Unable to resist the need, she let her hands come up, sliding into the thick silken mat of hair at his chest, feeling warmth and life and strength as they travelled slowly upwards until they could reach no further, stilling on the solid mass of muscle at his breastplate. Then, lifting bottomless black eyes up to his, she stared at him in mute surrender.
He accepted it with a growling triumph that put the seal on her fate.
He devoured her then; there was no other way to describe it. He stormed her, invaded her, conquered and devoured her.
‘This is it, Shaan,’ he slurred into the bone-melting aftermath. He was still lying on top of her, holding her trapped by his physical strength and the dynamic strength of his sensuality. ‘This is what we have. Which is a darn sight more than most people have. And if you’ve any sense you’ll try to build on that instead of pining for the unattainable.’
He meant Piers and she knew it. Did that also mean that he was not going to let himself pine for the unattainable?
‘What time is it?’ she said. ‘I’m so dreadfully thirsty.’
It was another surrender. He knew it, she knew it. His mouth came down to take hers once again in a single hard, bruising kiss meant to claim that surrender.
‘Come on.’ He smiled, getting up and pulling her with him. ‘Let’s go and order some breakfast.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THREE days later, showered, hair pulled into a simple ponytail, and wearing a plain white sleeveless sundress, Shaan was sitting at the dining table nibbling at the last slice of toast while she waited for Rafe to shower and get dressed himself.
Breakfast, Rafe called it. Sustenance more like, she thought, and grimaced as she swallowed. Making love gave you an appetite—She felt her cheeks grow hot as she sat there hardly able to believe the person she had become.
Or been turned into, she corrected that thought bemusedly. They had hardly moved out of these rooms for the last three days and nights. The man, she had discovered, was virtually insatiable—and if anyone had told her that a shy, almost reticent young-for-her-age twenty-two-year-old could become a slave to her own body pleasures so quickly, she would have scoffed them out of the room!
‘Now look at yourself,’ she murmured, and had to stand up as that now familiar restlessness began attacking her insides again.
You can still feel him deep inside you, she admitted shamefully, going to gaze sightlessly out across the glittering waters towards the Kowloon skyline.
And it feels wonderful. Warm and heady. Your breasts are still alive with the pleasure of his touch, the nipples pulsing a delicate plea for his mouth to close around them.
In fact, if he came in here right now and said, ‘Let’s do it again’, you’d be ripping your clothes off!
And Piers? she thought suddenly. What has happened to your feelings for Piers within all this new self-awareness?
Gone, she realised with a shock that filled her with a new sense of horror. She could barely manage to conjure up Piers’ face now, never mind that deep well of love she’d used to experience every time she thought of him.
So, what did that make her? she then wondered bleakly. Fickle?
Or just a very vulnerable woman on the rebound from a broken heart and desperately grasping at the first bit of feeling somebody tossed her way?
It was not a question. She refused to make it a question because if she did she would have to answer it. And she didn’t think she would like the answer any better than the thought.
Because she had an uncomfortable suspicion that ‘fickle’ would win over ‘rebound’.
And that love was something she really knew nothing about. Because if she had to describe the emotion then she would have to now call it—Rafe.
As if on cue, his hands slid around her slender waist and closed across the flat of her stomach. ‘What have you seen that’s so fascinating out there?’ he enquired lazily.
She blinked herself quickly back into focus. ‘A sampan—look.’ She pointed with a finger towards the boat making its slow way through the water. ‘For the first time I feel as if I’m near China.’
‘It’s a junk,’ he corrected humorously. ‘And Hong Kong belongs to China now, in case you’ve missed the world news for the last five years while Britain wrangled with them over their takeover.’
‘That’s right.’ She sighed censoriously, lifting her mood to match his. ‘Make me feel like a thick-headed bimbo. I am only a very poorly paid junior secretary, you know,’ she said teasingly as she turned in his arms to face him. ‘I don’t have your—Oh,’ she finished on a small surprised gasp.
