by Sandra Hill
He jiggled his eyebrows. “Do you think so?” He crooked a finger at her. “Why don’t you rhumba on over here and find out?”
Her lips twitched. Then he heard a slight giggle, followed by a spontaneous laugh.
Hallelujah!
She pulled the blanket tighter around her body and stood, walking awkwardly over to his side of the fire. He forced his hands to his sides, even though he really wanted to pull her down on top of him.
“Well?” she said, glaring down at him.
“Well what?”
“Well, show me, you fool.”
“What? You expect me to have an instant tongue hard-on without any foreplay?” he said, snickering.
She pointed to his erection. “It doesn’t seem to have any trouble rising to the occasion.”
“It has no class. My tongue is a more refined instrument. It needs . . . Well, maybe if you dropped that toga, it would—”
“Toga?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Blanket. Shroud. Tent. Whatever.”
Before he had a chance to blink, she let the folds fall open to the ground and kicked them aside.
And Rafe’s tongue did, indeed, seem to grow three sizes and appear to have a mind of its own. He was speechless.
Helen got tremendous satisfaction out of turning Rafe speechless. She looked down as he sputtered for breath, his eyes wide with appreciation of her nude body. Gee, she wished she had her clipboard now. She’d like to take notes on fifty ways to turn Rafe speechless, starting with female nudity.
God help me, but I think I love you, she mimicked Rafe in her head. Then, It was probably just a line. The jerk couldn’t fool her. He loved her, all right.
She guessed she’d just have to teach him a lesson.
Stepping over his body, she used the instep of each foot to frame his hips. “Say it,” she ordered.
“Tongue hard-on.”
“Not that.” She could tell he enjoyed verbal sparring with her. The lout! She touched his erection with her big toe.
He shot up off the blanket about four feet. “Holy hell!”
She was pretty sure the tremor going through his body was from extreme pleasure. She’d never dreamed she could be so bold or uninhibited or excited. Or in love.
Openly amused, she pushed him back down with a foot braced on his chest. This was fun, being the aggressor. “Say it.”
“No.” He was grinning again.
“Yes,” she insisted, using the pad of her foot to circle one of his nipples. His heart just about jumped out of his chest.
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“Men! Don’t you know those words can’t be taken back?”
“Says who?”
“It’s an unwritten rule. Now say it, damn it.” She drew her foot lower.
“Helen,” he warned. His teeth were making a funny, grinding kind of noise. Could be he was trying to exercise restraint. Good thing someone was. She’d lost hers about three miles back in Marysville. Probably with the first dip.
Before he could guess her next move—heck, she didn’t know what her next move was going to be—she dropped to her knees and sat on his upper thighs, real high. His arousal pressed against her stomach.
After Rafe’s eyes rolled around their sockets a few spins, he gasped out, “Son of a bitch! Are you trying to kill me?”
“Just a little,” she murmured, leaning forward. Her breasts grazed his chest hairs, then swelled and began to thrum with a sweet ache. She wanted to tease him, the way he always teased her, but she felt woozy and disoriented, as if she were drunk.
When she was so close his warm breath fanned her lips, she asked, “So, how’s your tongue, honey?”
“I swallowed it.” He smiled against her lips.
And it felt so-o-o good. A smile-kiss. She liked it. So she smiled back against his lips.
He grabbed her by the waist, compelling her back up to a sitting position. God, he was so handsome, with his dark skin and flashing eyes and firm lips that begged to be kissed. She leaned forward again to do just that when he held her back. “What are you trying to do?” he ground out.
She blinked with confusion. “I don’t know. I forget. Oh, I remember. I want you to say the words. Again.” She licked her lips to see if they were as puffy as they felt. Rafe’s eyes followed the path of her tongue with avid interest.
“Convince me,” he rasped out.
“How?” She tilted her head questioningly.
“Touch me.”
