Dragon's Eden (12 page)

She knew she was ranting, but damn, he’d
scared her. She lowered her gaze to take a calming breath, and
suddenly noticed he was naked. In an instant she let him go. The
air went out of her lungs on a gasp and her gaze flew up his body.
“You’re naked.”

“Forbid?” he repeated with an arched eyebrow
and a who-the-hell-are-you attitude. “There’s only one thing you
can forbid me, Sugar, and that’s only because I’m civilized enough
not to want it unless you give it.”

She knew what
it
he
was talking about, and her cheeks flamed. “Civilized people do not
take their clothes off at every opportunity,” she informed him with
as much authority as she could muster.

It wasn’t enough.

“I wouldn’t badmouth the civilization of my
nature, if I were you,” he warned. “Next to Jen, it’s the only
protection you’ve got.”

“I—I can take care of myself.” She took a
step back, only to realize it exposed more of him to her view.
“You’ve got to—Oh, here.” Exasperated, she reached down and whipped
his pants up off the beach. With her head turned aside, she stuck
them out in his direction. “Put your clothes on.”

“What’s the magic word?”

She gritted her teeth, not knowing why she
was so worried about the sharks. The way things stood, she’d
probably end up killing him herself.

“Please.”

She felt him take the pants out of her hands
and heard him snap out the sand.

“Okay,” he said a minute later. “I’m
decent.”

“No, you’re not.” She started walking up the
beach, embarrassed by her overreaction and disheartened by their
harsh words. He’d been offended by her laying down the law, and she
had to concede him that right. She wasn’t his boss, but she was
responsible for him. It was an impossible situation.

Much to her chagrin, he fell in step beside
her.

“I thought you were taking a swim,” she
said, lengthening her stride.

“I thought you forbade me to swim.”

He was mocking her. That made her angry all
over again, but this time the anger was more awful; it was the kind
where she cried. He seemed to have a remarkable talent for making
her feel foolish.

“I hate fighting with you.” She tightened
her hands into fists and stared straight ahead, trying not to
blink, hoping that would hold back the tears.

“Then we have a lot in common,” he said. “I
hate fighting with you too.”

She didn’t believe him. He must love
fighting with her, because she was always the one who gave in and
ran off. She wasn’t used to losing, not on Cocorico. She wasn’t
used to sharing either, and it had been clear from the beginning
that her home wasn’t big enough for both of them.

“We don’t have anything in common,” she
disagreed. “And that’s the problem. I don’t know what to do with
you.” She mounted the first step of the beach stairs, hoping to
leave him behind. He stopped her with his hand on her shoulder,
though, and turned her around.

“More in common,” he said, standing in the
sand in front of her, resignation softening his voice. “Because I
sure as hell don’t know what to do with you either.”

Within the space of the next breath, the
tension between them changed, deepened, became less mentally
agitated and more potently sensual.

“I know what I’d like to do with you,” he
continued, his gaze drifting over her face. When he got to her
mouth, he grinned wryly, then he raised his eyes to meet hers
again. “But that’s bound to end up being more trouble than
fighting.”

Her heart was in her throat—and his hand was
gliding up to cup the back of her neck, mesmerizing her. He was
going to kiss her.

“I usually know who the bad guys are,” he
went on, “but with you I can’t tell.” He tunneled his fingers
through the hair at her nape, sending a shiver of anticipation down
her spine. “You’re not like any pirate I ever busted, but you’re
the one keeping me here.”

“I’m not a bad guy.” She could hardly
breathe for the way he was looking at her, the verdant hue of his
eyes darkening with desire, his mouth softening as his smile
faded.

He tightened his hold on her ever so
slightly, drawing her forward. “But are you a good girl, Sugar?
That’s what I really want to know.”

She never got the chance to answer. He
lowered his mouth to hers, and every dream she’d ever had came to
life: of his breath mingling with hers, of his strength surrounding
her, of being with him.

So this was what it felt like to kiss him.
Heaven.

