Body Contact (11 page)

They'd left their clothing piled inside. And now the clothing was gone.

Jack opened drawers, and she saw that the items had been put away—and probably thoroughly searched. Luckily she hadn't hidden anything important in the folds of her T-shirts.

It was all she could do to stop herself from rushing over to her makeup case and checking the transmitter.

“Well,” Jack said, his voice low and sardonic. “I see the maid's been very efficient.”

“Yes,” she managed to answer. “How nice.”

He turned and gave her a look that made her go very still. “You know baby, what we need is to unwind.”

Casually he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it in the closet. Then he began to undo his shirt studs.

She swallowed, her gaze flicking to the bed and back to his face. Nothing had changed as far as she knew. This room might still be the star attraction on Orchid Island Television.

His expression remained impassive as he hung up the shirt, then kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, and unzipped his trousers.

Dry-mouthed, she watched him put those away.

Naked except for his briefs, he stepped toward her—tall and muscular and overwhelmingly masculine.

And aroused. That too. Because he couldn't hide the fact—not in a pair of knit briefs.

When he took her hand, she stiffened. But instead of leading her to the bed, he urged her toward the bathroom, giving her no choice but to follow him.

He turned on the shower, and the room suddenly filled with the roar of water. Not just from the overhead spray but from four jets in the walls of the tiled enclosure.

She felt as if she were observing from somewhere far away as he stepped toward her, his intentions very clear. Unzipping the dress, he pulled it over her head and flung it onto the counter. Then he skimmed down her panty hose and panties in one quick motion, leaving her naked.

Turning away, he stripped off his own briefs and adjusted the hot water that was already filling the room with steam.

As he stepped into the shower, he brought her with him, brought her under the sprays that hit her body from several directions, instantly turning her skin hot and slick.

But it wasn't only the heat of the water that enveloped her. It was the heat of the man as he pressed her body to his while a groan welled deep in his throat.

For several seconds he simply held her under the pounding water. Then he lowered his mouth to her ear.

“We can talk in here. The running water should mask the conversation—screw up the microphones. We
have
to talk.”

Lord, he was thoroughly, sexually aroused. Yet he was doing his best to ignore the demands of his body.

And if he could do it, so could she, she told herself sternly. “Yes.” Then, “Are there microphones in here?”

He made a low, frustrated sound. “Probably. If we're lucky, it's a camera-free zone.”

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the image of someone watching them now. The seconds of exposure in front of the guards had been bad enough. But here she was in the shower—every inch of her skin on view.

The thought made her press closer to Jack, which was a mistake—at least on the physical level.

Yet she was powerless to ease away. And she had gone beyond questioning his judgment, or his methods. Still, the sob she'd managed to hold back until now welled up—spilled out. Just one small sob before she wrested control of herself again. “I didn't know,” was all she could whisper at the moment.

“Yeah, well, neither did I. I thought I was prepared.” The observation ended with a curse. “Maddy, I'm sorry.” He turned his head, sliding his lips along her cheek, then finding the sensitive place just above her right ear.

For a moment her mind went blank. Then she whispered, “For what?”

“For getting you into this.” He stopped, and she felt his jaw tighten. “For flashing those guys a look at your breasts.”

She hadn't expected him to apologize—for anything. And his words touched her at some deep level that she barely understood. She had been afraid of him—angry. Now she pressed her forehead against his shoulder, wanting to bury herself in his hard flesh. “I know why you did it,” she answered in a barely audible voice. “And about the other part…you didn't get me into anything. I insisted on coming with you because it was the right thing to do. It's still the right thing.”

“No.”

“You think I'm not up to the job?”

His hand stroked down the length of her bare back, then traveled lower to cup her bottom. Heat shot through her then, heat she couldn't deny, even when she knew there were things they had to say.

“I think you've been doing magnificently,” he told her in a thick voice. “Nobody could have done it better. It's just damn bad luck that Reynard has a fixation on you.”

She nodded against his wet skin, struggled to speak when her nerves were dancing and tingling. “The beauty salon…I couldn't tell you about it before. But Rosalie was there. I thought she was acting strange. I guess I know why now.”

His hand continued to play across her back, sending currents of heat through her. “Did you find out anything else?”

Lord, he was still trying to concentrate on business when both of them were so turned on that the spray was changing to steam as it hit their bodies.

“One of the manicurists asked to work on me after she
heard my name. I was afraid to say anything to her directly. But I had a roundabout conversation with her. I think maybe she's seen Dawn, but she was afraid to talk about it. Probably she knows the place is bugged.”

“Yeah.”

She raised her head, stroked her lips across his cheek, entranced by the electrifying, abrasive quality of his beard. He'd shaved only a few hours ago, yet she could clearly feel the stubble against the sensitive skin of her lips.

For several moments neither of them spoke. Then she remembered something else she had wanted to discuss.

“And I was thinking about Fowler. It wasn't just tonight when he noticed us coming in. It was at the airport, too.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think Reynard's lying to us about him?”

“Why would he?”

“I don't know,” she admitted, unable to keep herself from sliding her hand down his hard flank.

She felt him react to her touch, knew that if they stayed this way for many more seconds, coherent discussion would fall by the wayside.

“What do we do?” she managed, trying to focus on the problem that had brought them here in the first place.

His voice was husky as he answered, “Keep looking. Follow the plan we outlined before we left New York. Find a place where we can exchange information. Somewhere else besides this damn shower. Because this is…”

The sentence trailed off as she felt his body moving against hers, felt him stroke his erection against her belly.

