Sex Drive (16 page)

As they strolled, he felt the shift and play of her muscles under her silky skin, and had to fight against his body’s response. Sweet torture. But he wouldn’t trade a moment of it.

They paused to watch surfers trying to catch some wimpy waves, and tourists in an outrigger canoe, then again to admire the sand castle a little boy and girl were building. The boy trotted back and forth, digging up pailfuls of wet sand and plunking them down where the girl pointed, then the girl did the fine work of smoothing everything into place, following a design that existed in her mind.

“Nice teamwork,” Theresa said. “Brains and brawn.”

“Just like you and me.”

She tipped her sunglasses down her nose and slanted him a glance over the top. “Oh, I think you might have a brain or two in that pretty head of yours.”

They chatted easily as they strolled, mostly commenting on what was going on around them. Damien could’ve walked for miles, enjoying the interplay of the sun’s heat and the freshness of the ocean breeze. The soft abrasion of sand on the soles of his feet, the tiny waves tickling his toes. The scent of sunscreen and ocean. Mostly, the woman whose body moved beside his, her sarong brushing his legs.

“How about taking off the sarong?” he asked when they neared the end of the beach, where there were fewer people.

She hesitated, then untied the knot at her waist and unwrapped the fabric.

The bikini bottom was brief, tied with strings at the sides. “Oh yeah, that’s nice.” He drank in the sight. Theresa was perfect with her golden skin, toned body, soft curves, sparkling eyes.

They turned back to retrace their steps. He admired her slim waist and the feminine flare of her hips, undulating seductively as she strolled along the water-packed sand. “You’re making me horny, beach girl.”

“You’re not the only one. You don’t look half bad in those shorts, surfer boy.”

“Wanna fool around?” He pinched her arse.

She swatted his hand. “Damien! Not on a public beach.”

“Just kidding.” But he filed the idea away. Maybe after dinner they could find a deserted strip of sand. “But there’s a hotel room waiting for us.”

“Something to look forward to.”

It was true. Though he wanted to make love to Theresa again, he was in no big hurry. This was so damned perfect. Sun, sand, breeze, ocean, all shared with a vibrant woman who totally turned him on. A woman who was sexy, responsive, fun in bed. Thank God for the number of orgasms he’d already had with her, or his cock would be tenting his shorts right now.

“It’s a pretty beach,” she said. “I’m trying to imagine what it looked like before the hotels and stores and tourists.”

“You been up to Queensland, seen some of the beaches there?” he asked.

“I haven’t been to the beaches. Are they nice?”

“Most beautiful ones in the world,” he boasted.

“Mmm, and of course you’ve seen all the others so you can compare.”

“Nah. But nothing could beat them. And some are quite undeveloped.” He thought of his cottage at Palm Cove, with the beach stretched out in front in both directions. Miles of clean near-white sand with only a few people. Usually he went for a run in the morning to wake up, and again in the evening to clear his head and unwind before bed. When he needed to work out a story idea, he’d walk for miles, go for a long swim, or just flake out in the sun.

He imagined strolling that beach with Theresa. Going back to his place and making love while the wooden ceiling fan stirred the air that drifted in the open windows. Then lighting the barbie and grilling fresh bugs, washing them down with a bottle of Lenton Brae Sauv Blanc. The cottage was a place where he could work productively and also relax. Maybe she could, too.

Since he’d met Theresa, he’d been living in the moment. Doing his best to charm his pretty seatmate, realizing how much fun she was, inviting her to stay over in Honolulu. He hadn’t thought past tomorrow morning. Until now.

They both lived in Sydney. She’d be heading back after her sister’s wedding and he’d be returning when his book tour wrapped up. They could hook up again, hang out, date. Be lovers. Have fun together. If she wanted to.

The prof seemed devoted to her work. It didn’t sound like she took much time off. But maybe that was because she hadn’t met a guy who made her want to.

Was he just a temporary diversion, or might he hold a bigger place in her life? He was coming to hope for the latter.

“Do you always read the same passage?” Her voice broke into his thoughts.

It took him a moment to figure out what she meant. “At signings? Usually. People’s eyes can glaze over quickly, so I choose something that’s less than five minutes. From near the beginning of the book.”

“The goal being to hook them into buying the book?”

