Chains of Fire (17 page)

Then, in unison, she and Samuel closed the distance between them.

And they kissed.

Heat. Blazing heat.

Mouths open, tasting. Tongues probing. A rhythm so familiar, yet new.

He stripped off his gloves. Pushed the zipper down on her coat so hard he created sparks. He didn’t bother to drop it off her shoulders. Just found her breasts through her sweater and held them, stroked them, explored their contours.

Glorious. Old times remembered with a new lust.

She pressed herself into his hands, needing his touch with a desperation that had built during the days and nights of being too close, fed by too many years of missing him.

His touch felt good. So good.

She reached for his ski pants, unzipped him.

He grabbed her hands. “Wait.”

“No.”

“We’ve got to think this through.”

She was finished with waiting.

“It is far too late for that.” Sliding to her knees, she pressed her mouth to the underwear stretched taut across his erection.

The heat of her breath made him suck in air. “You’re killing me.”

“You’ll survive. At least long enough for me to get what I need.” Pulling her hands out of his, she pushed his pants and underwear down onto his thighs; then, starting at the base of his penis, she licked it like an ice-cream cone, stopping only to swirl her tongue around the head.

That was what it took to kill his initial resistance.

Wrapping his hands in her hair, he pulled her head back and looked down at her.

His eyes glittered like dark stars. Color surged in his cheeks. “In the tent. Now.”

“No. Here.”

“It’s too cold. We’ll freeze.”

“Here,” she said stubbornly. Because she didn’t dare make the walk to the tent. A delay and the cool air might return her good sense.

No. She wanted this.
Now
.

She could see him wavering again. Because he knew her. He knew why she didn’t want to think about it.

So she cupped his testicles and sucked his penis into her mouth. She pulled him deep, savoring the flavor of his skin, the drop of come that eased from the tip, the well-remembered ridge of the head, the veins that ran the long length of him. The taste of him set off memories of hours spent in the window seat, on the bed, anywhere, exploring each other’s bodies, discovering the depth of their emotions, their passions. That memory made her body tighten, made her grow damp in anticipation.

The sound of his heartfelt groan was sweet surrender. “All right. You win.”

Reluctantly, she released him.

As soon as she did, he yanked her to her feet and marched her to the packed tent sack she’d used as a seat. Turning her to face away from him, he urged her to her knees on the concrete. He knelt behind her, his knees outside her knees. He held her in place. Pulled down her zipper. Bent against her, his front against her back, enveloping her in his warmth.

She leaned against him, reveling in the sizzle between them, in his arms embracing her.

His callused hands skated across her belly to her hips. He pushed her pants down, but only to the tops of her thighs.

Not far enough.

She almost objected.

Then his hands glided between her legs and he used his fingers to open her lips and subtly, gently stroke her.

She pressed herself into his touch, already so close to orgasm she was shuddering with need.

“No, you don’t.” His voice came from behind and above her. “Not without me.” She heard the crinkle of foil and turned in astonishment.

He was opening a condom, putting it on.

“Where did you get
that
?”

“Almost every locker had at least one.”

“Right.” Of course they did. Because they were ski lockers.

But why was he carrying it in his pocket?

He shoved her pants down to her knees.

The cold struck her, giving her goose bumps.

He bent her again, opened her from behind.

She suffered a moment of acute awareness. She was too exposed, too vulnerable.

Then he found her with his fingers, then with his erection. . . .

Discuss the condom later. . . .

His penis opened the first resistant inches with a firm, inexorable momentum. Once he had breached her defenses, he advanced into her, a slow, steady progress as her body unlocked itself for him, for his heat, for the unrelenting tightness caused by his knees clamped around her knees.

By the time he reached the limit, she was gasping aloud. She tried to move. He wrapped his arm around her waist and held her still.

“Please. Samuel. Please.” She was praying to him as if he were a deity. “I can’t stand it. You’ve got to hurry.
Now
.”

His voice was smooth, unimpressed. “Tell me you’re sorry.”

She lifted her head. “What?”

“Tell me you’re sorry you ran out on me and left me to face the consequences.”

She tried to straighten up.

He held her absolutely still, and slowly, so slowly, pulled out almost . . . all . . . the way. “Tell me.”

His chest rumbled against her back, and she could imagine how his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of holding her helpless.

“You’re a sleaze.” She tried to shove herself out of his grasp.

No way.

“Not a doubt about that.” Slowly, just as slowly, he pressed back inside.

She squeezed herself tightly, trying to hold him back, but that increased the friction, and inside she quivered with an eagerness so compelling the world constricted to this place, this moment, their union.

“I feel how close you are,” he whispered as if every word were dirty. “I can send you over the edge. One firm thrust is all it would take. Once you started coming . . . Isabelle, are you listening?”

She leaned her forehead on her clasped hands, stared at the blue nylon sack beneath them. “No.”

He stopped talking. Stopped
moving
.

Her fingers tightened on one another as she fought the compulsion to yield.

He must have had respect for her self-control, because he leaned in so close his voice murmured in her ear, and he incited her. “Once you started coming, you wouldn’t stop. Every time I went deep inside, my balls would be crushed against your clit, and—”

“All right!” She grabbed the nylon with both hands so tightly her knuckles turned white.
To hell with pride.
“I’m sorry I left you alone when we were teenagers to face the inquisition.”

“Nice.” He shifted smoothly, his hips clenching, his erection lifting, until he was, as he promised, crushed against her exposed clit.

So close . . .

On a gasp, she said, “I’ve been ashamed ever since I abandoned you. I was afraid. . . . What we had between us was so intense and I wasn’t ready. . . . I was a coward. I
am
sorry. Oh, please, Samuel, I really do mean it.” She did. It had been her ugly secret for so many years, and it felt strangely liberating to admit it aloud to him.