She brushed her fingertips over his flat male nipples. “Like that?” she asked. She could tell by his loud inhale that he liked it a whole lot. Then she replaced her fingertips with her mouth and suckled him the way he had her.
He responded with a thundering heartbeat and clenched fists at his sides. No words.
“And this?” She moved lower and took him in her hand for a brief second, stroking lightly.
“Definitely,” he choked out.
The only sounds in the cave then were the background rain, the crackling fire, the shifting horses, and Rafe’s ragged breathing. She relished the feel of his hot skin under her hands, the male scent of him, aroused and wanting her. With her hands and mouth and her skin abrading his skin, she worshipped his body from beautiful toes to creased forehead. And all the time, he whispered sweet, hot words of encouragement, some of them in Spanish. Some of them so explicit she blushed, all over.
When she raised her eyes to his face, it was vulnerable and open. She realized with sudden insight that she could hurt this man deeply. Thank God, she only wanted to bring him pleasure.
“My turn,” he growled, arranging her on her stomach.
“I want to see you,” she protested.
“Shhh. Later. First, I want to explore.” She heard devilment in his voice when he said the word “explore.” She raised her head to peer at him over her shoulder, but he drew her hair back, exposing her neck, and nipped gently with his teeth, forcing her face back into the blanket. “My turn, my way, sweetheart. Slow and easy.”
Slow and easy? Oh, yeah! At this point, my hormones are already programmed for fast and furious.
First, he kissed her ear, doing those wonderful things with his tongue—which he hadn’t swallowed, after all—that he’d done to her earlier. The wet, fluttery motions that simulated the sex act made her feel like sinking right into the blanket.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“God, yes.”
There wasn’t an inch of her body that he didn’t examine with his rough palms and warm lips. He spent a lot of time on the curve of her spine. “I always thought the small of a woman’s back was the most erotic turn-on . . . until I saw your breasts,” he told her. And she had to agree that he’d revealed a new erogenous zone for her.
He traced her butterfly tattoo and pressed his lips to it. “It’s my mark on you,” he said with hoarse possessiveness.
Then he showed her another erogenous zone—the back of her knees. By then, she was a quivering mass of flesh. She whimpered for release, but he just laughed, holding her down with a hand on her back. When he skimmed the crease at the back of her knees, a current of electric pleasure shot through her legs, up, up, up. When his tongue repeated the caress, something wild and frighteningly intense broke free inside her.
At the first spasm of her approaching climax, he turned her on her back and took a breast into his mouth. He drew on the aching tip with a rhythm that matched the waves ebbing between her legs, undulating outward. She tried to scream, but her throat closed. Increasing the strength of his suckling, Rafe whisked a hand over her stomach, skittering over the damp curls, then touched her.
She saw stars.
When she tried to close her legs, he kept them open with one knee, exposing her to his tantalizing fingertips.
“No more, no more, no more,” she sobbed, and pounded against his chest.
“Easy, easy,” he coaxed every time her thighs ten
sed against the onslaught. “Stop fighting me. Relax.”
“Relax?” she squeaked in disbelief, trying to hold his wrist in place. He withheld his hands until she obeyed. Then he embarked on the exercise again.
Over and over. Raging arousal. To the edge. Then halt. Relax. Start again.
When she finally reached her peak and shattered, she heard the high-pitched squeal but could barely connect it with herself, this flailing, arching, brazen woman pleading for forbidden delights she’d never dreamed existed.
At the height of her orgasm, Rafe demanded in a strangled voice, “Look at me.”
She unshuttered her heavy lids and saw him poised on his knees between her widespread legs. Her knees were bent, buttocks resting on his thighs. Even as shudders racked her in waves, he placed both hands on her hips, lifting her higher and wider.
“No,” she said, realizing his intent.
“Let me . . .” Lowering his head, he nuzzled her hair from side to side with his mouth, then used his tongue against the molten slickness, turning her to liquid fire.
Another agonizingly intense climax began to build.
She thrashed. She bucked. She fought the cataclysm.
