Night Fever (22 page)

He led her into the living room, with its antique furniture and open fireplace.

“How beautiful,” she exclaimed. “Do you use the fireplace in winter?”

“No. Those are gas logs in the fireplace,” he replied, smiling at her. “I don't have the leisure to keep wood chopped to burn in it, as mundane as that sounds. Would you like a drink?”

“Of what?” she asked demurely.

“Scotch and water is about all the bar runs to around here,” he chuckled as he pulled out a squat crystal bottle and two squatty square glasses to go with it. “I'll make sure yours is mostly water, though, Little Bo Peep.”

He poured the drinks and handed hers to her, then sat down beside her on the wide, cushy sofa.

She took a sip of her drink and made a face. It was pretty strong stuff, even watered down. She glanced up at his profile and smiled. “You really haven't got the hang of this rake thing,” she said. “You're supposed to get me drunk and lure me into bed.”

“I am?” He scowled. “Damn! Why don't you tell me these things?”

“I'm doing my humble best,” she assured him. She took off her sweater and slipped out of her shoes, then drew her feet up under the full skirt of her dress with a sigh. It felt so nice, being here with him like this—as if the world were very far away.

But when she looked at Rourke, he was staring into space and brooding, his brows drawn together, the drink hanging absently from his lean fingers.

“What's wrong?” she asked gently.

“Sorry,” he murmured, glancing down at her. “I hate my job from time to time, Becky. Tonight I'd like to forget I ever wanted it.”

“Would you?” She searched his eyes, her heart going wild at the expression she found there. With nervous deliberation, she set her drink on the side table. She coaxed the glass from his hand and put it beside hers. Then, with pure bravado, she eased herself into his lap and looped her arms around his neck.

He looked down at her, still brooding, the soft, scented warmth of her body seducing him. He'd wanted her for a long time. Tonight he'd had all he could take. Clay was bothering him, she was bothering him, the job was bothering him. He'd reached flashpoint and he wanted her enough to risk anything. He felt reckless tonight. He didn't seem to be the only one, either. Her eyes were a little apprehensive, but her lips were already parted, and the look on her face spoke volumes.

“Feeling brave, are you?” he asked in a deep, husky whisper. “All right. Let's see how brave you really are.”

His hand went to the buttons on her dress. He opened the top one at her collarbone. Then the next, at the soft beginning slope of her breasts. He opened another one between her breasts. She caught his hand nervously, staying it.

“Not so brave after all,” he chided gently.

“It's…it's not that.” She bit her lip and dropped her gaze to his broad chest. “I guess you're used to women who can afford frilly, pretty things to go under their clothes. All I have is old and worn. And it's cotton, not silk and lace. I didn't want you to see it.”

He caught his breath. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He tilted her chin up, making her look at him. “Do you really think that matters to me?” he asked softly. “Or that I'd even notice? Sweet innocent, what I want to see is your pretty breasts, not your bra.” Her face flamed. She felt her breath shuddering out of her as she looked up at his solemn, quiet face. He looked very adult and masculine, very much in control of what was happening. She knew then, without asking, that he was no novice. And then the excitement of what he'd said, of what they were doing, burned in her blood.

“You're blushing,” he whispered, pushing her hand gently aside while he completed what he'd started. He unbuttoned the dress to her waist, his eyes holding hers as he did it with sensual slowness. “Is it shocking, to let me do this?”

“Yes,” she whispered back, her eyes wide with excited pleasure. She moved, wanting him to do something, anything. But he paused with his hand at her waist, toying with the open buttonhole.

His blood was raging through his veins. He'd thought about doing this for weeks. He'd hardly thought of anything else. Becky was a virgin. She'd done nothing intimate with a man, but here she lay in his arms, waiting for him, eager for his touch. It made him feel sensations he'd left behind in his boyhood.

His lips parted as he breathed, trying to hold back as long as he could, to savor every second of it. “Is it hard to breathe?” he asked, his voice velvety smooth, deep.

“Yes,” she whispered, managing a smile.

His fingers trailed up her rib cage to just below her breast and back down again, a lingering torment that he repeated again and again, watching her with arrogant pleasure, until she began to lift toward his fingers in a rhythmic arching of her body. She bit back a moan, but not in time.

His free hand clenched in the long, thick hair behind her head and contracted while his other hand continued its slow arousal. She hardly felt the tension on her hair. Her whole body was involved in a mad race to make him touch her breast. She gasped and lifted one last time toward that tormenting hand, shivering as she held the arch.

And then his hand moved the rest of the way, finally, smoothing up over her breast, cradling the hard nipple. And she moaned, sobbing, her body convulsing helplessly at the tiny culmination.

Rourke was shocked. He hadn't really believed that a virgin could be this easily aroused, this sensual. But he recognized what he saw in her face, and it sent him reeling. With a rough murmur, he jerked the dress off her shoulders and fought the catch of her bra, feeling her hands helping him as she breathed feverishly.

His mouth was on her breasts, on her nipples. She felt a horrible dragging sensation in her lower stomach—a sensation that grew worse and worse until it was as tension that hurt. She gathered handfuls of his thick hair and pulled his head even closer, feeling his teeth and loving the faint abrasion of them on her soft skin. He suckled at one breast until the very heat of the suction sent her arching upward in another tiny consummation.

Rourke was on fire. He'd never known anything as mad and uncontrollable in his whole damned life. He stripped her without a thought in the world except getting her under him. His hands trembled on her soft skin, his mouth ate her, savored her, in the silence of the room that was broken only by her soft gasping cries and his own harsh breathing.

