Every Time I Love You (8 page)

His hands cupped her cheeks. Then his long fingers stroked and caressed her face. It was an artist's touch. A lover's touch.

She didn't move. She couldn't move. Tremors seized her, and still she could not tear her eyes from the fascinating darkness of his. His touch, so light, left her face. His hands slid down the slope of her shoulders, caressed the outward curves of her breasts, and settled upon her waist.

Then he knelt before her.

She first felt the heat of his breath, then shatteringly, the warmth of his tongue creating patterns over and through the lace panties that covered her. She cried out softly, gripping his shoulders lest she fall, stunned by the sensation that ripped through her. Nothing had ever been so keen in her life; nothing had ever left her so bereft of thought or reason. Nothing had ever been so blindingly intense as his touch, so blatantly intimate, so sensual, so stirring, so exciting.

The friction, the heat, the wetness, the probe and stroke of his tongue against her...the feelings washed through her with the force of a storm. Sweetness like honey flooded her; she shook and trembled and could barely stand, and only when it was so good that it was painful, that she could bear no more, did she begin to think to protest. To no avail. Frantically she whispered words, incoherent words, to which he paid no mind. His hand rounded her buttocks, his fingers played within the lace, and with a snap it was gone. Nothing stood between them and he knew no mercy. He played upon her leisurely but surely, like a master who knew her most erogenous zones. First he touched her lightly, then deeply, tormenting her with pleasure.

She screamed as she reached a delicious release. Then so utterly weak in her limbs that she could not stand, she collapsed, falling upon him. Then, just as intense as her pleasure had been, she felt shame. She curled into herself, away from him, then sprang to her feet, sobbing. She lurched for the dressing room, desperate for something, anything, to cover herself.

“Gayle!”

She heard his command, loud and ringing and harsh. She stood still, then felt his hands upon her shoulders, firm and tender. “Gayle, Gayle, Gayle...” Just her name whispered so gently.

“Oh, my God, I said that I didn't...and then I just stood there while you—and I don't do this kind of thing with a stranger, and, oh, my God! I've never done this type of thing, ever...I don't—”

“Look at me.”

“No!” She spoke in fervent horror.

“Sweetheart.” His kiss grazed her hair. He turned her into his arms and she buried her face against his chest. “I know that you don't because I don't. I swear to you, I never meant it to happen. Not here. Not now. I never meant to take such an advantage. Look at me, dammit, will you?”

She really had no choice because his fingers were in her hair, and her head was arching back. She was astounded by the emotion betrayed in his eyes.

“This is special. We're special. Good God, can't you see that yet? Can't you feel it, can't you admit that you feel it?” He demanded ardently.

“Tell me that you want me.”

He leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth. The salt of her tears mingled with the taste of his mouth. She came closer and closer to him until he had lifted her against him.

“Tell me,” he whispered the words, his lips hovering just above her own. She stared into his eyes, feeling weak. She clung to him for support.

“Tell me!” he insisted.

“I...want you.”

He swept her into his arms and gave her a ravaging kiss as he strode from the studio. She didn't know where they were going; she didn't really care.

He moved quickly with long, strong steps. He paused, kicking open a door with the toe of his shoe.

They came into his bedroom. Gayle never saw what it looked like that night. They entered in darkness and he laid her on the bed and all she knew then was sound. The thud of his shoes, the rasp of his zipper, the whispery noise as he cast his shirt and briefs aside. Then he was back beside her.

She was able to touch him; to feel his shoulders, run her fingers over his cheeks. Run her hands along his muscular body. He groaned. She felt him shift his weight so that he was on top of her. He nudged her thigh with his knee, and she felt his breath and heard the anguish of his whisper.

“I am dying for you.”

“I know.” She caught his face between her hands and kissed him, arching against him. “Please!”

He thrust and she felt him then, deep inside of her, hard and sleek. To her amazement, it all came to her again, every sensation of riveting excitement. She felt filled to the point where she would shatter, but she did not. She soared. He was like heat and lightning. There was no subtlety, no finesse, just raw hunger, yet she was ready for nothing less. She loved the rough power of him, the sleek sweat upon his gleaming flesh, the hardness that coiled and tightened his features and body.