He no longer entreated her to relax. He was making low, masculine sounds of heightening excitement.
Then he adjusted their positions, and slammed into her, filling her. Her body welcomed him with shifting ripples and fierce clasps.
She screamed.
He roared.
“So hot!” he gasped out. “So good!”
“Oh . . . Oh!”
“I wanted to be gentle.”
“Don’t . . . you . . . dare.”
He almost pulled out and gazed at her through eyes that seemed misty, teary-eyed. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she whispered.
He plunged into her so hard and deep he drove her off the blanket. She wrapped her legs around his waist and cried into his ear, “I’m losing control.”
He chuckled. “That’s the point.”
“I’m afraid.”
“I’m with you. Together.”
So she held on and matched him stroke for stroke, letting him lead the way on a journey she’d never taken before. Beyond sex and biology to a joining of flesh with spirit.
He rolled onto his back, still in her, and let her set the pace for a while. Slower. Deeper. He touched her breasts while she rode him, and she felt herself melt around him, anointing him with her pleasure.
“You’re wonderful . . . wonderful . . . wonderful. I never dreamed . . .”
“Say it,” she pleaded.
He hesitated. She could tell he didn’t want to. But he did. For her. “I love you.”
She closed her eyes and surrendered to the overwhelming spirals.
He turned her on her back again and pressed her knees to her chest. “Hold on tight, babe. This is the last stretch.” Braced on muscle-strained arms, he thrust into her with shorter, harder strokes. “Now!” he shouted, and she felt him expand, then come inside her.
Her heart raced, her ears rang, and every nerve ending in her body shook. Finally, finally, finally . . . Her inner folds broke into wave after wave of convulsions, trapping Rafe’s manhood with her orgasm.
He howled—a raw, male sound of pure satisfaction.
And she blacked out for an instant with utter, unadulterated ecstasy.
It was several moments before she became aware of her surroundings again. Rafe lay heavily on top of her, probably paralyzed. Her back was pressed to the dirt floor, five feet from their blanket. When she lifted one eyelid, she saw a horse’s hoof mere inches away from her cheek. She looked up to see F. Lee staring down his aristocratic nose at the two of them, probably thinking, “Dumb homo sapiens!”
Rafe lifted his head, gulping for breath. “I think I’m hyperventilating.” He kissed her lightly and smiled. “Damn, I was good.”
She returned his smile, correcting, “Damn, we were good.”
“Ri-i-ight!” He froze then, as if stunned.
“What?”
“Did you just lick my tattoo?”
“I beg your pardon.”
She glanced up and Rafe peered over his shoulder. F. Lee’s tongue took another wide swipe across Rafe’s right buttock.
“Oh, my God!” Rafe exclaimed as he began to assimilate their new location in the cave. “How did we get here?”
She shrugged. “You were the ‘driver.’”
Rafe hooted. “Oh, no! You’re not going to lay that one on me.” Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he pulled her closer. “If I ever call you Prissy again, just karate chop my tongue.”
She cuddled against his chest. “When it has an erection?” she asked sweetly.
He made a choking noise. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”
“Never.”
“Let’s see if we can find a pepperoni pizza and a Coors in one of those saddlebags,” he said. “I’m starved.” His legs almost gave way under him as he stood. He grinned sheepishly at his weakness and held out a hand to pull her up.
His thick hair was mussed. His blue eyes scanned her body with lazy possessiveness. His lips were slack in passion’s aftermath. There were bruises and bite marks on his dark skin. In essence, he looked like a man who’d just engaged in sex, and had a real good time.
She loved him.
“Why do you have tears in your eyes, mi amor?” he asked, drawing her upright and into his embrace.
Cupping his face in her hands, she whispered, “Say it again.”
He sighed deeply with understanding. He was obviously uncomfortable.
She cringed with hurt and tried to pull out of his arms.
He held her fast. “Don’t you dare start misinterpreting everything I say or do. This is all new to me, and—”
“And you think it’s same old–same old to me?” she said on a sob.
