Intimate Strangers Affair Page 13

  Miguel was saying something heated in Spanish, then in French, as his hands molded me to him. He bent me over backwards, my pins falling plink-plop against the ground, my hair tumbling down. The hard jut of his hip pressed against me as he kissed me with enough fervor for two. Then his lips swept along my cheek, around my ear. He bit my lobe, kissed that too. He growled softly, “Make it real.”

  Oh, a thick haze of pleasure covered me completely so that his words barely penetrated at all. All I knew was this strange feeling surging through me once more; such heat, such intoxication that the Pisco punch seemed like water, like nothing at all. I kissed him back, my tongue dancing along his, following just like the waltz earlier, sometimes even leading. I leaned closer into him, my body swelling with new needs. Somehow, my hand slipped between us, inside his coat, then lower where his chest blended to slim hip, then lower still.

  “Mi corazón, mi amor. Love me…tonight…forever,” Miguel said passionately.

  He pulled me deeper into his arms, deeper into his dark passions, deeper into the maze, not caring how rough and careless we looked. In our haste, my skirts snagged on the bushes. Something ripped, the rent sound loud like a shot in the night. Startled, the crickets paused. It was very quiet all of a sudden. My breath caught when I heard the voices. They were close. Too close.

  “Well, well, well,” Hamilton’s voice said. “Maybe Don Cabrillo is more hot-blooded than he lets on. A lot more hot-blooded. Spanish, you know.”

  “And French,” Buckner added. His watch clicked shut again as if he’d been timing our interlude. “Mixed blood, you know.”

  “They’ll be mixing something else, if you catch my drift. No wonder he didn’t want to go tonight. Other plans. A rendezvous. Can’t blame the man, Horace. She’s quite a looker, a real fine filly. Long legs by the look of her. Bet she runs a good race. The full four lengths.”

  The men chuckled as they walked on. The crunching of gravel gradually faded into the distance as we kissed some more. Deeper, longer. It was never enough. Each taste led to another. Each touch made me ache for more. Miguel was saying something to me, but I wasn’t sure what. I couldn’t hear right now. Only felt him. I ran my hand along the silk lining of his vest to the fine cambric shirt below, jerked it up, out, then touched his flat belly to where a thin line of hair thickened and disappeared below his waistband. I followed it until his fingers tangled with mine.

  “Niña,” his voice sounded smoky, and underneath our twined fingers, his stomach jerked with each gasp as though he’d been running hard and for a long time. “They’re gone.”

  “So?”

  “No, listen to me. They’re gone. We can…” His Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively. “We can stop. Now.”

  I had trouble understanding, then finally his words sank in. “Why should we stop?”

  “Because we should.”

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you want me?”

  Something flared in his eyes, but by the time he blinked, it was gone again. Then his arms suddenly tensed as if he were getting ready to push me away from him. “I don’t share,” he gritted out. “The others…”

  “There you go again. What others? There aren’t any others. There never has been. I’ve never…well, you know.”

  “You, innocent? This is not a game. Don’t lie, niña. The time for pretend is over.”

  “I’m not pretending. Oh, why am I even talking with you? You never listen to me. Maybe you’ll listen to this.” My skirts were pinned between his strong legs, so I did the only thing I could. I dropped down and kissed him there. Tasted his fingers, the salty skin of his stomach, then lower. Much lower. I looked up at him.

  His head was tilted back, his body trembling as if he were holding fast against some invisible storm, trying to keep some vestige of control. “Nathalie, stop. Now…please.”

  I turned my head against his thigh. The wool felt soft next to my cheek, his muscles hard. Such tension. It was terrifying and thrilling. “For your sake? Or mine?”

  “Cristo,” the curse came out as a sigh. “For both our sakes,” he admitted at last. He looked down at me, his hand running through my hair. His thumb lingered along my eyebrow, cheekbone, then traced circles in the hollow underneath. “If you don’t stop, I don’t know if I can, querida.”

  “Then don’t,” I said simply. “I want this. You want this. We both do. There’s no better reason, is there? This is right. I know it is. Should I seduce you this time? I don’t know how, but I could try. I’m a quick learner.”