‘What?’ He was smiling, puzzled—so different from the man who had walked out of this room a mere fifteen minutes ago that he rendered her breathless.
He had showered, shaved and smelled deliciously of something spicy. His hair was still damp and combed right back from his face. And he had swapped his bathrobe for a pair of lightweight linen trousers and a white collarless shirt that was both casual and classy, and did things to her metabolism that she was beginning to recognise with dread.
‘You look—nice,’ she murmured shyly.
‘So do you,’ he returned. ‘Nice enough to eat—only, I think we’ve both eaten enough of that particular dish for a while at least,’ he added wryly.
She blushed at his meaning. He bent down and kissed her. It felt different, this kiss. Warm and slow and tender. More like the kiss they had shared the other night on the dance floor. And her hands reached up, just as they had done then, found his head and held it there to prolong the pleasure. His hands were clasped at the base of her spine now, gently urging her closer, and the world faded away on a beautiful moment she knew she would treasure for ever.
He broke it—reluctantly—his mouth returning almost immediately to touch hers again in a strangely poignant gesture. And his eyes when she dared to look into them were darkened by a mood she couldn’t quite define.
‘You’re—special,’ he said gruffly. ‘Do you know that?’
So are you, she wanted to say, but didn’t have the courage. So instead she reached up to return the small touch of lips and was blushing shyly as she drew away again.
The rest of the day went like that—soft, easy, almost romantically perfect—as Rafe took her out to show her Hong Kong, and seemed quite content to play tourist with her, enjoying her fascination with all the new sights, sounds and smells.
They ended up on the Kowloon side via the Star Ferry, which looked so old she worried it might sink halfway across but in actual fact sped them over the water with an exhilarating efficiency.
They ate an early dinner in a small Chinese restaurant in a backstreet Rafe knew about that looked rather dubious to her but served the best Chinese food she had ever tasted. Afterwards he decided to show her the Temple Street night market.
‘Keep close to me,’ he warned as they turned a corner into a positive sea of market stalls and people. ‘And watch your pockets.’
‘I haven’t got any,’ she informed him laughingly.
They hadn’t been back to the hotel all day so she was still wearing the simple white sundress, her only accessory a tiny white leather bag strung at an angle from her shoulder on its long, thin strap across her body. All that held was a lipstick and a handkerchief, so any thief stealing that would be disappointed.
But she held tightly to Rafe’s hand as they plunged into the Kowloon equivalent of London’s Portobello Road.
They wandered down through long rows of stalls hung with top designer wear, ladies’ wear, men’s wear—most of which were illegal copies of the most exclusive brandnames. Pure silk suits were sold off the peg, with an old treadle sewing machine at the back of the stall to make instant alterations. Camera stalls, electrical stalls—all held state-of-the-art merchandise. Jewellery stalls sold a quality of product that to her novice eyes was exquisite. And her eyes began to glow with excited enchantment at the whole mad kaleidoscope of shapes and sounds and colours.
It see
med to her wonderfully bewildered mind that you could buy anything here, from the most expensive perfume in the world to the most expensive watch in the world—all for next to nothing.
She paused by one stall, spying something that caught her eye. ‘Rafe, have you got some cash you can lend me?’ she asked him impulsively. ‘Only I’ve not had the chance to cash a traveller’s cheque, and I want one of these.’
‘What—a watch?’ he quizzed, sounding lazily indulgent.
‘Mmm,’ she nodded. ‘I left mine behind in your house in London, you see,’ she explained.
He stared down at her for a moment, his expression comically dubious to say the least. ‘You are joking, of course?’ he murmured eventually. ‘You don’t seriously want to buy one of these cheap copies?’
‘I am not joking!’ she declared. ‘And I do want one. They’re not expensive,’ she added quickly when he gave a rather contemptuous shake of his head. ‘I just heard someone pay only five Hong Kong dollars for one—that’s hardly anything in sterling, is it?’
