Passion (42 page)

“I have some antiseptic in the bathroom. Let me get it and clean that before you go.” She straightened, backed away, and left
the room before her words completely registered. She was almost finished. Another moment or two, a swab with a cotton ball,
and she would be done. She would expect him to go to his own room and to leave her in peace.

He wasn’t sure he could. Not when he wanted her as desperately as before. Not when he needed her in a way he had never needed
anyone.

In only a moment, she returned, a small brown bottle in one hand, a thick pad of cotton squares in the other. She twisted
the lid from the bottle, saturated the pad with the cool, clear liquid, then bent to dab it along the length of the laceration.
Her hair fell forward to hide her face, casting shadows across his chest as it swayed with her movements, tantalizing him
with its scent. He liked bathing after
her at night, liked going into the bathroom when the air was steamy and redolent with her fragrances. He liked using the same
shampoo himself, liked rubbing the same soap over his own body. He had never thought of showering as an erotic experience
until his first time here, when he had walked into the hot, damp bathroom, smelled her scents, and felt his cock swelling.

Like now.

Sweet hell, he wanted to pull her closer, to bring her to him, to nuzzle the robe and that damned shirt aside and bury his
face between her breasts. He wanted to seduce her with kisses and caresses across her breasts, down her spine, over her belly,
between her thighs. He wanted to arouse and weaken her, to make her body crave his. He wanted to make her want him in spite
of herself, wanted to prove to her and to himself that he held some power over her, some small measure of the power she held
over him. He wanted to punish her… and please her… and pleasure her. Christ, he wanted the pleasure.

He shifted awkwardly, seeking a more comfortable position. Tight jeans weren’t made for relentless erections. But immediately
he regretted the movement because it made Teryl’s gaze swing up to meet his. “Does it sting? I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”

“No,” he said, his voice too hoarse, too thick. “It doesn’t sting.”

“Then what… ?” Awareness slipped over her slowly. He could actually see her realization that their position was a little on
the intimate side, that the entire damned situation was more than a little intimate. He could see her response: her eyes growing
shadowy, her lips parting on a faint puff of breath, the flush that seemed to rise straight up from her breasts to spread
its warmth up her throat and color her face, and the slight tremble in her hand.

Awareness. Acknowledgment. Arousal. God help him—God save him—she was aroused.

Slowly she straightened and laid the antiseptic and the pads on the night table before turning back to face him. Refusing
to consider the right or wrong of what he was about to
do, he raised his hand, gliding it along the front closure of her robe, hovering just above, not actually touching her until
he reached her throat. Only his fingertips made contact there, rough calluses against powdery soft skin, before he withdrew
his hand.

He was a fool. This was wrong. She deserved better. He didn’t deserve anything at all. All the arguments raced through his
head, demanding his attention, but every one of them disappeared the instant she clasped his hand in hers and guided it inside
the robe to her breast. His fingers naturally curved to fit; his palm naturally moved against her erect nipple with just enough
pressure to make her breath catch. Her head was tilted back, her eyes hazy, her expression exquisite.

All his life, he had failed at everything he’d ever tried. Surfing and writing Tremont novels—those were his two big accomplishments.
His only talents. Those—and arousing Teryl.

Together those just might be enough for a lifetime’s satisfaction.

Reluctantly giving up the caresses, he untied the knot in the cloth belt, working it loose, and let the robe fall open. The
tank top she wore underneath was as shabby as the robe—thin, worn, stretched out of shape, never intended to adequately cover
her
shape. It dropped straight down from her shoulders, too soft to cling, too threadbare to conceal. Her breasts were clearly
outlined, as were her nipples. Soft and hard, sweet and wicked. The damned shirt was the sexiest garment he’d ever seen.

When he laid his hands on her stomach underneath the top, a shudder rippled through her. He pushed the fabric up enough to
reveal her panties—gray cotton with a broad elastic band, cut high on the thigh and low over the abdomen—and her belly, pale,
flat, delicately contoured. One of his regrets from New Orleans was that he hadn’t seen enough of her, that he hadn’t turned
on every light in that hotel room and conducted an intimate survey of every inch of her body. He didn’t know what shade of
brown the curls between her thighs were. He didn’t know if her nipples were pink, rose, or brown, didn’t know if a delicate
web of veins was visible
across her breasts, didn’t know if she had any imperfections, any scars or freckles or birthmarks.

