Kisses in the Rain (21 page)

As his parted lips moved away from her hair, she stared at them, willing them to meet hers. Was it possible to tell from the set of a man's lips whether he was a good lover? She thought it was. The curve of Nick's lips as he brought his mouth to hers was sensual, even erotic.

Her mouth opened beneath the pressure of his lips as his hands slid through her hair. She clung to him, tasting salt, hard put to keep her balance now. A low moan escaped him, and she wondered distractedly how she'd managed to avoid this when it was what she had wanted ever since she'd first seen Nick Novak.

He shrugged out of his shirt, which fell to the floor, and began to unbutton his jeans. Though they were still kissing, Martha brushed his hand away. His jeans were the kind with a button fly—a nuisance.

"Now I know why they invented zippers," he whispered as he let her fingers do the work, and her mouth curved upward in a smile.

She eased him out of his jeans, delighting in the warm length of his unclothed body pressing against hers. She touched him and said, "Now I know why they invented these," and he laughed before stifling her with a kiss.

He tugged her shirt out of her jeans and, releasing her lips, shimmied it over her head. It felt so good to move naturally into intimacy with him, it felt so right. His hands momentarily cupped her rounded breasts before he found the front clasp of her bra and released it. The wisp of nylon fell away, and her breath caught in the back of her throat as his fingers slowly explored her nipples.

Without his help, since he was busy elsewhere, Martha unzipped her jeans and slithered out of them. By this time he was nibbling at her shoulder.

He swept her into his arms, held her close for a single perfect moment when their heartbeats rose and merged, and gently lowered her backward onto the bed.

She wrapped her arms tightly around him and gloried in the sensation of her face against the taut muscles of his chest. The weight of his body pressed upon her. They lay like that for a long time, drinking in the exquisite sensation of being held in each other's arms. The stubble of his beard bit into her cheek, and his arms beneath her were strong and warm. His hair was sweet with the scent of the sea.

Gradually their burgeoning awareness grew into an insatiable physical hunger. She arched upward so that he could slide his arms out from under her; he propped himself on his elbows so that his hands could cup her face while his eyes searched hers for one memorable moment.

"Martha, my dear Cheechako, I love you so much," he said, his voice firm and strong. His eyes were bright with sincerity, and she didn't think he was holding anything back. Everything that he was to her seemed revealed in the gold-flecked depths of those eyes—friend, confidant, admirer and now her lover.
Her lover.
And she did love him so much.

"I love you too," she said, her voice a mere whisper.

His fingers enclosed her breast, and he bent his head to savor the nipple. Her legs slid instinctively around his as he murmured love words against her lips; she was staggered by her body's powerful response to him. She was talking, answering his whispers with little cries of her own, incoherent cries of joy. Her excitement incited his, and with the suddenness of a storm at sea they were caught up in the swift fulfillment of their passion. At its peak he cried out, and she cried tears of joy, and he held her close and kissed them away.

Afterward, after they had lain quietly together, their legs intertwined, their cheeks touching, their breaths mingling, Nick said, "That was a little too fast for my taste. But I wanted you so much that—"

Martha silenced him with a kiss. "We both wanted each other so much," she amended, her voice breaking with emotion.

He smiled and curved his body over hers, marveling at her velvety warmth, at her fragrant, soft skin, at her silvery eyes telling him so much more than words. Her hands delicately caressed the contour of his back, soothing him in her own rhythm, a rhythm that rose and fell with the stirring of the sea. The creaking boat rocked gently beneath them, secure in its mooring; Martha rocked gently beneath Nick, equally secure.

For the moment they could both forget that this wasn't forever, that it was only for now. For the moment, it was enough.

Chapter 11

Nick stirred drowsily and batted at the weight on his chest. Davey... Davey must have climbed in his bed during the night and was lying across him. He struggled up out of the fuzzy depths of sleep and mumbled something about going away. He woke up completely when a surprised female voice said, "That's the most unflattering wake-up call I've ever heard!" The weight shifted and arranged itself on his shoulder; its hair tickled his ear.

He opened his eyes to see Martha smiling up at him.

"Martha," he murmured, remembering now. They were on the
Tabor,
anchored off a secluded island. Last night they had made love. Over and over, it seemed to him. Or had that been a dream?

"Four times?" he inquired hesitantly.

"Five," she said, nestling into him and making it perfectly clear that she had no intention of moving.

"Five times," he agreed. They had been awake half the night. No, not awake all that time; they had alternately fallen asleep and fallen upon each other for hours. He had been insatiable.
She
had been insatiable. Like all her enthusiasms, this one had been strong. Lucky for him, he thought.

He finally noticed the sunbeams because they sparkled so prettily on Martha's dark hair. He half sat, removing his fingers from where they stroked Martha's rose-tipped breast to shove aside the flimsy drapery at the window over the bed. The world seemed bathed in sunlight, a rare commodity in these parts. The sun seemed like an omen of a bright future.

He returned his hand to Martha's breast. She snuggled closer in encouragement and he drifted his hand lower. He could feel the outline of each of Martha's ribs, which was surprising because Martha ate so many cookies. Not to mention all the bagels she consumed at the Bagel Barn. Thinking of food, his stomach commented on its empty state. Martha giggled against his neck.

"Time for breakfast," he announced, swinging his feet over the edge of the narrow bed. Martha reached for him, unwilling for him to leave. She looked rumpled and contented, replete with love.

