The Bliss Factor (20 page)

And yet that space between them, a mere eighteen inches of cool air, could have been the Grand Canyon. Conn wasn’t making that distance any easier to cross. He turned from the view out the window, leaned one shoulder on the wall, and watched her.

He’d invited her in every way he could. Now he was forcing her to make the next move. There’d be no out later on, no saying her thoughts had been muddled, or that he’d worn down her defenses. He was daring her. She’d never been a sucker for a dare, but she stepped forward, just one step before he met her halfway, folding her into his arms and bringing her against him.

She rested her cheek against his bare chest, the scent of him, soap and man, drifting to her with each breath she took. His skin was warm against hers, his heart a comforting drumbeat. They stood that way for a while in the silver light before Conn stepped back, his hands loose at her waist where her camisole met the waistband of the boxers she routinely slept in.

There was a question in his eyes.

Rae answered it by lifting her camisole up and over her head. She should have been self-conscious, but his hands were there, skimming over her ribs, her breasts, lifting to frame her face. He bent to kiss her, just his hands and mouth touching her, but when she tried to deepen the kiss, to answer the need raging inside her, he stepped back again, dropped to his knees, and gathered her close.

He rested his cheek on her bare stomach, making her tremble so much she could barely stand. Conn steadied her, held her up effortlessly, his mouth cruising along her stomach just above her waistband, nibbling little kisses, each one a spear of pleasure, a promise of more, a tease that drove her crazy.

She fisted both hands in his hair and pulled his head back until he looked at her, his eyes dark and so wild it was another assault on her senses, a mental assault that had her imagining what he wanted to do to her and anticipating what she’d do to him. And as she held his gaze, she could see he knew what she was thinking. A rumble of sound came from him, strained laughter turning feral as he took one nipple into his mouth. She bowed back, her hands going to his shoulders to brace herself as he moved to her other breast, and she was devastated again, every nerve on fire, blind and deaf to everything but the need as she reached higher and higher . . . And then he was gone.

Her breath sobbed out, the need still buzzing inside her like a living thing. Then Conn was there again, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her to the bed. She didn’t want to let go, but her muscles were still quivering and he was undeniable as he slipped her arms from around his neck. She felt her boxers and panties slip off, felt the bed dip and then he was warm against her, his mouth on her belly as he worked his way down and sent her flying again. She fisted her hands in the bedclothes, reality narrowing down to the rasp of his stubbled cheeks against her thighs, the hot slide of his tongue, the skilled invasion of his fingers as the world exploded, the air searing into her lungs as pleasure raced through her, indescribably intense and nearly unbearable. And though she begged him to stop he showed her no mercy, scooping his hands under her bottom and driving her higher still, until she shattered into a million bits of heat and light that ebbed and flowed, wave into wave, until she was utterly spent.

And yet she wanted to do for him what he’d done for her, so she made the mighty effort to drag herself up, one touch enough to energize her again. She used her hands and mouth as he had, teasing kisses and inciting touches, pushing his hands away when he tried to take control again. Each groan was music to her, the rasp of his breath and the pounding of his heart a thrill because she knew it was for her. She kissed his mouth but wouldn’t let him take the kiss deep. She explored his chest, the ridges of muscle on his belly, laughing softly as they quivered under her touch.

But as she slipped lower he pulled her back up, whispering against her mouth, “I cannot bear it.”

“You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known,” she said.

“Not where you’re concerned,” he said, urging her gently but inexorably down onto the bed. “Not after wanting you from the first moment I saw you.” He swept a hand from her hip down to her knee, lifting it and opening her to him. “One taste and I knew my life would be . . . less, until I could taste you again, until I could join with you and make you mine.” And he rose above her, filled her even as his mouth took hers and his body began to move.

A part of her wanted to object to the ring of possession in his voice, the way his arms tightened, the antiquated notion of a man owning a woman. Even if her mind hadn’t gone fuzzy, even if she could have spoken, she wouldn’t have because there was also a part of her that was thrilled at being
his.
Some might see it as a weakness to surrender, but one of the most amazing strengths a woman had was the ability to make a man tremble for her, to feel his strength and know he was holding it back for her sake.