  With a soft sound, he fell beside me so that we knelt together, facing each other, holding hands in the soft grass of the garden. His lips hovered near mine, close enough to kiss. His breaths brushed against my face. I counted each one, committing them to memory. I wanted to remember them, the smell of him, everything about this first time. And this time when our lips touched, it felt very sweet and soft. All the passion from before unfolded like a flower into tenderness. Petal by petal, it drifted over me, undoing me completely until I lay open, exposed, quivery, eager.

  “Show me. Show me everything,” I whispered.

  He kneeled between my knees. “Are you sure about this, querida?”

  “Yes, oh, yes.” I was stunned by the look on his face, the same torturous need that I seemed to be feeling.

  “You’re so beautiful, Nathalie,” he said softly and drew me against him for another kiss. This time he used his tongue almost like one would use it while fencing. Parrying. Thrusting. Retreating. Inviting me to do the same. My body was pressed against his, his chest heating me like a stove, inflaming me. I was surprised to hear the involuntary gaps that emanated from my throat. The whimpers became moans as his hand lowered to caress my breast beneath the cloth of my chemise. And then, as if by magic, he slowly divested me of the remaining garments and he was telling me how beautiful I was and laying me on my back, kissing my face, my neck, my shoulders, my breasts. It seemed like hours. I told him I just felt as if I might go up in flames. He said that was good and then he laughed, that low, sumptuous rumble of his. His face was buried between my breasts, his tongue lapping a burning path to my navel, his hand between my trembling thighs.

  “Let me be your teacher,” he said, his voice husky. “Later you can show me what you’ve learned.” His eyes were wicked with promise.

  I near swooned from that look. He began to kiss me and I closed my eyes, abandoning myself completely to his devouring mouth. In a daze, I opened my eyes and studied him while he kissed me. He was looking at me, too, enjoying my reaction, his eyes slumberous and darkened by his desire to fathomless pools. My heart leapt at what I saw there, something both painful and exciting curling in my breasts, pooling like honey in my abdomen. I had caused him to look that way. I did not know exactly what it meant, but it made me feel powerful and free. His lips were causing strange sensations, drawing me into his heat, his fire. When he deepened the kiss with his tongue, his mouth opened hot on mine. I gasped, pressing our linked hands down at the notch of my thighs where I ached and throbbed for something I did not know.

  He moaned then, leaning forward and holding me tightly on either side of my waist. His mouth and his tongue felt velvety soft, a sharp contrast to the hard length of his body pressed against mine. He smelled of fine-milled soap, his clothes scented exotically of sandalwood. I could taste his arousal like something familiar, a dark delicious essence, as heady and as addictive as chocolate. Only he lays claim to that taste.

  He pulled his lips away from mine, trailing kisses everywhere, along the line of my eyebrow, over my cheek to my ear. He came back to my mouth, slowly brushing his lips against mine. “You can’t know how I have dreamed of this, querida. Do you feel the same?”

  I threaded my fingers through the silk of his hair. “I feel more than I have ever felt.”

  He slid his hands slowly up my sides, cupping my breasts. The sensation made me jerk in response. I pressed my legs together to still the reaction there. I was wet, but he said that was good.
Perfect. He said I was ready and that he was so glad I wanted him.

  I wanted him more than I wanted to breathe. How do I describe it? I don’t think I have the words. It was perfect. Like honey was flowing through my veins. Like the grass wasn’t even there beneath me and I was floating on clouds.

  He took my breast in his mouth, the feel of his tongue and lips making me cry out with yearning. I pressed my hands into the silk that covered his wide shoulders, my fingers playing in the silken curls that spilled over his collar. He held my hips, lowered his head and pressed his lips to the pulse that made my stomach muscles quiver. He softly murmured words in Spanish and French while kissing the line of my sternum, back to my breasts.

  With shaking hands, I helped him to remove his clothing. He stood before me, proudly naked and beautiful, so masculine it nearly brought tears to my eyes. How could such perfection exist? How had I been so lucky to have him want me?

  I gasped slightly as he lowered his body to mine, closing my eyes as I felt for the first time his naked skin. His body felt smooth and hard. My hand ran down his back, and his muscles played beneath the smoothest of skin. But the most enticing was the long, thick, pounding beat of him that I felt against my abdomen. I wanted more of that. I spread my legs until I felt the skin of his hips against my inner thighs, and wiggled against him until that heavy, pounding pulse of him beat just against the entrance to my core.

