I read on further.
“It’s the Subs epidemic. Tourists are apparently cutting trips short in the Sudans, Ethiopia, Uganda and the Congos. Also airports in the countries to the south are already starting to book up. There’s talk of a ban on air traffic into Sudan, South Sudan and the DRC, which means I’d have to find a connecting flight further away, which would likely mean a private hire. Upshot is: We’re working on it.”
Kayla had finished chopping and was lining up bottles by the stove, scooping separate powdered supplements into each, and listening with a grave face from what little of it I could see.
“They want to know if I’m somewhere safe meanwhile.”
She nodded. “Of course. You can stay here as long as necessary if—”
I waited for her to name the condition, realizing she’d be foolish to not want something in return for the inconvenience of her extended hospitality. Money would be easy—wire transfers from bank to bank with some hefty exchange fees, no doubt. Not that I had more than a few thousand tucked away since I was only a couple of years out on my own and with a mountain of student loan debt still waiting to be paid. Short of extortion, though, I had enough to cover a week or two of hoteling.
Drugs, however, would be a problem, both ethically and logistically, if that’s what she wanted. She had penicillin and Percocet . What else hid in her cupboards? Not that penicillin wasn’t readily available to any livestock owner even in the States without a prescription. And certainly not that anything about her suggested drug use. It was just, out here in the remote rainforest, coffee wasn’t the only thing being grown and trafficked.
I steeled myself.
“—if you make yourself useful. Like now, for instance.”
Kicking back out of the chair, careful not to move too quickly or two wrongly, I joined her at the counter. “Hold this.” She handed me a funnel and pointed to the bottles, before turning to the stainless steel kettle on the stove in which milk had been warming while we breakfasted. Using a spouted cup, she scooped the milk into the funnel as we filled the three bottles.
She didn’t need me for this. I’m not even sure a third hand made the task any easier or quicker. But drawing me in served two purposes. First, it gave me something physical to do so I didn’t dwell too much on the disappointing news that I might be stuck here for longer than I thought. And second, as we worked shoulder to shoulder, the big kitchen suddenly felt quite intimate, and the same feelings of rightness and home washed over me as when I’d first awoken between crisp, clean sheets to the comforting smell of breakfast ham sizzling in the pan.
“I’d like to do more.” I left it open-ended because I wasn’t sure how welcome an insertion of myself into all her everyday—and everynight—activities might be. But when she hesitated, I panicked, afraid to lose the bond I felt building between us. “I need to do more. For you.” I leaned in close, my nose against the honeyed shine of her dark hair where each breath could lift its strands in gentle waves. “To you,” I whispered.
She went still, her body language unreadable.
Every muscle in my body contracted uncomfortably as I waited for her response—any response.
Had I confessed too much too early?
Had I dared too far?
CHAP
TER 11
KAYLA
I bit my lower lip, not from any doubt as every muscle in my body made me feel quite sure I needed him as much as he professed he needed me—physically. Watching him help funnel milk into the bottles and screw on the nippled lids also triggered emotions from deep within that had nothing to do with simple sex, though, and all to do with something he didn’t have right now to give, at least not here with me—time to build any sort of a future.
A week, two weeks maximum, and he’d be gone. Eleven thousand kilometers away. Despite my body’s best efforts to assure me otherwise, sex without intimacy and the promise of greater possibilities would be hollow and ultimately unfulfilling. Disappointing even. At least it would be, with a partner like Mark—someone with whom my hormones seemed to connect. Someone who made more than just my skin tingle when he breathed over it through full and sensual lips.
There was no question the pleasure we could have together. But I feared its cost. The greater the pleasure short-term, the deeper and longer the pain when he left. An inverse proportionality that was as cold and rational as any equation. Or like drugs, I thought, to any addict. The higher the high, the worse the withdrawal. The only way to prevent the plunge on the other side was to say no to the ride up in the first place.
But where did the strength to say no over and over when my body was demanding yes come from?
When his lips were so near mine? When his dark eyes were bright with invitation? When long fingers promised intimate caresses? When that broad chest offered a personal playground to explore? And when the shadowed, hidden length of him twitched with the vow of profound passion?
All it would take to start us on a path of blinding, insatiable hunger would be a single, whispered word. A word begged from me by the depths of my own desires. A word that was perfect, simple, sublime…
“No.” I whispered that other word as gently as I could.
The hurt that sprang into his eyes deserved an explanation no matter how difficult putting my reasoning into words might be. And this man deserved more than an it’s not you, it’s me. “What you’re asking me—”
Noble Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 3) Page 6