She had not thought it possible to climax again so quickly on such a high note; she had never known it could feel so good to simply feel a man's explosion inside of her.

They didn't talk. They breathed and lay still, entwined. He didn't seem to think that they needed to rise. She couldn't begin to imagine that they should do so. Thinking would be dangerous altogether. It was better to savor the moment. His leg cast over hers, his fingers entwined in her hair, her cheek against the rough hair on his chest. It should never have happened but it had and, whatever else, she knew that nothing would ever be like it again in life. She should have been in panic once again; she should have been analyzing, trying to explain it all to him, to herself...

A portion of her mind was simply blank. To her amazement, she began to drowse in a delicious lethargy.

Moments later, hours later, she felt him, hard again, prodding against her rear.

“No,” she moaned softly, barely awake. A smile curled the corner of her mouth.

He pulled her against him. “Thank God for that underwear,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I'd thought that this would take weeks. Months. Those damn panties you wear are so erotic that I was barely able to breathe, to think—much less restrain myself.”

“Were,” Gayle said. His hands curled over her hips, fitting her snugly against him.

“Were?”

“You ripped them off me,” she murmured.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's really all right.”

His arms were around her, wrapping her to him. She smiled, feeling the determined probe against her, the stroke of his hand along her back.

“You do have them,” he stated, very self-satisfied.

“What?”

“Dimples. You have these glorious dimples right at the base of your spine. Right here.” He bent to kiss the little indentations. “Right here, and right here.”

“Brent...” she protested breathlessly.

“Gayle.”

“Brent!”

She laughed, then she was shuddering, and then she was beneath him again, twisting in his arms, parting her lips to meet the wet heat of his kiss.

CHAPTER
5

Gayle felt as if she were in some deep, deep nether region when she heard the shrill and horrible sound of the phone ringing. At first she thought that she was home, and she stretched in the right direction to catch the phone and stop the noise. She hit a muscular male body instead and remembered where she was.

Brent groped blindly for the phone, caught it, and swung his legs over the side of the bed to answer it. It was still pitch-dark outside. Only the light from the studio down the hall and the entryway downstairs filtered into the room. Gayle tried to watch the planes of his face as he frowned and muttered a few monosyllabic words, and she drew the sheets around her.

Brent was laughing now at whatever was being said over the phone. He turned to her and, even in the shadows, she could see the amusement and tenderness that softened the clean masculine lines of his features. He reached out his free hand, rubbing it over the rise of her sheet-covered hip and rump as he said into the phone, “She's here, she's fine, and she's under no coercion, I promise you. Here, talk to her yourself.”

Gayle sat up, frowning at Brent. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand.

“Who is it?”

“Geoff.”

“Geoffrey Sable?”

He grinned. “Yeah, go ahead, talk to him.”

“But—”

“Go ahead, talk.”

Gayle uncovered the mouthpiece and brought the receiver to her ear. “Geoff?”

“Hi, kid.”

“Uh...Geoff, hi. What time is it?”

“Three-thirty a.m., Eastern Standard Time.”

“Then—”

“Why am I calling? Sorry, kid. But Tina tried to call you at your house; then Liz tried to call you at your house; and then they both went over there. Then they came over here.”

“Oh!”

“We all voted on the possibility that you might be at Brent's, but we couldn't quite convince ourselves, due to your customary wave and a handshake. Personally, I was convinced that you were at McCauley's place. But we didn't know if we should call the police or break into your house, and these two ladies here were beside themselves over your safety. They didn't know if you were stabbed, robbed, raped—or having the time of your life. Well, I figured it might prove a little uncomfortable, but we had to call. You were either with McCauley or we needed to call out the National Guard. Can you understand?”

“I—uh—of course. Thanks, Geoff. And say the same to Liz and Tina.”

She knew her face was flaming with color. She appreciated her friends' concern very much, but she felt uncomfortable. What was Brent thinking? What was he feeling? He'd been awakened at three-thirty a.m. by people checking up on her.

Brent took the phone back from her, offering her a fleeting smile. Or was it grim? Perhaps he was thinking that he had bitten off more than he really wanted to chew, that he wasn't really dealing with an independent woman at all, that this intrusion into his life wasn't worth the sex, no matter how good that sex was...