Her lips parted on a soft moan, and he
deepened the kiss, sucking on her tongue. A bolt of shock and
pleasure ricocheted through her body, spreading a wildfire of
desire. She opened her mouth wider and did the same to him, only
slower, more tentatively, and desire doubled over on itself and
pooled in her loins.

His hand slid to her waist, urging her
closer with each act of suction and release, until she was
flattened against him from breast to thigh, laid up against his
body like a lover.

The dampness of his pants soaked through her
shorts, making it easier to feel him, and something inside her
quickened. He stroked her lips with his tongue, and she gasped from
the sheer erotic pleasure of touching him and being touched.

He tasted of salt and man, his mouth so
mobile and skilled, she knew he had done this thousands of
times—kissed a woman and made her ache from wanting to know more of
him. His heart beat strongly beneath her palm, his body hard, his
skin like satin, the dragon’s fire warming her even as his kiss
made her burn. She wanted to kiss him forever.

Jackson groaned. Calling the woman in his
arms Sugar wasn’t even half-right. She was more than sweet. She was
nectar, the lure leading to procreation. Kisses were not going to
be enough to satisfy him, not even her hot, wild kisses. He wanted
to be inside her.

He lowered his hand from her waist to her
buttocks and pressed her into his groin. Her response was to inch
against him in all the wonderful ways of a woman, opening herself
with softness, cradling him . . . driving him past the edge of
reason.

Pure instinct guided him as he thrust
against her, gently ground his pelvis against her. She trembled,
her mouth stilling under his for a heartbeat. With the feel of her
breath warming his lips, he thrust again, deliberately, his body
asking a question his mind was past formulating. When she responded
with an answering pressure, her tongue delicately exploring his, he
released whatever shred of restraint he might have had left.

Sugar felt the change in him, the tightening
of his muscles, the extra degree of heat in his touch, and she knew
she was playing with fire. Except kissing him wasn’t a game, and
his responses only made her want more. She wasn’t a good girl. She
was a woman who had been alone too long, a woman who had never
known anyone she’d wanted as much as she wanted him.

If she could have asked for one man to come
to Cocorico, she would have asked for someone like him, someone
daring, a man with an ingrained instinct to protect, a fighter with
the courage to stand unafraid under a master’s sword, a man who
kissed with both lust and tenderness in a way that broke her heart
with more wanting.

He wasn’t hers, though. He could never be
hers, no matter how much she wanted him, no matter how much she
took from him this night. She kissed him again, tasting him and
putting the taste in her memory, which was all she would ever
really have of him. She ran her hand up his chest, feeling the
wonder and strength of him. She traced his jaw with her fingertips
and let her fist close around a silky handful of his hair. Through
it all, she told herself to remember . . . remember . . . the taste
and feel and scent.

Jackson thought he was in paradise. Her
hands were all over him, her kisses growing desperate, and then he
felt the tears running down her face.

She was crying.

That had never happened to him before.
Never, not once. He wanted to keep kissing her, hoping the tears
would go away. When she made a soft sobbing sound, he knew his luck
had run out again. The sensual lust he’d been priming, the
excitement pumping through his veins, the sweet clean edge of
anticipation, all of it drained out of him, leaving him empty and
yearning. The familiar thrill hadn’t lasted nearly long enough, and
they’d barely had a chance to get to the best part, the unfamiliar
thrills.

There was no help for it, though, not when
she was crying.

Silently cursing himself for being a
thousand times a fool, he ended the kiss with a soft brush of his
lips across hers and gathered her into his arms. She was supple and
lean, strong in her own way, but small. Her hair smelled of
rainwater and hibiscus, and her tears were making long, hot tracks
down his chest. It all made him want to hold her that much
closer.

They made a fine pair, he thought, trapped
together in a tropical Eden with no way out and damn little to
offer each other.

A few more days of paradise and he’d be
praying for Shulan to come back, preferably with the brute, Sher
Chang, at her side. Then he’d at least have something and someone
to fight and a clear idea of who the bad guys were on the
island.