“There you go. But also, to avoid spoilers. And give them a taste of my writing. If it’s not to their taste—” He squeezed her waist. “Like, if it’s too
glib
for them, or too violent, or whatever, then they shouldn’t buy the book. I don’t want that kind of sale, where the reader’s dissatisfied. And maybe tells other people my writing sucks.”

“That makes sense.”

As they walked on, he wondered if he should sound her out about seeing each other back in Australia. Nah, he didn’t want to rush her. “Hey, Tezzie, feel like something sweet?”

“Would that be you?”

“Ice cream as an appetizer and me for dessert.”

P
receding Damien into our room, I thought that the day so far had been one treat after another. The last being my passionfruit gelato and his chocolate macadamia nut ice cream cones, which had melted faster than we could lick them. Hands and mouth sticky with gelato, body glossed with sunscreen and sweat, the promise of sex ripe in the air, I said, “I need a shower.”

“That’s what? The third today? I think we should be good greenies and conserve water this time.”

A shared shower. Something I’d never done. Privacy had always been a big thing for me. But today, knowing I was with a man who liked my body, I felt confident enough to say, “By all means, let’s go green.”

When we’d reached the hotel grounds, I had tied the sarong around my waist again. Now, in the hotel bathroom, Damien untied it. It dropped to the floor and my gaze followed it. Staring at that pile of flowered fabric, I turned and offered him my back. He untied the strings of my bikini top and it too fell away.

“Now that’s pretty,” he said.

I lifted my gaze and realized what he was seeing. My almost-naked back and then, reflected in the mirror, my front view. Skin flushed from the sun and breeze, breasts pale in comparison except for the pinky-brown areolae and rosy budded nipples. My cheeks were pink too, my hair tousled. I pulled the plumeria blossom from my hair and set it on the counter.

Then I looked past my own image to Damien’s reflection, and the heat in his eyes. He hooked his hand into the waistband of the board shorts that hung low on his hips, and shoved them down, leaving him naked. With a cock that was, without either of us touching it, growing and lifting its head.

He reached out to pull the string tie at one side of my bikini bottom. It thwarted him.

“I knotted the bow,” I confessed. For me, it took guts to walk down a beach in a bikini. I sure hadn’t been willing to risk a bow coming loose and the bottom falling off.

He chuckled and tried again, untying first the knot and then the bow. One side was all it took. Still tied together on the other side, the two scraps of fabric fell loose. I parted my legs and the suit tumbled to the floor.

Damien’s eyes gleamed. “You have one fine arse for a deskbound professor.”

“You give such sweet compliments.” All the same, his words and expression made my breath hitch, as did the sight of his now-erect cock. My sex throbbed in recognition, and hunger and moisture gathered between my legs.

He stepped forward to press his front against my back, trapping his erection between us so it rose between the cheeks of my behind. He reached around to cup my breasts, then rested his chin on the top of my head and stared into the mirror.

I stared too. His larger body framed mine, his skin so dark in comparison. He was so much
more
than I—his hair midnight black, his arms big and strong and dark as they crossed my honey-gold skin—and yet we complemented each other. I looked slim, almost delicate. Subtle in line and coloring. And he looked bold. This was what male and female were supposed to look like together.

The reflection, as much as the feel of his rigid cock, the tease of his thumbs stroking my nipples, was a total turn-on. My inner thighs were damp, my sex hungry for his touch.

He let go of one of my breasts and I watched his hand drift down, stroke over my abdomen, drift through the auburn curls of pubic hair, and I tensed in pleasant anticipation. Then, with his palm cradling my mound, he slid his fingers between my legs.

I sighed with relief and need, pressing against him, my body asking for more. Watching my pale hands move across his dark skin, I caressed his arms, feeling the soft hairs, the firmness of muscle under his skin. My hands were sticky from melted gelato, my skin was sticky with sunscreen and perspiration, my crotch was sticky with sex juices. I should have wanted to climb into the shower, but I didn’t.

I wanted Damien to climb into me. With one hand I reached back, between our bodies, and gripped the pulsing heat of his shaft.

His fingers stroked my labia, then between, and now a couple slid inside my channel and began to pump slowly in and out.

“Oh, yes.” My thighs tightened and internal muscles gripped him, heightening the delicious sensation.

“So tight and wet, Tezzie,” he murmured, breath tickling my ear.

Following the same pumping rhythm as his fingers, I stroked up and down his cock.