“Geoff, tell those two that we're sorry they lost the night's sleep worrying, and thanks for caring. Talk to you soon.”

He hung up the phone. She felt him looking at her.

“I'm—uh—sorry,” she murmured.

“Why?”

“Well, for...interrupting your sleep,” she murmured awkwardly.

He laughed, leapt over her like a gazelle, and caught her face between his palms.

“I thought it was very nice.”

“You did?”

“Tina was cute.”

“Tina?”

“She was talking first. That's what took me so long to figure out what was going on. She was very apologetic, but she told me that you just don't sleep with people.”

“Oh, God,” Gayle groaned softly, silently cursing Tina's way with words. She didn't want him to think she was a complete babe in the woods. It was difficult enough to deal with a man like McCauley. She needed some mystique if she were going to keep up with him.

“Is that true?” He was grinning like a wolf.

She did her best to sound worldly. “Well, obviously, Mr. McCauley, you're not the first man in my life.”

His smile faded, but his eyes remained fixed upon her. “So tell me about it,” he said softly. “Geoff warns me that you blow hot and cold—”

“Geoff said that?”

“Geoff said that. Nicely, of course. He's crazy about you. And your best friends tell me that you don't sleep with men.” He stroked his thumbs over her cheekbones. “So, what was it? One great love in your life?”

She inhaled, remembering that she had met him less than forty-eight hours ago. “Want to tell me all about the romantic relationships in your life?”

He shook his head and smiled again. “Not one of them would matter. Not a single one. The romance in my life started tonight.”

“Oh!” Gayle said softly. Again, there was that ring of honesty to his words. It could have been a line, but that clear-sighted honesty was there, and it touched her so deeply that she trembled.

“That was really nice,” she told him. “An artist with a way with words. But you have had affairs,” she accused him, determined not to give away too much emotion.

“Lots of them,” he agreed. “But I've been waiting—for you.”

She laughed, but then her breath caught in her throat again. He leaned down to kiss her, his hands moving feather-light along her thighs. Then he broke away and his words were muffled against her breast. “I can't seem to get enough of you.”

It was different this time when they made love. Somewhat blunt and rough. He had incredible energy and stamina. A dozen times she would have gasped and fallen; a dozen times he held and shifted and manipulated her body. Sweat beaded upon his brow and little droplets fell upon her, and in moments they both glistened. Gayle wondered if she didn't black out for seconds now and then. She alternately marveled and trembled, soared, flew and fell, and started all over again.

When it was over, they were both panting. He fell back beside her, inhaled and exhaled, and cast one hand over his damp brow while the other rested casually on her thigh. Gayle was taken with the comfortable intimacy of his touch. It was as if they had been together forever.

“Want to raid the refrigerator?”

“Sure.”

“Come on, let's take a shower first.”

He was up, pulling her to her feet. Light cascaded all around them as they entered the bathroom and Brent hit the switch. Gayle blinked against the sudden brightness and surveyed the bath. It was spacious and very modern, like the rest of the house. It contained a black sink and a black commode and a huge black circular tub on bronze clawed feet with a bronze ring overhead to hold the inner and outer curtains. Brent reached for her again, leading her into the tub, then pulling the curtains around them with a swift motion. He turned on the water and Gayle gasped as it poured down on them, cold at first. She stepped back, winding up her hair. Brent stuck his head beneath the spray and grabbed a bar of soap. He scrubbed himself vigorously, working up a lather, then rinsed and turned to Gayle. A light immediately touched his eyes, like a little kindle of flame freshly set. He brought the soap to her shoulders, creating a rich lather, then he swirled and circled it lower over her breasts. Gayle gripped his biceps and narrowed her eyes, swallowing and watching him suspiciously as he surveyed not her face but his hands and the way they moved over her. He rinsed away the soap from her breast and lowered his head to it, slowly, leisurely, sucking it.

“Brent...”

His soapy hand slipped between her legs.

“Brent...didn't we just make love several times—?”

“Mmm,” he murmured. “And maybe in time, after we've been lovers for years, maybe some of it will be old hat.”

“Old hat!”

“Maybe. But I doubt it. I suppose that things do calm down somewhat, though. But right now, I can't think of anything I'd rather do. Over and over. Every time I look at you, it starts all over. And isn't that part of it? Isn't that the way it works? I'm falling in love with you.”