“Helen,” he said with exaggerated patience, “you’re wine, and I’m beer. You’re granola, and I’m Froot Loops. You’re apples, and I’m jalapeño peppers. You’re broiled chicken, and I’m chili dogs. You’re—”
“You’re looking for excuses, Rafe,” she snapped. “Besides, I make a mean Mexi hot dog.”
“You do?” He smiled wearily. “You didn’t let me finish. The most important thing is that you are babies, and I’m . . . well, I’m not.”
Yes, there was that important stumbling block always in their path. Her shoulders slumped.
“Now, let me finish before you stiffen up on me. I’m just trying to say that we’re different, and neither of us is thinking beyond this incredible chemistry we have, and that’s okay, but—”
“Stop beating around the bush, Rafe.” She braced herself for the rejection that was undoubtedly coming.
“I love you,” he said, gazing at her through hazy eyes that were confused and vulnerable and wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. “Bottom line . . . I love you,” he confessed in a whisper.
Her heart expanded in her chest almost to bursting, and a big tear slid down her cheek. “You’ll probably try to take those words back tomorrow,” she charged, trying to smile, but failing.
“Probably,” he conceded, kissing the tear off her chin.
Another tear soon followed.
“I love you, too. Honest to God, I really do,” she said bleakly.
“And that’s why you’re giving my chest hairs a bath?” he bantered as one tear after another ran down her face.
She nodded, then shivered. “What’s going to happen to us?”
He walked her over to the fire and wrapped one of the blankets around her toga-style. “We’ll work it out somehow, I promise. Didn’t I tell you I was going to be your hero?”
“Please, you’re not going to sing again?”
“No, first I’m going to feed you. To build up your strength,” he said as he arranged several logs on the fire. “Then . . .” He flashed a mischievous grin at her.
“Then?” she prompted.
>
“Then we’re gonna play Marco Polo.” He winked.
She giggled and burst out laughing.
“I get to go first, of course.”
“Of course,” she said dryly. “Will I need a compass?”
He chuckled. “Nah, just follow my anchor.”
“Hmmm,” she said, swiping the last of the dampness off her cheeks. “Maybe I could be the figurehead on the prow of the ship. You know, one of those waist-high buxom babe things.”
“That’s the spirit, darlin’. And I could swab your decks.”
“Well, I don’t know. Would that occur before or after I raise your flag?”
“You’ve played this game before,” he accused boyishly.
They exchanged a warm smile across the fire. He was pulling food items from one of the saddlebags.
She knew Rafe had changed the subject in an effort to make her feel better. He was probably as confused and scared as she was.
Maybe things would work out, after all.
Chapter Sixteen
Captain Hook and Tinkerbell . . . role playing was so much fun! . . .
“Time for the last dance, sweetheart.”
Helen felt so warm and sleepy. She cuddled closer under the furry blanket and refused to open her eyes.
“Wake up, little Suzy,” the furry blanket said. “One more for the road.”
Helen chuckled in her sleep. What a dream! There she was on a Hollywood set, waltzing around with Fred Astaire, whose fuzzy sweater rubbed sensuously against her chest. No, it was Patrick Swayze, and they were dirty dancing in the Catskills. Maybe he wasn’t wearing a sweater, at all, and he was calling her Suzy, like that old song title.
But why did Patrick have dark hair and blue, blue eyes? And, boy, could he dip!
She slept some more, drifting from dream place to dream place. Now she was a little girl and her daddy was giving her a puppy. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“I’m not your Daddy,” her daddy said.
Poor man! It had always pained her father to refuse her a pet throughout her childhood, but they moved constantly from base to base.
“What a cute puppy! How affectionate!” she giggled. The darling, frisky pet was licking her belly.
She thought the darling, frisky pet grumbled, “I am not a dog,” as she yawned widely. Or maybe it was, “I’ll show you cute.”