“Oh, yeah, that’s good.” He began to lick my ear, circling around, nibbling the rim, and I arched back to give him better access.

Then—“No!” I pulled my head away. “Sunscreen.”

“I forgot. They should make edible sunscreen.”

“I wish they did.”

“What do you want?” he asked, fingers still working inside me, making it hard for me to concentrate on anything but his touch. “Sex in the shower? Or here? Now, like this?”

“Like…?” My hand stilled on his shaft. What did he have in mind?

“Lean forward. Brace yourself against the counter.”

At the thought, arousal gushed around his fingers, dripping onto my inner thighs. I let go of his cock and he eased his fingers out of me as I leaned toward the counter, gripping the edges with both hands, bowing my body so my bottom thrust toward him. I bent my head, closing my eyes, now feeling too exposed and self-conscious to look in the mirror.

I heard a tearing sound, a condom wrapper. He nudged my legs farther apart. Again his hand settled between them, opening me, then the head of his cock probed my entrance, where it felt like every sensitized cell was reaching out to him crying “yes.” I tilted my backside a bit more, finding a better angle, and he slipped into me. Just a little way.

Then his hands were on my hips, bracing him the way I was braced against the counter, and he began to thrust gently. Sliding in another inch, then back out, then in again, and each slide brought new and wonderful sensations. His balls slapped softly against me each time he thrust.

Slip, slide, I was getting wetter. I became aware of the noises our bodies made together: a damp, sucking sound, accompanied by pants and whimpers. We smelled ripe and raw, of sweat and arousal, an earthy odor. The sounds, the scents, were animal. Primitive.

“Look,” Damien urged, and slowly I raised my head.

His gaze met mine in the mirror. Staring over my right shoulder, his face was rigid with concentration, his cheeks flushed and eyes burning with silvery fire.

I glanced at my own face—noting eyes wide with surprise, embarrassment—then quickly looked away. Instead, I watched the way we moved together. My body rising and falling as I matched his strokes, thrusting back against him each time he plunged into me. My arms were taut but my breasts bounced softly. Between my legs, just before the bottom of the mirror cut off my view, I could see his cock as it entered me.

I bent lower, taking all my weight on one forearm, and stretched the other arm between my legs. Reached back to caress the slippery base of his shaft where it emerged from my body, coated with my juices. To stroke him each time he slid out, then let go when he surged back in.

I watched our bodies where they joined, as they joined. Seeing what we were doing at the same time I felt it. It was messy, elemental. His pulsing, driving heat filling me, withdrawing, filling me again. My hands gripping him, letting go, brushing his balls, bumping against my clit. Grasping and fumbling and stroking and rubbing. It was hard to separate the sensations, to know which he was creating and which came from my own hand, but it didn’t matter, everything felt so amazing.

And now I felt that preclimax sensation, that sense of something inside me coiling tight, building to the bursting point, a sweet ache that climbed higher until I didn’t know how I could stand it any more.

He changed angle slightly and now he was hitting that incredibly sensitive, magical spot inside me, the same one his fingers had found on the plane. “Damien, oh yes!” The coil of tension shattered and unwound in pulsing waves that made me cry out.

He groaned, “God, Tezzie,” and surged hard, fast, then exploded inside me so forcefully that I climaxed again before the ripples of the first orgasm had faded away.

Our bodies rocked together, then slowly we disengaged from each other, still breathing hard. Damien peeled off the condom, flushed it away, then studied me, shaking his head. “Man, that was something.”

“It was.” I realized he must have found my G-spot. Territory no other man, or even my own seeking fingers, had managed to locate before.

“Here I had plans for a slow, sensual shower,” he said, “soaping you all over.”

Mmm, that sounded good. “We still need to shower.”

“Then let’s get going. Can’t be late for the signing.”

He turned on the tap, adjusted the temperature, and stepped in. “Come on in, the water’s great.”

I joined him and ducked under the spray, letting it hit the top of my head and run down both sides of my sun-kissed body, enjoying the freshness against my sticky skin.

When I stepped back from under the spray, he squeezed a dollop of shampoo onto one hand and rubbed his palms together to spread it evenly, releasing the scent of rosemary into the moist air. Facing me, he ran his hands over my hair to spread the shampoo, then began to rub with his fingertips. His touch was lighter than when he’d worked the tension knots out on the plane, somewhere between a caress and a massage. After he’d lathered my hair, his fingers continued down my neck, easing out any remaining kinks.