She stared at him a little helplessly. His fingers were inside her, and she felt hopelessly weak, brimming again with the erratic little liquid flames that could shoot through her body with sweet desire.

“Well?” His stroke touched deep, deep inside of her. “A shower is the best place in the world to fool around. Honest.”

“Why?” She let out a soft little sound and went on tiptoe to kiss him and press hard against him. He lifted her, straddling her legs around him while he balanced himself slowly down to his knees, sliding her over himself.

So this was it...new lovers, in love with being in love, in love with making love. Gayle kissed him while the water fell down upon them, soaking their faces, while he led her in a fast, staccato rhythm above him. This was it...this was the wonder of falling in love, of being together, of taking the time to think of nothing but each other, to touch, explore, and know one another, inside and out.

When she fell against him, the water was still shooting down upon him. Gayle's hair was drenched. She smoothed it from her face. Brent smiled as smoothly and laconically as the old king of the beasts, stretched, and curled his fingers around her wrists to help her balance back to her feet. He followed her up. “See?”

“See what?”

“A shower is a fabulous place to make love. When you're done, you're already in the right place to rinse off.”

“Umm. And since I'm here and my hair is soaked, have you got any shampoo.”

“Your slightest wish...” he murmured.

A moment later he was back. Gayle was about to protest when he squeezed shampoo into her hair—she didn't like anyone else doing her hair. But her protest died on her lips. It felt good. His fingers massaging her scalp were like magic, and it was a nice, nice feeling, intimate and domestic.

He gave her a slight tap on the rear and left her to rinse it out herself as he stepped out of the tub. He was back by the time she pulled the curtain to get out herself, dressed comfortably in a pair of cut-offs himself, and offering her a towel and a model's robe. “Hope you don't mind bare feet,” he told her. “I haven't got any women's slippers.”

Gayle slipped into the robe, smiling. “Be glad that you don't.”

He adjusted the collar for her. “I've never had anyone sleep here before.”

“We've done very little sleeping.”

“Okay. I've never had anyone sleep at all—even for two minutes—here before.”

Gayle smiled, meeting his eyes, biting her lower lip, just a little bit shyly.

“Hurry up and come down, huh? I'm starving. We can scramble eggs or—no, never mind—I've got steaks in the freezer. Microwaves defrost things, don't they?”

“Most of them.”

“Hurry.”

In ten minutes she was downstairs in his big gourmet kitchen. Brent made salad; she fixed steaks. She sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, and they both ate ravenously in silence for several moments. Then he smiled suddenly and said, “So tell me about yourself.”

“Tell you what?”

“Where were you born, where do your folks live, siblings? All that type of stuff.”

She smiled slightly, lowering her eyes. “I was born outside of Philadelphia, an only child, and my folks are dead.”

He glanced at her quickly. “Sorry,” he said softly.

She shrugged, offering him a smile that said,
It's okay
. “It was over ten years ago now. There was a fire on a cruise ship. Seven people were killed, and my parents were among them.”

“That must have been hard.”

“It was. They were wonderful people. But we had a great priest up there. Father Tom. He had a way of making me feel that they had been so very special that seventeen years with them was better than having anyone else for a lifetime.”

“What then?”

“I went to school. My parents had left a fair amount of money. I didn't want to keep living where I had lived with my folks, so I finished high school in England. I had always wanted to travel, so I spent college all over the place—ending up in Paris. That's where I met Geoff.”

He looked up now, arching a brow her way. “Geoff wasn't that one great love of your life, was he?”

She smiled. “No.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I'm just glad. I mean, love does transcend all, but it's got to be uncomfortable to wonder what two people are thinking at times if they did sleep together somewhere in life.”

“What makes you think there was just this one great love in my life? Maybe I've had a dozen.”

“Uh-uh. You're not the type.”

“I'm not?”

He studied her carefully and shook his head with a slow smile. “No, you're not.” His voice was husky as he touched her cheek tenderly. “You're the type for one great love in your life, a deep, passionate love to last forever and forever.”

“You're certain about that?” she whispered softly.

“I am.”

Gayle searched out his eyes. “And you?”