“I believe you.” He was moving now, still unhurried, still a torment. “You said everything I’ve waited years to hear.” With his arm around her, he forced her to remain still, but his motion was constant . . . and gradually increasing.

With his free hand, he caressed her rear, smoothed the skin, found the crack at the base of her spine, and ran his thumb up and down.

She fought him, whimpering, frantic to be more than a recipient, to move with him and seize the climax that eluded her.

Reaching beneath her, he pushed up her sweater and found her breast. Firmly he squeezed.

Jolted by the contact, she bucked beneath him.

At last he released her, straightened up, and thrust.
Hard
.

She pushed back.
Hard
.

He groaned.

Good.

They thrust again.

For one eternal second, they hovered on the edge of anticipation. Then, in unison, they moved together, clashing in a battle both would win.

The first orgasm swept her. She tightened her body, arched like a cat, moaned and wept.

There was nothing romantic about this. It was swift, dirty, sweaty . . . exhilarating. It was sex without frills, rampaging toward the ultimate satisfaction, and each climax racked her like a fever, erasing thought, building heat. She was going to implode with lust, with constantly building need.

Then his orgasm began. He rocked her against him, bringing them together hard and fast, and each time he did, she came again. It never stopped, this battering of the senses, this bliss that was too much—and yet never enough.

He lifted her, remorselessly forced her against him. Inside her, she felt the jump of his penis as he came—and she came, too, clamping down on him, milking him, until the ride was over.

Then, by mutual consent, they wilted down onto the tent bag.

His large, splayed hand protected her naked belly from the cool nylon. His other arm he slid under her head. He rested on top of her, his legs still tight against hers, his penis deep inside; everything about his posture spelled
mine
. Samuel had always been possessive.

Today, his attitude felt like protection.

A thought, coherent and full-formed, jolted her—
I am not going to be sorry. I am not going to be guilty. I am glad we did that, and no matter what happens now, no one can take that away from me.

Her earliest memory was being told by someone—a nanny, a teacher—that she was the luckiest little girl in the world because Patricia Mason had adopted her, and that that adoption saved her from a dire childhood or possibly death. She remembered crying because she wasn’t really her mother’s baby, and remembered, too, how angry Patricia had been when she found out.

But the damage was done. Isabelle had grown up steeped in responsibility and guilt . . . but for the first time in her life, she refused to feel guilty about Samuel.

She lusted after him, and that lust had just given her the one thing she craved—forgetfulness.

For a few passionate moments, she had been unaware of the cold, the dark, the fear, the desperation. Only he had existed, he and the pleasure he gave her.

As he helped her up, he looked into her face. His eyes widened. “Did I hurt you?”

“What?” She wiped the tears off her cheeks. “Oh. This. No. It just felt . . . It’s been a long time. It was good.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

Okay? Really? No
,
Yes, it was fabulous, the moment I’ve been waiting for all my life
?
Or even a swagger and, Hey, I’m good
?
Just . . . Okay
?

That didn’t sound like the confident, aggressive man she had always known. Wasn’t he going to follow this lovemaking with a pitch for another romp in his bed?

But no. He didn’t say anything. Instead he tucked her into her pants, into her coat. Zipped her up. Behaved like a man who wanted to get her covered as soon as possible.

She didn’t know what to think.

But she wanted him to realize she wasn’t blaming him or wallowing in guilt or anything, so she said, “That whole thing felt really good.”

“It did. Felt great!” he agreed too enthusiastically. Almost . . . awkwardly.

Well
. That was probably better. Because no matter how glad she was that they had had sex, they couldn’t do it again. It wasn’t right for them to attack each other like ravenous beasts. . . .

Or rather, it wasn’t right for her to attack him. Because she had to be honest with herself. That was what had happened.

She tried to think what to say, how to phrase her thoughts. “We have to talk.”

At the same time, he said, “Look, I’m sorry, but having sex with you was stupid.”

She felt as if she’d been slapped.

That was exactly what she was going to say, although she wouldn’t have put it so bluntly—and she never expected to hear it from him.

“I know what we’re both thinking, so let me say this.” He lifted his eyebrows, asking for permission.

Still stunned, she nodded.

“We both . . . well, I can’t speak for you, but I know I’m anxious about being trapped for so long with no help in sight and no viable plan to escape.”

She gestured for him to continue. Really. She was going to say this. Exactly this.

“The tension is weighing on us. On me.” He was serious, intent. “After the disappointment yesterday when the tunnel caved in—”

“Gone with the Windchill,”
she joked, trying to cover up her hurt and surprise.

“Right.” He didn’t even admire her movie title; he merely smiled perfunctorily. “I think we can probably agree that the sex was an aberration caused by anxiety.”

An aberration? You had a condom in your pocket.

But what good would it do for her to be sarcastic? At least he’d been prepared. If he hadn’t been . . . She shivered. If he hadn’t been, she might be pregnant right now.

There was a thought to keep her awake at night.

Choosing her words carefully, she suggested, “So we used each other as an antidote to depression?”

“It was a much-needed release of tension for us both.”

“Right. And we don’t want to do it again because we might frostbite our parts.”

“That’s the least of our worries, I would say.”

“Right,” she said again, and smiled brightly. “Why don’t we just agree the sex didn’t happen? Probably if we were trapped with someone else, we’d have had stupid sex with them, too.”

“Stupid sex. Exactly.” Picking up the saw, he started toward the ladder.

Startled, she stared at his back, then called, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going back to work. We need to get out of here before we get stupid again.”

She didn’t know where the words came from, but once they were out, she was glad she’d said them. “I think it’s time to use the dynamite.”