CHAPTER 6

HE MOVED UP the wall, ignoring the pain in his lower back as he straightened. Every cell in his body hummed, and he longed to bury himself in her, to give them both what they craved.

“Please,” she repeated. “Now.”

“Soon,” he whispered.

“You promised me naked,” she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. She reached for his jeans, fumbled with his fly, then slid her hands under the denim, urging his jeans down. “I like a man who keeps his promises.”

And he wanted to keep every one of them—both spoken and unspoken. He took an involuntary step toward her and realized his legs were caught in the circle of denim around his ankles. “I think you’ve trapped me.”

“Good.” She caught the collar of his T-shirt and pulled him forward, then planted a mind-blowing kiss on him. Apparently, his sweet Kyra had decided she wanted to call the shots, and he was more than happy to succumb to her whims.

With a tug, she lifted his shirt. Suddenly her hands were on his waist, soft and warm. She inched her fingers up, pushing the shirt up even as she lowered herself to trail kisses on his now-exposed skin.

He tried to reach for her, but his hands were caught in the sleeves of his shirt above his head. As he fumbled, she pressed closer, her breasts soft against his chest. He tossed the shirt aside, his breath coming hard and ragged, wanting nothing more than to take her right there against the wall until they were both sated and limp in each other’s arms.

“Bed.” His voice was hoarse from passion.

“Yes.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “But you’re still trapped.” With a devious grin, she let her hands glide down his body, down his stomach, then lower. Her fingers teased the elastic band of his briefs, and he had some idea of the pure, glorious, wonderful torment he’d put her through only moments before.

Desperate for her touch, he caught her hand under his, heard her soft gasp as he pressed their joined hands against the full length of his arousal. “I want you,” he whispered.

“I feel it.” Her voice was breathy. Her body, pressed close, burned hot. He longed to bury himself in that heat, to sheath himself in her, to lose himself in this glorious dream and never wake up.

She stroked him, taking him to the brink, and he moaned, a deep gutteral sound in the back of his throat.

“Are you going to let me finish?” she asked, a tease in her voice.

“I think I’ll die if you don’t.”

She slid down further, her hands working their magic on his legs, until every single inch of him burned with desire. When she’d untied his sneakers, he slipped out of his jeans then urged her back up to face him. “Bed,” he repeated. “Now.”

She shook her head, a devilish smile playing across her face. “We’re still not even.” She snapped the band of his underwear lightly. “Naked, remember?”

He chuckled. “For you, my dear, no demand is too much.”

He stepped out of his underwear and pressed against her, urging her backward until she was against the wall again. They fit together perfectly, and she spread her legs just slightly in both invitation and silent demand. He pressed closer, her slick wetness against the length of him an erotic, sensual tease, and he considered taking her right there. But he forced himself to wait, fearful his back couldn’t take it.

She protested as he pulled away, breaking contact, but he took her hand and urged her to the bed. She lay on the spread, her body glowing in the candlelight, her eyes wide, but dreamy. The tableau was pure sensuality, but there was an air of innocence, too. She was everything—sweet, yet sensual; demanding, yet giving.

“Now,” she urged. “I’ve got…you know…in the table by the bed.”

He couldn’t help his grin as she tugged on his hand, urging him forward. The woman was a sultry combination of shy and sexy, and it just about did him in. He followed willingly, knowing he couldn’t, wouldn’t, disappoint her. It seemed as if the whole world turned on losing himself inside her, and he could think of only one way to be absolutely certain that his sore back would survive the night.

He slid in next to her, propped up on his side as he stroked her hair, then moved in to capture her mouth with a kiss. Her hand trailed down, teasing and stroking, making him even harder, a thing he wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Now,” he said, echoing her words. He rolled on his back, urging her on top of him. “Please, sweetheart, now.”

* * *

KYRA SWALLOWED. She was hardly a virgin, but she’d never been a particularly, well, aggressive lover, though that was changing a bit tonight. And now Michael seemed to want her to take the lead. She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to.

Slowly, sensually, she moved on top of him, leaning forward to slide open the table’s drawer and pull out one of the little foil packets she’d brought with her. She arched her back as she slid against his body, playing her hands down his bare chest and trailing kisses in their wake. His taste was pure male, and she wanted to sample every part of him, to gorge herself on the wonderful taste that was purely Michael.