Conn could have taken his own pleasure; he’d already seen to hers. But he made love like he did everything else, slowly, thoroughly, taking his time to learn and savor, and giving her no choice but to do the same.

His eyes stayed on hers, their fingers intertwined as he moved. She matched the slow, excruciating rhythm, feeling the frantic beating of his heart, the exquisite friction of his body moving on hers, in hers, driving the pleasure up and drawing it out until she was on the edge but not going over because when she did she wanted him to be with her. And then she saw his eyes go blank and she let herself fall, gave up her last shred of control as he slipped deep inside her one last time and locked himself there, his body shuddering as hers convulsed around him.

She held him close, not letting him go even after the fireworks faded and she came back to herself, because it wasn’t just sex. Her breathing had already slowed, and her pulse would get back to normal, but her heart would never be the same.

CONN JERKED AWAKE AS HE ALWAYS DID, HIS
ears ringing with imaginary gunfire, the screams of the wounded and dying, his hand fisted as around a knife handle. The face of a child, eyes wide and terrified.

He struggled with the remains of the nightmare, but he wasn’t holding it at bay, not completely. If he hadn’t been so exhausted, so wrapped up in the woman in his arms, he wouldn’t have been able to hold it at bay at all.

But Rae was there with him. He dropped a kiss on her shoulder, lightly, and she shifted onto her back, welcomed him, so open and free and loving that he couldn’t stay in the dark place.

“Another dream?” she asked him, her voice soft in the darkness.

He gathered her close, resting his chin on top of her head. She didn’t push. They both knew the stakes involved in getting his memory back, and that he should have been making the effort. But she didn’t push, so he didn’t push.

She offered, and he accepted, helping her as she slipped on top of him. He put his hands on her hips, slid them up to her breasts as she began to move. Then he lifted at the waist so he could wind his hands in her hair, so he could take her mouth and nuzzle her neck, so he could hear the way her breath broke when he drew a nipple into his mouth.

They came to peak together, in such perfect accord already it should have given him pause. He refused to dwell on it, though. When Rae eased down beside him he gathered her against him, her back to his front, and buried his nose in her hair to drink in her scent and memorize the way she fit into his arms. The future would surely take them in separate directions, but now, tonight, she was his. They belonged to each other, and the world was right.

 

 

CONN’S SHOWER THE NEXT MORNING CONSISTING, as it did, of hot water, slippery soap, and a lot of naked redhead, was going down as one of the truly amazing memories of his life, old or new. It appeared it would be the last of its kind, at least with Rae Blissfield.

She hadn’t looked at him once since they’d left the bath, dressing in silence and adding their new things to the small bag she’d brought from her home. He knew she was wrung out, tired from the lack of sleep and wincing every now and then from overused muscles. He felt the same, but he couldn’t regret the night they’d shared. And he’d be damned if he let her.

He crossed the room and lifted her chin until their eyes met. “You are not this woman. Embarrassed—” He touched her hair, back up in an ugly bun. “—closed off.”

“I’m not embarrassed.” But she brushed his hand away, her cheeks heating as she turned back to her packing. “Not exactly. It’s just . . . Last night . . . I’ve never been with anyone like that, or been like that with anyone, before.”

Conn wrapped her in his arms, laughing a little, but wanting her again, impossibly. “I’ve never, either.”

Rae pulled back enough to look up at him, half hopeful.

“I don’t need my memory back to know it.”

She smiled, brighter than the sun and incredibly sweet. “I wish we could stay here awhile longer.”

Conn looked around the room. “This is only a place. This,” he rested his hand over her heart, “is where you live.”

She went quiet, wistful, and when she lifted her face to his again, he could tell she was troubled.

“What is it?”

“Last night . . . You have some scars. Quite a few, actually, little round ones.” Her hand slipped over his T-shirt, pausing when she said, “Here and here. Does it have anything to do with the dreams? No, don’t shrug this off, Conn.”

