Part 37 (1/2)
She shot to the surface with the ferocity of a geyser and whipped her hair out of her eyes, incensed, eyes flas.h.i.+ng sparks he could almost feel on his skin. ”You . . . you . . . wretch! You beast!”
Moments later her face transformed. ”Ooooh, but Lyon, it's lovely!!”
He laughed.
She swished her arms about her, savoring the feel of the water, her limbs silvery suggestions beneath the clear water, her nipples peaked and sh.e.l.l-pink and tantalizingly, mesmerizingly bobbing right at the water line.
And he leaped into the water, capsizing her again.
They spluttered to the surface at the same time.
”I'm a fisherman and I want a mermaid to ravis.h.!.+” he declared on a growl.
”Never!” she vowed pa.s.sionately, and pushed with her toes off the bottom of the pool with surprising strength and shot like an otter away from him.
He lunged after her.
She shrieked and dodged him again, eluding him with selkie skill until they were both giggling like children set free after a winter locked in a cell.
Of course he was going to win. They both knew it. Either because he was faster or because she was going to let him.
And about five minutes later he finally maneuvered in front of her, seized her, and gathered her against him.
He held her loosely in the circle of his arms, which felt like bands of iron and ironically made her feel weak again with desire.
Wet skin against wet skin, her nipples chafing against his hard chest. Blue eyes met blue eyes.
”I've got you.” Rather a statement of the obvious, on his part.
”And so you have. Deal with me gently, kind sir.”
”Not on your life,” he murmured.
”Perhaps we can . . . strike a bargain for my freedom.”
Her hands slid down his chest and dipped below the water and reached between his legs.
He went still, his eyes intriguingly and instantly abstracted. ”I see you've found my harpoon.”
”And so I have,” she murmured.
”What do you intend to do with it?”
”Perhaps I'll do this with it.”
She closed her fingers around his already swelling c.o.c.k and stroked upward, sliding her fingertips over the satiny dome.
”Excellent . . . suggestion.” He sounded as if he could barely breathe.
And suddenly everything was quite serious, and the rush of the waterfall, the ragged rhythm of his breath against her lips, seemed all of a piece, elemental, part of this place.
Kisses that began as slow and languid became thorough and claiming, growing ever deeper, ever more hungry, each one paring away a layer of control, exposing again the raw need that had pulsed between them from the very beginning and was very clearly never going to be fully sated.
”Oh G.o.d . . . please don't stop, Liv,” he whispered hoa.r.s.ely against her lips, and then took hers again. He covered her hands with his and pushed them down to show her just how he wanted to be touched.
She didn't mind at all being told what to do. His pleasure was indistinguishable from her own.
His head went back hard and the cords of his neck went taut and his breath was hot and swift. His throat moved in a swallow.
She kissed him there, too, then drew her tongue along the glowing skin of his throat.
He slid his hands beneath her b.u.t.tocks and lifted her up, and thrust into her again, and her head went back on a gasp as he filled her.
It was glorious and strange and it made her savage with need.
”My G.o.d, Lyon,” she moaned again.
She locked her legs around his waist, and he moved her over him, slowly, tormenting, teasing both of them, the water buoying them as they rocked together, until they were colliding swiftly, her head dropped back.
”Liv . . . Liv . . . oh my G.o.d, Liv.”
And just like that they were both in the throes of release, their screams echoing, water rippling out from them.
HER LEGS STILL wrapped around him, he carried her effortlessly toward the sh.o.r.e, then tipped her backward on the beach onto the blanket he'd spread, then sprawled flat out next to her.
They lay there in a stupor of contentment for a time.
She absently traced the lines of him. Drew her finger around that round scar. She recognized a musket ball wound when she saw one.
Someone had shot him.
He had lived.
She suspected she knew why he'd been shot, and how he'd been shot, and was amazed to find that the reason didn't bother her in the least.
She would find out soon enough, because she intended to ask him.
”May I confess something?” She said this dreamily.
”Certainly.”
”I should like to bite you.”
”Bite me? What have I done to deserve such ill treatment?”
His voice was as languid as someone who'd drunk a half bottle of laudanum.
”It's just that your skin is so smooth and a delicious color, like toasted bread, or a biscuit. Just a little nip.”
He smiled dreamily. ”I'll allow it.”