This morning Martha wore no makeup at all, and her hair curled endearingly in ringlets all over her head. He kissed the tip of her breast, tweaked her big toe and got up.

She lifted herself on one elbow, holding the sheet up in misplaced modesty as she watched him. "How can we eat breakfast? What used to be the table is now the bed."

"I'll take care of it," he promised, tugging on his jeans. He left the top button unbuttoned.

"Sexy," murmured Martha, touching the button.

"Comfortable," he said, although if Martha thought leaving the top button of his jeans unbuttoned was sexy, he'd gladly leave it unbuttoned all the time.

He heated oil in a pan and fried cold sliced oatmeal. Martha wrinkled her nose at the sight of it, but she roused herself enough to peel a couple of oranges as she sat in bed.

He brought plates of the oatmeal and little sausages, and they wrapped themselves up in the bedclothes and balanced their plates on their knees.

Their activity the night before had left them hungry enough to down enough fried oatmeal for four people. Considering his bias against anything sweet for a morning meal, Martha was pleased that Nick suggested that she put maple syrup on hers.

"Fried oatmeal," she said over and over, not believing that anyone would actually eat fried oatmeal for any reason.

"So what's your idea of a good breakfast?" he asked.

"Bagels. Bagels with cream cheese, bagels with salmon, bagels with peanut butter, bagels with honey—"

"Never mind, I get the idea," he said, finishing the last of the oatmeal and unceremoniously dumping their dishes in the sink. He wrapped his arms around Martha and set about kissing the remains of the maple syrup off her lips. It was a tougher job than he anticipated, and it ended up having complications that took over an hour to complete. By that time it was noon, and Nick decided it was too late to do any trolling.

"So what will we do all day?" Martha asked, as innocently as could anyone who had found a man who seemed capable of making love for hours and hours at a time.

Nick only laughed.

The water in the cove where they had anchored last night was lightly crinkled now, shining in the sun like yards and yards of billowing blue cellophane. A flock of squalling gulls pursued little fish near the shoreline, plummeting into the water and flying up again; the air vibrated with the sound of their wings. Otherwise, everything was quiet, pristine; the island seemed like an untouched corner of the universe. There was no sign of the moose they had spotted onshore the night before.

The sunlight was so balmy that Nick said, "Let's go for a walk on the island."

Martha agreed, and they dressed and packed a light lunch in a waterproof satchel that Nick slung around his waist. They were anchored a hundred feet offshore, so Nick lowered the
Tabor's
small dinghy into the water. Martha climbed in and luxuriated in the bow while Nick rowed, and in a few minutes they were walking on the beach.

A faint brine-scented breeze moved off the water, ruffling the needles of the tall Sitka spruce trees. Many boulders, their sides furred with moss, littered the beach. Rocks crunched beneath Nick's and Martha's feet as they walked, swinging their hands between them.

Martha bent over, looking for the footprints of the moose. She didn't see any.

"They've been washed away by the tide," Nick said. He tugged at her hand and they headed inland on a path the moose might have taken.

"What if we run into a bear?" Martha asked with some apprehension.

"We'll stand still and talk softly. That's what you're supposed to do when you meet one," Nick told her.

Martha shuddered. "You can stand still and talk softly if you want to," she said. "I'm going to run screaming for the dinghy."

"Do that and you'll end up being some bear's dinner."

"You know what, Nick? I can't imagine what I, Martha Rose from Indiana, am doing on some remote island in Alaska discussing what to do if I meet a bear. A
real
bear."

Nick turned her to him and kissed her lingeringly on the lips. "I'll tell you what you're doing here, Martha Rose. You're making love to me."

"No, I'm not," she protested, pushing him away with a quick glance into the surrounding underbrush to see if a bear was watching.

"Oh, yes, you are," he said, chuckling softly as he began to unbutton her blouse.

"No, I'm—" She was silenced by his lips.

He pulled her down to a fragrant bed of leaves, and bright purple fireweed danced above their heads as they lay together beneath the gracefully swaying spruce trees. It was, fortunately, a warm day, and as they shed their clothes they also shed their inhibitions. Kissing Martha, Nick thought as he kissed her over and over, was one of life's most delightful pleasures. And beyond her lips there were other things, too. Her breasts, so round and full. Her thighs, so white and firm. Her feet, high-arched and beautifully wrought. Her hands, which she never had been able to keep still and which certainly did not remain still around him. They explored him bit by bit and with growing confidence.

It was a long time before Martha said, "Nick?"

"Mmm?"

"What about bears?"

"What about them?"

"I don't like lying here at the side of the trail like meat in a trap. I think we should go."

He traced her eyebrow, raised in worry, with a gentle fingertip. "I don't, but if you're that uncomfortable with it—"

"I am, Nick. I'd rather be on the boat."

"I thought it would be nice to get off the boat for a while," he said.

"It is, and it's beautiful here. But I really am scared of bears, Nick!"

She finally convinced him, and they slowly dressed after a fashion. There were certain items of clothing that Martha didn't bother to put back on, and Nick carried his shoes in his hand. They made their way back to the beach, unable to control their laughter.

"If my friends at the boutique could only see me now!" giggled Martha. Her shirt was buttoned all wrong, her jeans were littered with fragments of dead leaves, and her hair was a corona of curls standing up all over her head. She hadn't brought any makeup along on the
Tabor
except lipstick, and she hadn't bothered with that today.