  He smiled. “Patience, querida. Not yet.”

  And then his hand loved me first, and I writhed and gasped at his touch, and he kissed me, sighing into my mouth as if he’d found joy in my joy. He smiled at me and I said that now I knew what it was to explode and I asked him if he had exploded yet.

  He laughed. “Soon, mi amor, soon.”

  I told him shyly that I was a star in the heavens burning for him. Only him. I felt like that. Oh, I had. Shattering. Expanded. Like a million little points of light, of pure, white brilliance. I think I found my soul then, as if I’d never known who I was before. I would never forget it. It was lovely and devastating. I hoped it would be as lovely for him, that there would be more for us. I loved him. I knew it then. It was a given. A fact I would never change or deny. I did not know him, and yet I knew him better than anyone. It was as if we were meant to be. As if our bodies were meant to be fused together in this liquid embrace, this glittering harmony.

  I even loved him when he hurt me, when his body entered mine. But he soothed it with little bites followed by soothing licks of his tongue along my neck and shoulder and then deep, hungry kisses for my mouth. I know he held himself back. I know he was mindful of my tenderness, my inexperience. At the beginning his strokes were gentle and slow, increasingly becoming rough and greedy, aimed straight for my absolute core as he forced himself further and further inside of me. I shivered wildly with every one, the sweet ache of pleasure tantalizing me, beginning to spiral through me, each one so very close to the sweetest precipice I had ever known. Tears of pleasure were on my cheeks, as my body arched back for him.

  He groaned roughly, his hands nearly bruising my hips, coaxing more of my depths to accept his hard length with every stroke. “Yes, ma vie, feel me…feel us.”

  His last stroke into me was sweet, slick, and ruthless, overcoming me completely. I cried out, shaken to my soul, as I captured every incredible inch of him deep within my core, causing the taut need there to flower spectacularly.

  “Miguel,” I gasped, crying again, my whole body shivering with the flood ecstasy. Hot shards of pleasure exploded in me, warming my blood and making it flow more sweetly, more brightly than ever before. I whimpered.

  And when he reached the same sweet fulfillment I had found, I watched him, the torment, the triumph, and then the peace reflected in his handsome face. I held him tenderly as he shook and moaned, burying my hands in his thick, fragrant hair as he collapsed on top of me, his face in the crook of my shoulder, his shoulders pushing me into the soft grass.

  “Mon Dieu…Nathalie,” his shattered whispers touched my neck. “Mi amor, mon amour…” He lifted his head and smiled at me. His hair was tousled, his eyes heavy lidded, he was so heartbreakingly beautiful he made me want to cry.

  “Can you do that again?” I found myself asking. “Can you?”

  He laughed and said it was quite possible. I could feel him stirring to life inside me again. It was even better the second time. He let me touch him all I wanted, let me explore the wonders of his hard, muscled body. Every inch. Every perfect, ravishing inch. I was a little sore, but it was nothing to speak of. I felt happy, replete. I don’t think I’d ever felt quite like that before. I’ve always been rather an eager learner. I was his willing pupil and I hoped an apt one.

  A long delicious time afterwards, I lay with my head on Miguel’s chest. I listened to his heart slow down from its erratic wildness to a measured beat. Steady, sure, something to count on. Just like him, I suppose. Around us, the crickets were still singing their nightly serenade. The fountain tinkled softly. Miguel absently twirled a lock of my hair around his finger, then let it go again. I looked up at him. His face seemed more serious than usual, as if he were puzzling over a difficult problem, one he couldn’t easily solve. It seemed to disturb him.

  “You okay?” I whispered.

  His fingers stopped mid-twirl. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

  “Sure,” I said cheerfully. “You can.”

  He kissed the top of my head. Maybe that was his way of asking.

  “I’m fine. More than fine. Relieved, actually.”

  “Relieved?” His body quickly shifted to one side so that he could look down at me. He was frowning.

  “I was dreading this. Waltzing is so hard, and I’m so clumsy, but this…this was easier. And so much better than dancing. At least with this I didn’t step on your toes or anything. I mean, I don’t think I did. Did I hurt you?”