His jeans were too tight, and he cursed as he forced them down his taut legs. He fought out of his shirt and underwear, socks and shoes, and the whole time, his mouth was feverish on Becky's body, keeping her in thrall until he was nude.

His mouth was one long, aching pleasure on her hot skin. She felt the air on it with a feeling of thankfulness, relief. She was burning, and he was thorough, slow and fierce and expert, his hands finding her as no hands ever had, his mouth on the inside of her thighs, making her cry out.

She was on her back on the carpet, shuddering as his mouth and body began to move again. His lips traveled with sensual slowness up her belly, over her breasts, to find her mouth. His tongue slid inside it delicately, tenderly, while his powerful body slid upward until it covered hers. He was hairy, and the hair was abrasive against her soft skin, but it was arousing, heaven. His cool skin covered the heat of her body. She felt him between her thighs, probing. She opened her legs, too far gone to deny him when she was aching to know him, aching to be filled. The need was anguish now.

Her hands pulled at him. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes, holding their wildness.

“Look down,” he said huskily. “Look at us.”

He coaxed her feverish eyes down and his followed them. And then he pushed, hard.

The shock of seeing it happen, of seeing man joined to woman in such a shattering way, took the sting out of the sudden penetration. She gasped, but even as the sound left her lips, he filled her completely in one smooth thrust.

He lay against her, his elbows catching his weight, and he held her eyes.

The shock was in her face, in its sudden color, and in the tensing of her body under his.

“Relax,” he whispered. One hand came up to smooth back her disheveled hair, to gentle her. He could feel her tensing around him, increasing his pleasure, but he knew it could cost her her own. “Relax, Becky. Relax for me. I won't have to hurt you anymore.”

His voice was soft, even with the tension she felt in him. She swallowed, only just realizing what she was letting him do. And now it was much, much too late to stop.

“You're…inside me,” she said huskily. “Inside my body.”

The words wrenched him. His eyes closed and his jaw clenched as he fought for control, shivering. “Yes,” he whispered. He groaned. “Oh, God, it's so sweet!”

He was moving. He hadn't meant to, so soon, but her husky observation sent him beyond his own limits. He moved down in a slow, deep rhythm that was pure feverish hell, his teeth grinding together as he looked into Becky's wide eyes the whole while.

“Fever,” he said. “You burn me up. Got to have you, Becky, got to…have you!”

She felt him buffet her. She felt a sharp twist of pleasure and gasped.

“There?” he whispered, holding her eyes as he did it again.

“Yesss!” She gasped again.

“Hold on,” he managed with his last bit of breath. “Let me take you up to the sky!”

Everything seemed to burn red, like fire. She closed her eyes finally as the anguish built. Sounds climbed out of her throat that she'd never heard before—high-pitched sounds that were more like screaming than moans. She lifted up to him as the pleasure became so unbearable that she begged him to end it, and then begged him not to.

She was gasping for breath. She heard a heartbeat so loud and quick that it was frightening, and it seemed to be his and hers. She was drenched in sweat. So was he. Her hands were on his broad back, and it was slick. She felt his body between her legs, felt the lax weight of it, with a sense of wonder.

“Can you forgive me?” he whispered wearily.

She moved her hands to his shoulders, touching him. He was still part of her body, part of her soul.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said huskily.

He heard the note of wonder in her soft voice and lifted his head. His hair was as damp as the rest of him, his eyes dark with remorse and fatigued satisfaction. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen from the pressure of his mouth. His eyes drifted down farther, to the faint marks on her soft pink breasts that his lips had left there. They were pretty breasts. He'd been too aroused to look at them properly, but now his eyes savored their soft thrust, the mauve nipples that were relaxed and swollen now.

“I wanted you too much to pull back,” he said quietly. “I tried. But it had been a long time, Becky—a hell of a long time. And I don't think I've ever wanted anything as much as I wanted you tonight.”

“I wanted you, too,” she confessed. She couldn't quite meet his eyes. She looked down the length of their bodies, fascinated by the intimacy she'd never experienced before.

He saw her stare and abruptly lifted himself, giving her a sight that shocked her speechless.

He chuckled as he sprawled on his back beside her, the carpet soft and faintly abrasive against his damp back. “You might as well get used to it,” he mused. “You're going to find that sex is worse than eating peanuts. Once is never enough.”

She sat up, feeling shy and faintly uncomfortable and a little embarrassed.

“The bathroom is that way,” he said, understanding her expression.

She nodded, grabbing up her dress and underthings without looking at him again. Whatever she thought she knew about sex was past history now. She had a shocking knowledge not only of the mechanics, but of the feverish, uncontrollable hunger that preceded it. She'd been so confident that she could refuse her own need, that she could hold back. Now she knew what true helplessness was. She'd given in without a single protest. What must he be thinking of her now?

She blushed as she laid her things out in the bathroom and searched for a washcloth and a towel. Would he mind if she took a shower?

Just as she pulled out the towel and cloth, he opened the door and walked in, smiling gently at her shy withdrawal.

“It's all right,” he said softly. He pulled her to him, and she was aroused all over again, just by touching him.

She gasped. She couldn't believe what was happening.

He drew back a little and looked down at her, his lean fingers touching her suddenly hard nipples with quiet satisfaction. “I want you again, too,” he said gently. “But we'll have a shower first. This time, we're going to have each other in bed, and I'm going to take a hell of a long time with you. I want you screaming mad before I take you the second time.”

She shivered with the impact of the words, and before she could say anything, he was kissing her. She moaned against his mouth, clinging to his powerful body, feeling his arousal with a fierce pride in her own womanhood.