‘If you want a watch, Shaan,’ he said drily, ‘then we’ll go and find a proper jeweller’s and I’ll buy you one. A real one,’ he added, with a glance of derision at the stall stacked with cheap copies.
Her eyes widened at the derision, then snapped with impatience. ‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay you back tomorrow when I cash a cheque.’
She turned her head then, to catch the vendor’s eye, having no idea how her ‘stuffy’ quip had caught Rafe on the raw. It turned him to stone for the few moments it took him to come to terms with the unhappy fact that she was right and that he was being stuffy.
By then she was deep into bargaining with the vendor, knocking his price down as she had watched others doing. And with a mocking little smile which was aimed entirely at himself, Rafe took a metaphorical step to one side to enjoy watching this twenty-two-year-old woman he had married sportily play the vendor at his own game.
She enjoyed it too. It showed in the sparkle of her dark brown eyes when she eventually remembered him. ‘Right,’ she said briskly. ‘We’ve struck a deal.’
‘How much?’ Rafe asked languidly.
He had his arms folded across his chest, one ankle resting on the other one, and his eyes were alight with irony.
‘Two dollars fifty,’ she declared triumphantly.
He pulled a wry face. ‘Well done,’ he complimented her, and slowly unfolded his arms to dig a hand into his trouser pockets. Then, as if it went against his masculinity to let her close the deal, he turned to the vendor and handed him the two dollars fifty.
The vendor handed Rafe something that had him struggling to keep the horror off his face.
It was a watch, all right, he conceded ruefully. A watch with a wide bright pink plastic strap, a black face—and Minnie Mouse hands.
She hadn’t even gone for a classy fake—she’d chosen this…a fake toy!
‘I don’t believe this,’ he muttered
‘It’s cute,’ Shaan told him, holding out her arm so that he could fasten the watch to her wrist with a fatalistic twist to his mouth. ‘Is it telling the right time?’ she enquired when he’d finished.
Rafe checked the time on his own genuine solid gold Rolex, looked at the time Minnie’s arms were indicating, and grimaced. ‘To the nearest second, by the look of it,’ he conceded rather caustically.
‘Oh, good.’ Extending her arm out in front of her, she made quite a drama out of studying her brand-new purchase. ‘For the first time since I arrived in Hong Kong, I will actually know what time it is!’ she declared in clear satisfaction.
Rafe frowned. ‘Is that why you wanted it?’
‘Mmm,’ she confirmed. ‘And because I liked it,’ she added, even white teeth pressing into her full bottom lip as she lifted gravely innocent eyes to his, because she knew exactly what he was thinking and was enjoying teasing him about it.
For a moment he took the bait—but it was only for a moment. ‘You provoking little madam,’ he accused.
‘Mmm,’ she said again.
And then it happened—just like that. The playful mood flipped over into something else entirely. In the busiest, most crowded place in the universe, their eyes locked and they suddenly stood alone, lost in the heated grip of a stunning mutual awareness.
Someone accidentally jostled her from behind. It pushed her forward a step towards Rafe. His arm came out and around her in instinctive protection. Their bodies touched. The heat sparked like static all over both of them. She quivered. His chest moved in a hard, tight gasp for air.
‘Let’s go,’ he said huskily.
She didn’t argue, but let him fold her beneath the possessive crook of his arm, and like that they forged a path back through the crowds, making for the nearest train station.
The train was busy. Shaan stood with her back to a piece of metal wall by some doors while Rafe stood in front of her, a hand braced on the rail while the other hand rested at her waist. He didn’t speak and neither did she, but she could feel the tension building between the two of them as the long train snaked its way towards their stop. By the time they got off, she was finding it difficult to breathe. Rafe’s face was taut, unsmiling, as they rode the escalators up to street level.
Their hotel was a few short steps away. There they had to share the lift with several other couples. No chance to speak—say something light in an effort to ease what was throbbing between them.