  “I’m fine.” His frown deepened. “And you?”

  “Oh, well, just a little. It’s a nice kind of pain. I feel warm and golden all over. Like I just swallowed the sun and it’s still glowing inside me. It’s wonderful. Is it always this wonderful?”

  “No.” He seemed to think hard for a moment longer. Then he admitted, “Not like this. Never.”

  “Never for you? Really? Then, Miguel, this is like the first time for you too. That’s…I don’t know.” Feeling a little teary, I watched the confusion play over his face. So maybe, just maybe, that was his dilemma. He didn’t know how to handle this. It was all new uncharted waters for him too. He had no maps, no experience to guide him. And suddenly, I felt even more wonderful. I didn’t think it was possible, but I did. Absolutely wonderful. “Of course, it could be that Pisco punch. Everyone else seemed motivated tonight. Did you have any? Your glass was full all night.”

  He looked warily at me.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t scold you. As a doctor, I should. As your…well, what am I? No matter. Whatever I am, I promise I won’t scold. Tell me the truth.”

  His lips twitched. “The truth? Then, no. I did not.”

  “Ha! Then you don’t have any excuse.”

  “I don’t need one. I have you.”

  “You do?” The answering look he gave me made me tremble inside.

  “Yes, mi amor, I do. But I don’t know what to do with you. You surprise me.”

  “Good.”

  “No, it’s bad. Very bad. For both of us.” He scowled.

  “I disagree, but that’s okay,” I continued, ignoring his uneasiness. I wasn’t going to let it bother me. Nothing could bother me right now. No use arguing with a rock-headed man. “Tell me something.”

  He silently stroked behind my ear for awhile, then rested his temple against the top of my head. His sigh brushed against me. “If I can.”

  “Well, I’ve always wondered. I mean, Catherine’s girls are always talking shop. Half the time, they’re kidding around, but half the time, they’re serious. Like the time Angelique had to cover a guy with currant jelly a
nd lick it off his toes. Yuck. I’m always hearing something and I wanted to know…can you do this?” I leaned up and whispered my suggestion into his ear.

  He jerked with surprise. Then eventually, he smiled. It was a lovely lazy unguarded smile, lighting his eyes from within until they looked almost golden-green like sun on new leaves.

  “Ah…yes, we can.” He stretched so that all his muscles rippled, stirring an altogether different kind of feeling in me. Shivery, but warm. Then he suddenly lifted me until I straddled him. Startled, I slid down. He caught me with his hands and his undulating hips. “You mean…this?”

  “I think…oh…” My head fell backwards, my body gliding forwards. His pants chafed my thighs, but I didn’t care because what felt warm turned warmer, then hot. Unbearably hot. Dear God. “Am I…?”

  “Yes. Perfecto.” He was watching me from underneath his hooded eyes, gauging my reactions to his actions, his heated instructions. And from that tug at the corner of his mouth, I could tell that he knew how I was feeling. He knew how to ratchet those feelings a degree higher, then several degrees more. He shifted, searching deeper between my layers, finding, coaxing, then showing me how he felt too. A caress here, another kiss there were more expressive than a thousand words. He was very inspiring. Naturally inspiring.

  He pushed me higher, farther, inch by unbearable inch until I didn’t think I could take another second longer, knowing that in another blinding instant, it would all cascade inside me, around me, around us both. I was intoxicated, but it had nothing to do with the punch. It was something else altogether. Worse than cocaine, opium, and demon rum combined. Something far more dangerous and addictive. I was half-drunk on a different potion. A very potent potion named Don Miguel.

  “Come, mi amor,” His soft words burred in my ear. He sounded so completely different than that convulsive groan just moments ago. Had that been him? Me? I wasn’t sure. It hadn’t sounded like either of us, and I didn’t feel like me at all, languorous and lazy like I’d melted in the sun. Every single bone dissolved. I was a puddle of a woman. This was bliss. And a revelation. No wonder people risked everything to do this, to feel this way. Maybe it wasn’t lunacy after all. It was a marvelous mystery. Far more mysterious than diagnosing an appendicitis, and far more intriguing. And I was only beginning to unravel it all. I couldn’t wait to find out more. I was fascinated, my body humming all over.