But he had learned other things. He knew the taste of her nipples, knew the feel of her breasts in his hands. He knew those
curls between her thighs were soft, knew they had rubbed like silk along the length of him each time he’d entered her; he
knew that right now they were damp and fragrant with the silky, starchy powder she used. He knew that his hands fitted so
perfectly where her waist curved in, that her hips cradled him just right, that they fitted together as if they’d been made
for each other, that she could take no more than he had to give. He knew that being buried inside her was exquisite pain and
incomparable joy. He knew he’d never felt that way with any other woman in his life. He knew he would never feel that way
with any other woman.

He knew he was damned. But at least he could have her again before he had to learn to live without her.

Sliding one hand underneath her panties, he glided his fingers through the curls until he reached the small, swollen flesh
they protected. For a moment when he stroked her, he half believed the heat there sizzled, but the little rush of sound was
a gasp instead, and it came from Teryl, suddenly gone weak and limp, her hands braced against his shoulders for support.

“Oh, jeez, John,” she whispered.

His fingers trapped in the intimate caress, he stood up, wrapped his free arm around her, and took her mouth with his. She
welcomed him, guiding his tongue into her mouth, sucking it so greedily that he felt it in his cock, swollen, throbbing, and
desperate for her attention.

She was on the edge. He could feel it—could feel the little tremblings rocketing through her, could feel her body closing
hard around his fingers, could taste the desperation in her kiss. She couldn’t get any tighter, any hotter, any wetter. He
knew she couldn’t possibly endure one more second, one more stroke, one more caress.

“Tell me what you want, Teryl,” he murmured just before his teeth closed on the lobe of her ear, tugging gently.

Her voice was thin and insubstantial. “I want you.”

“You’ve got me. Now tell me what you want me to do.”

“Please,” she whispered, twisting so her mouth was against his, her voice hoarse, her words underlaid with torment. “Please,
John… want you… inside…”

If there was a single reason why he shouldn’t give her just that, he couldn’t think of it. He hadn’t done everything he wanted—hadn’t
touched her everywhere, kissed her all over, or satisfied his endless curiosity about her body. He hadn’t laid her on the
bed, hadn’t settled between her legs, hadn’t gotten a taste of her in the most intimate of kisses. Hell, he hadn’t even seen
her naked yet. But the night was long, and there was always tomorrow, and she was pleading, and he was feeling pretty damned
desperate himself.

Clamping his mouth to hers in a hard kiss, he maneuvered her around so the bed was behind her, guided her down, and joined
her there. Her breathing was coming faster, and the helpless little cries she was making deep in her throat cut through him
as he struggled with his jeans and her panties. When he finally dispensed with their clothing, when he parted her thighs and
pushed inside her, she was so close to coming that her body had gone tight, clinging to him, fighting his long, hard intrusion.
Then at last he was inside her, deep enough to feel everything she felt, every quiver, every tremble, every heartbeat, and
she was shuddering, her wordless cries raw and begging, as he thrust once, twice, three times, before erupting.

Through the haze of his orgasm, he was dimly aware that she was moving beneath him, rubbing against him, seeking her own orgasm,
finding it not more than a breath later. It made her go rigid, her body as taut as his own, and made the muscles in her belly
clench around his penis, sending exquisite little shivers up his spine and all the way down to his fingers and his toes, curled
tightly against the intensity.

Relaxation came slowly. His breathing, noisy and harsh, slowed as his heart rate dropped, and the bands around his chest loosened,
allowing his lungs to fill with air. Her breaths, soft little sobs, quieted, too, deepening, coming easier. His muscles clenched
spasmodically, flexing, releasing, quivering. Hers were still tight, too, slowly letting the tension
go, still racking her body with an occasional shudder. A sense of ease was seeping through him everywhere… except, he thought
with a faint grin, where it counted. His cock was as stiff and swollen as if it hadn’t just emptied into her, as if he hadn’t
just indulged in the most intense quickie of his life.