She struggled to hold on to the last shreds of coherence. But they evaporated when she felt Jack's hands on her buttocks. He must have reached behind her and lathered his hands with soap because they had turned slick, running
over her wet skin with a total absence of resistance that was like fire streaking over dry grass. Touching her the way the woman in the movie they'd seen on the plane had touched the man.

“Oh God,” was all she could manage to murmur as slick, wet heat pooled between her legs. And when he shifted her body so that those soap-slick hands could lift and fondle her breasts, she answered him with a sob of need.

She had wanted him again almost as soon as he had climbed out of bed that evening back at Winston headquarters. Though desire had receded to the background, it had never entirely left her. Today and tonight had only added fuel to the fire.

And now need pulsed like a throbbing jungle rhythm through her bloodstream, through her brain, through every cell of her body.

He began to play with her taut nipples then, the soap and touch of his fingers combining to bring her close to the edge.

He used a light, circling motion that drove her wild, alternating the rhythm with flicks of his thumbnails across the very tips, so that she thought she might start the water around her boiling.

Panting, she found the soap dish, slicked her own hands, then boldly found his jutting cock, starting with a teasing stroke that drew a quick indrawn breath from him. The breath turned into a moan as she closed her fingers around him, squeezing and sliding up and down his length with the same maddeningly slick touch that he was using to drive her beyond insanity.

Looking down, she admired her handiwork. He had been hard when she'd started. Now his penis was red with engorgement, the skin like velvet over tempered steel, radiating life and heat.

“Jesus!” he gasped. Then in a strangled voice, he commanded, “Don't. I want to come inside you, not in your hand.”

The hand fell away, because she wanted that, too. Wanted it with a desperation that bordered on madness.

He stepped out of her reach, and she cried out from loss. But he was only washing the soap off his hands, letting the water wash the front of his body.

She imitated his action, ridding herself of the soap, watching his hot gaze follow the water cascading downward toward her sex.

She had hardly noticed the configuration of the shower. But when he lifted her up onto a triangular ledge in one corner, she realized that the interior had been designed for sport as well as cleanliness.

“Brace your feet,” he instructed, and she did, against small wedges positioned perfectly to hold her legs open for him—hold them open so that his scorching gaze could find her swollen sex. She had never felt so exposed, so helpless, or so utterly needy.

“Please,” was all she could say. “Please, don't make me wait.”

Water beat down on them like an added caress as the hot, hard rod she had teased and stroked plunged into her.

She cried out at the joining of their flesh, cried out again as his fingers found her clitoris, stoking her need as he moved within her in a fast, hard rhythm.

The intensity was too great for the joining to last more than seconds. He drove her to a sharp, overwhelming climax that was like an electric shock jolting her body. And while the waves of pleasure still lapped through her body, he followed her over the edge.

He collapsed against her, his head drifting to her shoulder, and she reached to stroke her fingers through his wet
hair, turned her head so that she could skim her lips along his cheek, drinking in water and man taste.

 

J
ACK EASED HIS BODY
out of Maddy's, feeling the loss of contact keenly and immediately. If he were free to do anything he wanted, he would start up all over again. No—not just start up. He would have begun arousing her once more while their bodies were still joined.

He squeezed his eyes closed, because thinking about that had him hardening again. Lord, if he were inside her now, building her pleasure again, he'd be able to feel the small clenching of muscles, the glorious contractions of her sex around him that he knew would result from touching and caressing her.

She was so responsive. So damn hot. So giving.

And he wanted her every bit as much as he had a few minutes ago.

He'd known how the session in the shower was going to end up. Known that there would be no way either one of them could resist the hot, slick pressure of body to body.

Yet he hadn't been lying to her. The shower was one of the few places on this whole damn island where they could safely hold a conversation about anything important.

Of course, there was also the jungle. He'd been tempted to step off the path and pull her into the underbrush. But he'd known that was too risky. Not with the animal sounds all around them—and the foliage rustling. For all he knew Reynard let that damn panther loose at night to prowl the grounds.

Maybe he even thought it was amusing to find an occasional mauled guest in the morning. That would certainly fit the man's warped sense of humor.

So he'd gotten Maddy back to their villa as quickly as
possible. And into the shower. With two distinct purposes in mind.

As he stroked his hands over her shoulders, he found he could no longer kid himself. Making love with her had meant something. Not just sex. Something more personal. Something he couldn't afford to examine too closely—at least while the two of them were on Orchid Island.

He sucked in a small breath and felt her catch the subtle change in him.

“What?” she whispered.

He didn't tell her he was calculating their odds of getting out of this place alive. And they were not as good as he'd assumed when they'd planned this rescue mission.

“We should get some sleep,” he murmured, shutting off the water, then reaching outside the shower for a large, fluffy towel.

He helped her down from the ledge where she was still sitting, then leaned her against himself as he began to dry her body, trying not to react to the intimate contact.

He worked the towel over her hair, appreciating the silky texture. She felt boneless, relaxed, her eyes heavy-lidded.

Draping the towel around her shoulders, he whispered, “Wait here.”

Outside the shower, he grabbed another towel and did a quick job of drying himself. Then he stepped into the bedroom, crossed to the dresser, and opened the drawer where he'd seen her sleepwear.

He found a little wisp of a gown with spaghetti straps and delicate lace at the top edge of the bodice.

Bringing it back to the bathroom, he slipped it over her head, helped her get her arms free of the gossamer fabric.

If there was a camera in the bedroom, at least the bastards wouldn't see her naked, he thought as he lifted her into his arms and carried her toward the bed. He didn't
care about them seeing him. It was just Reynard and his guards, after all.

Pulling back the covers, he settled her in the wide bed, then went back and closed the bathroom door almost all the way, leaving only a narrow shaft of light knifing into the room.