He made her feel things she’d never felt before. Like she was spinning out of control. Like every part of her body burned with a fire she couldn’t control or classify.

Alive. Every inch of her. She was alive and the feeling was pure heaven.

She moved lower, her knees pressed into the bed on either side of him. She was wide open, ready for him, and wanting him so desperately she had to fight the urge to sink herself onto him and give them both what they craved. Not yet.

She’d never felt so powerful, so special, and she wanted the feeling to continue just a little longer. Wanted them both on the edge so that when relief finally came she could hold on to the feeling and never, ever let it go.

“I want you, Kyra.” His hands stroked her back, her bottom, urging her over him. His voice was raw, and she felt a surge of power knowing that he was on the very edge of control and that she was the one who had taken him there. She could feel the hard length of him pressed against her, ready. Ready for her. With slow, languid movements, she writhed against him, knowing that he too was at the brink.

“Oh, God, Kyra, you’re driving me crazy.”

She lowered her mouth to his lips, brushed a soft kiss over them. “Am I?”

“Vixen,” he said, a tease in his voice. His hands grazed her back, his skin rough against her rear. He cupped her bottom and she moved forward, desperate to let him touch her there, everywhere.

She moaned, deep and needy when his finger slipped inside her, and she pressed against him, wanting him deeper, wanting more of him, all of him.

“Payback, sweetheart,” he said, tormenting her by taking his finger away.

She met his eye, saw the same passion reflected there that burned through her. With a silent prayer that she wouldn’t fumble and destroy the mood, she got the little packet open and managed to sheath him.

“Now. Oh, yes, please. Now.”

Arching her back, she lifted herself, then moved down, impaling herself on the length of him. She gasped as he filled her, body and soul. He reached up, his hands stroking her breasts, fondling rock-hard nipples, and she swallowed a moan.

She rocked against him, needing everything he could give. Through a haze of passion, she felt one of his hands slip down, grazing the skin of her belly, leaving a trail of hot, hyperaware flesh. He moved lower and lower still, then slipped his hand between their joined bodies.

“You’re so slick,” he murmured. “You feel wonderful. Kiss me.”

She complied readily, bending forward, increasing the pressure of him inside her and stroking her. He seemed to be touching her everywhere, and she closed her mouth hungrily over his, as joined as two people could possibly be.

They stayed that way, moving against each other, colors swirling around her while the wind outside the cabana howled, the storm building even as the pressure inside her built. Faster and faster, tighter and tighter, she tried to hang on, tried to make it last, but in the end, she had to let herself go, and she arched back, holding on to his waist as the world exploded around them in a fit of colors and stars.

She drew in a breath. “Wow.”

His smile was gentle, and he reached up to stroke her face. “I’d say that pretty much covers it. Come here.”

He urged her lower until she was curled up next to him, their bodies slick from the sweat of lovemaking. He stroked her side, sending little shockwaves ricocheting through her.

“You better be careful. I might have to jump you again,” she teased.

“Is that a promise?” He kissed her nose, then pulled her closer.

“Maybe it is.” She shifted against him, wanting every part of her to be touching some part of him.

“How did I get so lucky?” he asked, his voice sleepy.

“Lucky?”

“To find you.”

“Oh.” No one had ever made her feel so important, so special, and her eyes welled. She blinked, frustrated. “I guess I just like my men heroic,” she said lightly. “Rescue me from a tree, and I’m yours.”

“So that’s the trick,” he said.

She thought she caught a hint of sadness in his voice, but she dismissed it as a product of her own, overemotional state. She’d done the right thing, gathering up her courage for this sensual adventure. She was sure of it. They meshed somehow, his lightest touch waking every part of her body.

But even more than the pure, simple thrill of his touch, the truth was, he’d struck a nerve. Touched some part of her she hadn’t expected. He made her feel desirable and feminine. He actually wanted her—not because of her family, not because of her company, not even because everyone expected it. He’d simply seen her and wanted her. And, heaven help her, she’d wanted him right back.