“Feels so good,” I murmured.

He guided me back into the spray and rinsed my hair, taking care no shampoo ran down my face. Then he lathered fancy soap onto a washcloth and rubbed the cloth over my skin in gentle circles, starting at my shoulders and working down my back.

Feeling almost drunk from the combination of sunshine, fresh air, and sex, I stood, swaying a little, luxuriating in his attention.

He finished my back, began on my front. My nipples hardened under the gentle abrasion and it seemed he paid particular attention to them. “So pretty and pink,” he said, and I looked down to see how rosy and pert they looked, poking out from a froth of soap bubbles.

When he slid the washcloth lower, then between my legs where it felt abrasive, I moaned.

He stopped immediately. “Are you sore?”

“A little. I’m not used to, uh, this much sex in a day.” Or any sex, for that matter, unless it came from my own hand.

“Sorry if I hurt you.”

“I didn’t feel it when we were—” I stopped, not knowing whether to call it having sex or making love. “But now I’m a bit sensitive.”

He replaced the washcloth with his own soapy hand, gliding over my skin with the lightest touch. “Better?”

“Yes.” In fact, if he kept it up, it would be arousing.

But he quickly moved away from the sensitive areas and picked up the washcloth again, stroking it down my thighs.

When he’d finished washing me, I stood under the spray to rinse off, then took the cloth. “It’s my turn.”

“Much as I’d like that, we’d better not. It’d be too much of a turn-on and you’re in no shape to…” He winked suggestively.

“Hands work, too,” I said, feeling bold. “If you’ll recall from last night on the plane.”

“Oh yeah, I definitely remember. But we’re running out of time. Let’s take a rain check.”

I did want to primp a bit before going along to the signing as his…whatever. Date? In fact, when I’d done my private shopping earlier in the afternoon, I’d not only bought a dress, shoes, and a shawl, but also mascara, eye shadow, and lip gloss.

So I left Damien in the shower and dried off as he whistled “Waltzing Matilda” off-key. This reminded me of being married, sharing the bathroom with someone.

Although, come to think of it, when Jeffrey and I had been married, I’d been quick to scurry into a dressing gown. Yes, he’d told me I was beautiful, but I’d still felt self-conscious, thought of myself as plain. He’d never made me
feel
attractive.

And Damien, who could have his pick of pretty much every single woman in Australia, not to mention a number of married ones, did make me feel that way. I found myself humming “Waltzing Matilda” along with him, no more in tune than he, as I rubbed lotion into my skin.

He came out of the shower and toweled off, then, occupying mirror space side by side, he shaved while I applied light makeup. Then I kicked him out of the bathroom while I got dressed.

First, the new underwear. Though I normally wore boy-brief panties and plain cotton bras, this time I’d indulged in some fun, feminine items. Now I put on a peach underwire bra and thong made of satiny soft cotton with an eyelet pattern. And then the dress I’d chosen. It was a formfitting sundress with a scooped neck and buttons all the way down the front, the skirt ending several inches above my knees. I’d studied various tropical patterns, then decided to go with classic black, which made the outfit seem a bit dressy without being too formal.

Stepping into medium-heeled black sandals, I studied my reflection. When had I last bared so much skin? I bit my lip. Why hadn’t I thought to ask Damien what he’d be wearing, and what he considered appropriate for a book signing? Cautiously I emerged from the bathroom.

He was out on the lanai, but stepped inside when he heard my heels clack on the tile floor. In a black short-sleeved cotton shirt tucked into khakis, his longish black hair damp and gleaming, he looked casually elegant.

His eyes widened in appreciation. “Wow. That may even be sexier than the sarong.”

“You look great, too. We even match. I’m glad I went for black rather than tropical.”

He strode toward me and clasped my shoulders. “You know those buttons are gonna drive me crazy.”

I gave a self-satisfied grin. Yes, I’d hoped he would imagine undoing them. “You never did see what I bought at the lingerie shop.”

He groaned. “You’re wicked, Tezzie.”

Not only had no one ever called me wicked before, I’d never even imagined such a thing. But damn, it felt good.

He turned me away from him and gave me a light slap on the bottom. “Let’s go before I succumb to the lure of those buttons.”