Rafe stood very close beside her, half-turned her way, so she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, feel the tight, pulsing tension in his powerful body. Flicking a nervy glance upwards, she felt her breathing cease altogether as she clashed with a pair of glittering dark eyes that sent a wave of prickly heat chasing through her.
He wanted her, and he wanted her badly. Suddenly she could feel him deep inside her again, hot and throbbing.
It was awful—shocking! She looked quickly away, her mouth going dry, her heart pumping madly in a confusing mix of tingling excitement and real alarm at the sheer ferocity of it.
Maybe the others in the lift felt it too—she wasn’t sure, but there was a silence in the compartment that seemed to throb with shared tension. And she spent what was left of the short ride to their floor with her dark head lowered so her hair could hide the self-conscious heat she knew was burning in her cheeks.
Rafe’s hand caught hers again the moment they stepped into the corridor, pulling her along the thick carpet to their room, then inside it. He didn’t stop until he strode into the bedroom, where he let go of her at last, closed the door, then leaned back against it, eyes closing, chest heaving on a tense sigh of what she supposed was relief, though it didn’t seem to relieve anything.
Then his eyes snapped open, and she was taking a startled step back at what she saw burning there.
‘Rafe!’ she gasped as he started to walk towards her, not sure whether she found all this compulsive desire incredibly exciting or absolutely terrifying.
Whichever, he was too lost within whatever it was that was driving him to notice any apprehension on her part as he reached for her and began grimly opening the buttons down the front of her dress.
As it was her body’s senses were not giving off negative signals; her breathing was ruptured, her pulses racing, breasts already swollen and tight in aching anticipation of what they craved the most.
The two pieces of the dress parted. His eyes burned a searing path down her body, which was covered by the flimsiest scraps of white silk at her breasts and hips. He released the front catch on the bra, bent his head and sucked the throbbing tip of one breast into his mouth. As her spine arched on a sharp, stinging shock of gasping pleasure his arm hooked beneath the dress around her waist and hoisted her backwards onto the bed.
What happened next left her lying stretched out across the bed, unable to move in the thick, clamouring silence it left in its wake.
Rafe was lying beside her, his shirt hanging open, an arm thrown across
his face, chest still heaving from the power of his own dynamic climax.
They hadn’t even got as far as removing any clothes. She still had her dress on, the two pieces of her bra were lying open either side of her, and her briefs were—somewhere; she didn’t know where. And as she lay there, exactly as he had left her, with her thighs parted and the soft, pulsing throb between them a reminder of the hard, hot, savage way he had driven them both to the edge and over, she was aware that she had just been utterly ravished by a man who had been completely out of control.
A man who was now finding it difficult to come to terms with what he had done.
‘Rafe—’ She touched his shoulder in a tentative attempt to reassure him.
He jack-knifed into a sitting position as if her touch had stung him, his hand grasping at the back of his tense neck while he glared at the floor, and her fingers fluttered tremulously as they slowly lowered again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly, after another strained pause. There was no excuse for behaving like a—’ He stopped, lost for words apparently, his jaw clenching on a snap of self-contempt. ‘I apologise,’ he clipped out. Then got up, walked into the bathroom and shut himself inside.
Without so much as glancing at her once, Shaan noted painfully.
Oh, she wasn’t hurt by the stunning swiftness with which desire had taken him over—it had done the same to her. And, after all, she’d enjoyed it, quick as it had been; she’d been right with him all the way. So what if they’d never quite managed to get their clothes off?
Or so she would have thought, and passed it off as yet another mind blowingly new variation on the wild joys of sex—if he hadn’t reacted like a guilty man.
And a guilty man was usually a man who had set out to punish. Was that what Rafe had been doing while she had been so gloriously out of her head with it all? Had he been punishing her for something? Punishing her for—what?
Madeleine.
The name slunk like the icy draft of a ghostly spectre across her flesh, and she shivered, grabbing the sides of her dress together and curling tightly onto her side.
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