It couldn’t be permanent. She knew that, though she wanted to pretend it would last forever. She already had something permanent waiting for her in Dallas. Permanent, responsible. The life she was born to. The responsibilities she couldn’t escape.

She’d have Michael for the week. She’d have his memory for the rest of her life.

* * *

KYRA’S BODY curled against his, soft and warm. She was one special lady. An enchantress. How else could he have felt like himself again? Hell, she’d taken him to the edge and over, working on him like a drug, making him forget the pain in his back, turning the pain into a haze of need, of desire.

He stroked her cheek, and she stirred slightly, her lips parted in sleep. Carefully, so he wouldn’t wake her, he scooted to the edge of the bed.

Being in her arms may have been therapeutic, but now he was paying the price. Lightning flashed as the storm raged outside, and he fumbled for the matches, then relit the single candle they’d blown out earlier. Moving slowly, he slipped out of bed and headed for her kitchenette to search for ice for his back.

He emptied a few cubes into a dishtowel, then held the makeshift pack in place as he wandered around her cabana aimlessly, trying to loosen up. The difference in their rooms was obvious. Not so much the style, but the occupant.

Where he was a total slob, she was neat. Already, his was decorated in early-American laundry, while her clothes hung neatly in the half-open closet, not one piece of dirty clothing on the floor, except what they’d left last night.

Her dresser was topped with a brush, a little jar, a bottle of spray, and a notepad open to a page of neatly printed lists. He resisted the urge to read her notes, but gave in to the urge to smell the spray—strawberry.

Her bathroom fit the pattern. Hell, even her towels were folded neatly on the bar, and there wasn’t one glob of toothpaste in the sink.

On the table next to the front door, he found a room-service card and noticed that she’d put in a standing order for breakfast. He grinned. He was lucky if he remembered to hang out the card in time to order coffee for the next morning. So far, he’d remembered once. Every other day, he’d had to make his own from the supply in the well-stocked kitchenette. Since culinary skills weren’t among his repertoire, so far the stuff hadn’t been drinkable, and he’d become a late-morning fixture at the poolside restaurant.

Thinking about his morning routine reminded him that he needed to be gone by sun-up. They’d made love in the light of only one candle, and he didn’t want to risk her getting a better look at his face if the storm broke and the sun came out.

Though a tiny part of him wanted to wake her up and tell her everything—wanted her to cover his face with kisses and tell him it didn’t matter—he knew that was only a fantasy. He glanced at the clock. Four forty-five. About an hour until the sun started its slow rise over the ocean.

He longed to take her outside, to hold her hand as they watched the sun’s spectacle. But even if the storm stopped raging, he couldn’t be with her in the light.

He glanced toward the bed and saw that she’d kicked the sheet off. Her skin glowed in the reflected light of the candle, and he felt his body tighten.

He moved toward her quietly, careful not to wake her when he slipped the candle back onto the table and dropped the ice-filled towel onto the floor. Taking care not to shake the bed, he slid in next to her and blew out the candle.

His back still ached, but it was a different kind of ache that urged him on now. And though he would pay the price later, he had to have her again. He was rock hard just from looking at her, and he needed to lose himself in her slick heat.

Gently, he kissed her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. She turned, rolling onto her back, mumbling soft words through the blanket of sleep. He stayed still, not wanting her to awaken just yet. She was dreaming, and he wanted her to dream of him.

One arm was over her head, and her legs were spread. He knelt over her, dipping his head to taste her breast. She sighed, and his heart constricted when he realized that she’d whispered his name. In sleep, her hand drifted down, resting against her cheek. Her other hand idly stroked her side, and he kissed each finger in turn, stopping to concentrate on her index finger.

He drew it into his mouth, relishing the taste of her. With his tongue, he teased her finger, his own eyes closed, urging her to the very brink of wakefulness.

She stretched beneath him, making soft sounds that drove him crazy. She spread her legs wider, and he took that as an invitation. With his fingers, he explored her wet heat, dipping into her core, feeling her tighten around him.

“Yes,” she murmured, her hips shifting, drawing him in more. “Oh, yes.”

Even in sleep, she wanted him.