“What are you grinning about?”

He had closed his eyes when he’d filled her, had squeezed them shut tightly enough to see stars. Now he opened them to find
her looking up at him, her gaze soft and dreamy. Her voice had sounded soft and dreamy, too. He wondered if she felt that
way. She did to him as, shifting to lean on his elbows, he brushed his mouth across hers. As soft and comforting as the sweetest
dream.

Ignoring her question, he kissed her once more and felt a twinge of need shoot through him—hers or his own, he didn’t know
or care. It wasn’t urgent—not yet, at least, although he had no doubt it would get there. Even if he did nothing, if he simply
lay here, still sheathed inside her body, the hunger would build. The desperation would return.

So would the satisfaction.

Bending, he nuzzled the underside of her jaw, up to her ear, down to the hollow at the base of her throat. He dried the sweat
that dampened her face, then combed her hair back, burying his fingers in it, wrapping the fine strands like a web around
his hands. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Uh-huh.” Despite her skeptical tone, his compliment brought her pleasure. He could feel it in her body’s response where they
joined.

“You are beautiful, Teryl.”

Unclasping her hands from around his back, she smiled just a little as she began rubbing his arms, gentle around the scar,
gentle everywhere. “My hair is too fine, the color’s too drab, my eyes are too brown, my mouth is too thin, my breasts are
too small, and my waist is too thick.”

She listed her perceived flaws in such an even voice, as if she were merely reciting obvious facts, that he couldn’t help
but tease her. “My folks always told me I was one stupid kid, and they must have been right, because here I’ve been thinking
ever since we met that you were one of the prettiest and sexiest women I’d ever seen. Now I find out you’re just plain homely.
Jeez, thanks for telling me.”

Suddenly shy, she blushed and dropped her gaze from his. Softening his voice, he asked, “Who says you have all these flaws?”

When she didn’t answer, he realized who, but he didn’t acknowledge it to her. He didn’t want to bring D.J. into their bed…
even though he’d been tempted to do just that this afternoon. He had been so tempted, and by much more than the sexual gratification
she had offered. She could save Teryl from him. She could keep them apart for forever. Having an affair with D.J. would make
him so unfit to be around Teryl that nothing in the world could ever persuade him otherwise.

Thank God he’d had the sense to send her away.

He opened his fists and let her hair fall free, then filled his hands again. “Your hair is fine,” he agreed. “You know some
of the synonyms for fine? Fragile, delicate, silky, gossamer, flawless, exquisite… Not a negative in the bunch. Your mouth
is fine, too, perfectly fine for this…” He kissed her, gliding his tongue between her teeth, seeking out her own tongue. She
responded exactly the way he would have written it if he could: with passion. Heat. Hunger. She had such hunger, and for tonight—maybe
for a while—it was his. Sweet damnation.

When she was breathing hard, when he was barely breathing at all, he drew back, drew out of her all the way, even though she
protested with her soft whimper, even though his body protested with every fiber in it. He settled on the bed beside her,
one leg over hers, his bent knee resting near her heat, his erection hard and sticky against her thigh, and he turned his
attention to her breasts. Maybe they were on the small side, but they could never be considered too small. They were delicately
shaped, rounded and full, and heavy in his hands. Her nipples were rosy against her fair skin, caught right now somewhere
between soft, flat, and unaroused and pebble hard and erect. All it took was one long stroke of his tongue across the nipple
closest to him to make them both swell to a crest. All it took was a gentle bite, catching and
holding it between his teeth while he laved it, to make her go taut. When he sucked it roughly into his mouth, she began moving
helplessly, feverishly.

He heard her breathing turn ragged again, felt her fingers in his hair, her hand on the back of his head pulling him closer,
urging him to suckle her harder, deeper, and he obliged, making her back arch, making her gasp. She returned the favor by
sliding her hand lower, over his chest, flicking his own nipple, and lower still, across his belly and past his hip. When
she wrapped her fingers around his penis, cool flesh against his own burning flesh, and slid them along the length, somehow
it grew even stiffer. When she moved her hand even lower, gathering his balls into her palm, cradling them, he groaned aloud,
a wordless, helpless, shameless entreaty.