He wanted to do just that, but even if he could have refused her, the time had come to face the unpleasant. “In the dreams, it’s night, but there is a lot of flashing light and noise—”

“Gunfire?”

“It’s constant, a thunder that never stops. And there are men dressed in trousers and shirts, all black, and they wear heavy boots, or sometimes they wear clothing in shades of tan and brown, like sand—”

“Uniforms,” Rae said. “They are soldiers. It’s a war you’re seeing, although there’s no way to know which one. It sounds like more than one, all jumbled up in your memory.”

Conn sank into a chair because he needed to sit for a moment, and because he didn’t want her to see it, he bent to put on his shoes. He should have known the pretense was futile.

“Are you dizzy?”

He shook his head, the muddled feeling going away because denying its existence to Rae was enough to chase it off. Still, the reassuring smile he attempted fell short. “If I was dizzy, it would be from lack of food after so much . . . exertion.”

“Conn—”

He stood. “It cannot be forced.”

She took the hand he held out; he collected the bag from the bed.

“Let’s go break our fast,” he said, his stomach growling.

“Maybe we should call ahead,” she teased, “and make sure there’s enough food for the rest of the island.”

 

 

“IT’S WARMER TODAY,” CONN SAID WHEN THEY stepped out onto the wide drive behind the hotel.

The sun shone, bright in the sky and almost blinding off the water. There wasn’t a cloud overhead, just the one they’d be walking into. “They’ll be waiting for us when we get off the ferry,” Rae said.

“They will.”

A carriage pulled up to take them to the docks, compliments of the Grand Hotel. The driver climbed down from the front seat and collected their bag from Conn. “I’m Eddie,” he said, taking it behind the carriage. He’d just finished securing it when they heard a commotion coming from the stable not far away.

Eddie stared in that direction, then took off running. Rae looked at Conn, and they came to the same conclusion. Conn handed her into the front seat of the carriage, then raced around to jump into the other side, taking up the reins as three or four horses came out of the stable and bolted in different directions. The stable hands came out behind them . . . Okay, not all of them worked for the hotel.

“Harry, Joe, and Kemp,” Rae said, watching them struggle with a horse apiece. Harry and Joe managed to get on board. Kemp’s horse was too much for him. It took off, dragging Kemp a dozen yards before he let go of the reins and windmilled to a stop in a graceless heap.

“Even the Three Stooges could do better than that,” Rae said, snorting out a laugh when Joe listed to the side and sort of flopped out of the saddle.

Harry wasn’t having as much trouble. Harry was actually catching up with them. Joe was climbing back on his horse, too.

“Go,” Rae said to Conn, keeping her eyes on the bad guys, especially Kemp, who climbed to his feet, took one look at Harry and Joe still arguing with their mounts, and headed for a bicycle rack outside the hotel’s rear entrance.

“I should know how to do this,” Conn said.

That got her attention. She turned forward, took one look at Conn, staring at the leather straps in his hands and looking clueless, and rolled her eyes. “Hand them over,” she said, “and push that forward.” She pointed at the brake lever on Conn’s left. Once he’d disengaged the brake she snapped the reins to slap the horses on the butts and get them into motion.

“How?” Conn asked as the carriage jerked forward, then settled into a smooth roll.

“With my childhood?” Rae glanced over at him, smiling slightly. “I can also dance the Scottish Sword Dance, read palms, and juggle.”

“Can you make this thing go faster? And why are we going downhill?”

“The horses are used to walking,” Rae said, snapping the reins again to no avail. Except one of the horses turned its head and gave her a dirty look. “And we’re going downhill because just about everything is downhill from the Grand Hotel, including our only way off the island. Plus I thought it would be easier for the horses.”

“They have horses, too,” Conn pointed out, “and theirs aren’t pulling all this weight.”

“You’d better be talking about the carriage.”

Conn gave her a look, not seeing the humor in the situation. Especially when Kemp and his bicycle passed them.