Fighting with Sugar was no good. Kissing
her, if it made her cry, was even worse. Jen was pretty much washed
up as an opponent. The only way he’d get a fight out of the old
man, verbal or otherwise, was if he hurt Sugar, an idea even more
contrary to his nature than celibacy.

He ran a hand down her back and wished she
didn’t feel so good. Another sob broke from her, and he wished she
didn’t feel so bad.

“If I promise not to kiss you again, will
you stop crying?” he asked, wanting to help her and not knowing
how. He wasn’t experienced with women’s tears, mostly because he’d
never stuck around to watch any, let alone get wet from them. He
and Cooper had always lived in a man’s world—no children, no
permanent women, and a mother who had died too young to impart the
gentler emotions to her sons.

Sugar shook her head, refusing his offer. He
didn’t know whether to be relieved or resigned.

“If I kiss you again, will you stop crying?”
One of his better ideas, he thought, but she again answered with a
negative shake of her head.

Great. Now he was not only sexually
frustrated and physically miserable, he was confused.

“It’s not you,” she murmured against his
chest, where her tears were threatening to drown his dragon. “It’s
not your fault.”

If she thought she was making him feel
better, she’d missed the mark by a mile. He liked to think he was
still capable of making an impact on a situation, especially one in
which he was intimately involved.

Not knowing what else to do, but knowing he
wasn’t ready to let her go, he lowered his head and kissed the
smooth curve of her brow, whispering words of solace.

“Shhh. Don’t cry, Sugar. Everything will be
all right.” And it would be, everything all right, if she would
only give him his freedom—and let him give her his loving.

He felt the sighed release of her breath on
his chest and moved to kiss the tears off her cheek, taking
surprising pleasure in the task of comforting. Her skin was soft,
both salty and sweet on his tongue.

She sighed again. As he buried his face in
her hair, filling himself with her fresh, exotic scent, his
thoughts of comforting were swamped with renewed desire. She had to
know how good it could be between them.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I promise this won’t
happen again.”

Her voice was so quiet, he almost didn’t
hear her. When her words sank in, he wished he hadn’t.

She pushed away to leave, and not having a
choice, he let her go. He stayed on the beach while she climbed the
stairs to her bedroom to sleep alone.

As for him . . . Ah, hell, he wasn’t going
to sleep at all.

Sugar awoke to the warm and fragrant smells
of coffee and fruit, and something else so distinctive and
wonderful, but so unexpected, she couldn’t, and didn’t, believe her
nose. She did allow herself to entertain the impossible and rolled
onto her side, sniffing the air, though not daring to open her eyes
and shatter the sensory illusion. It had to be an illusion. No one
could have delivered freshly baked cinnamon rolls to her
bedroom.

Yet the scent stayed strong and sure and
yummily spicy, wafting through the air. She stretched lazily on the
bed, all the while wondering what exotic plant could have bloomed
in her garden to create the enticing smell of cinnamon. There were
so many flowers on Cocorico, all of them fragrant.

Maybe tomorrow she would bake something good
for breakfast. Today, she was disappearing, sneaking off to the
other side of the island to be alone. She’d had enough of men. A
white sand beach and clear aquamarine water awaited her in her
hideaway, along with the solitude she needed to reclaim, if only
for a few hours.

She sniffed the air again, inhaling the
spice scent and the aroma of Jamaican Blue Mountain—and suddenly it
occurred to her that the smell of coffee in her bedroom should have
been as impossible as cinnamon rolls. If one was there, why not the
other? And if both, how?

She hazarded a peek at the bedside table,
less than a foot away. There was coffee all right, and sliced
papaya, and the unbelievable cinnamon rolls. She closed her eyes
and stifled a small groan into her pillow. Someone had been in her
room while she slept. That someone would not have been Jen. He
didn’t drink coffee, and he wouldn’t have dared to trespass. He
lived on green tea and privacy. That someone could only have been
Jackson Daniels.

Another groan escaped her. Jackson loved her
coffee, all things sweet, and he would have dared anything. She
slowly opened her eyes again. From the look of it, he also knew how
to bake incredibly decadent cinnamon rolls.