The knowledge filled him, made him harder. He rubbed himself against the soft skin of her thigh, teasing and torturing them both.

Her eyes were still closed, her mouth curled up. She looked beautiful, ethereal, and he wanted her.

She whispered his name, and the sound of his name on her lips brought him to the brink. He thrust inside her then, and her eyes opened for a moment, warm and soft and beautiful, before closing again as she whispered his name.

He thrust again, driven by an ancient need. Over and over, until she cried out, begging him not to stop, to never, ever stop.

How he wished it were possible. What a perfect world it would be if they could just stay like that, intertwined in each other’s arms, lost in that sensual place where they seemed to be one person.

With each deep stroke, he came closer to claiming her as his—a primitive urge, but he wanted to mark her as his always, so that no matter what happened, no matter when or how they parted, she would always be his.

Deeper and deeper, harder and harder. Her arms closed around him, her fingernails digging into his back as she rose up to meet him, man and woman becoming one.

Pressure built up inside of him. An explosion of need and desire, and when it burst through, he cried out her name, taking her with him as she rose up, her hips meeting his.

He collapsed onto her, slick with sweat, and she stroked his hair.

“What a nice way to wake up,” she whispered.

He kissed her cheek, lost in a wave of tenderness he’d never felt for anyone before.

“You make me feel wonderful,” she whispered.

“You are wonderful,” he said, pulling her close as sleep urged him back into the darkness.

* * *

SHE AWOKE ALONE.

From behind a curtain of sleep, she stretched her arm out, seeking his heat, and finding instead only a cold indentation on the sheet.

With a start, she sat bolt upright, lost and disoriented.

“Michael?”

She glanced around the room, listening, but heard no sign of him. Wrapping the sheet around her, she slid out of bed, stepping onto a soggy towel. She stepped over the curious thing, then padded to the door and opened it. She peered outside, hoping to find him walking barefoot on the beach, but already half-expecting that the beach would be silent and empty.

It was. Everything was quiet, her breakfast tray sitting on the table on the porch. She pressed her lips together, tighter and tighter, determined not to cry. Instead, she kicked at the doormat, trying to convert a bone-deep sadness into anger.

No use. And when the mat flew an unsatisfactory few inches, her willpower dissolved and she collapsed onto the porch, pulled her knees up to her chest, and cried.

She wasn’t even sure why she was crying, but she couldn’t stop. Maybe she was crying about her life back in Texas, maybe for what she’d found on this island, but couldn’t hold on to. She didn’t know and she didn’t care.

All she wanted was to purge herself, to get rid of these feelings, and she let the sobs wrack her body. She didn’t even try to hold back, just let the tears come and come until her stomach ached and her eyes burned and she had a nasty case of the hiccups.

They’d shared so much last night, and when she’d fallen asleep in his arms after the second time they made love, she’d foolishly allowed herself to believe that sharing somehow made it real.

But it wasn’t real. She’d known that going in, and she needed to keep repeating it. This was a fantasy, and by definition, a fantasy wasn’t reality.

It wasn’t like she had anything to complain about, anyway. She’d wanted to share a night of passion with Michael, and she’d certainly gotten her money’s worth. She was just being silly and stupid if she’d expected that she’d wake up in his arms and they’d spend the day sightseeing together. That wasn’t the way the world worked.

She should be ecstatic. Already, one portion of her Fantasies, Inc. request had been fulfilled in spades. She could go back to her marriage to Harold knowing that she hadn’t missed out on passion. That she had these memories to sustain her.

Still…just because she could now tick sexual adventure off her list, she hoped that didn’t mean it was all over. She’d sort of planned on a week of passion-filled nights.

But maybe he didn’t feel the same way. After all, he’d left without even saying goodbye.

With a sigh, she stood up and wiped her eyes. Whereas only hours before she’d felt full, now she only felt like a shell of herself.

She wanted to be angry, to cut loose and yell at the top of her lungs, to curse him for leaving her. But she couldn’t. She had no one to blame but herself.

She grabbed the coffeepot. Cold. For some stupid reason, that started the tears coming again. She sank to the ground once more, tears streaming down her face as she gazed out over the calm ocean.

Damn. She really wasn’t cut out for this fantasy stuff.