‘My bedroom,’ he said, and she hardly recognised his voice. It was shaken with passion and desire. It was deep and husky and so sexy she wanted to melt.
But not here. Not yet. He walked to the door, still carrying her. Paused. Listened.
They heard a clatter in the kitchen-Grace was still there, then. They could make their way through the darkened passage, through the dividing door, then into Nick’s side of the house.
Nick’s bedroom was vast. The bed was a big four-poster with too much bedding and too many pillows. It was a bed made for more than one man.
It was a bed made for a man and a woman, and she wanted to be in that bed.
Nick was kissing her as he carried her. Then he was kissing her as he set her down on the bed. As he undid the buttons of her blouse. As he held her and held her and held her, closer and still closer.
She closed her eyes, aching with sensual pleasure. His fingers were tracing the contours of her body, her breasts. Each tiny movement sent shivers of wonder from top to toe.
She clung to him as he kissed her, holding him, glorying in the strength of him, the sheer masculinity, the wonder of his body. This day had seemed unreal. Now she wanted reassurance that this was happening in truth.
Her blouse was gone, and so was her bra. Nick was still clothed, but she could feel the strength of him underneath. In a moment she’d attack the buttons of his shirt, she thought. In a moment. When her body had space between trying to absorb the sensations she was feeling.
They had all the night. They had all the time in the world.
‘I think I love you, Nicholas Holt,’ she told him. ‘Is that scary?’
He pulled away at that, holding her at arm’s length. ‘You think you love me?’ he queried.
‘I guess I know.’
‘That’s very good news.’ His voice was grave, serious, husky with passion. ‘For I know I love you. I’d marry you tomorrow. I will marry you tomorrow.’
Tomorrow.
The word gave her pause. Tomorrow. Grace. The worries that crowded in.
Nick sensed her withdrawal. He cursed in Tajik. ‘Hey, Misty, don’t look like that.’
‘Tomorrow’s tomorrow,’ she murmured. ‘Can we just take this night?’
A flicker of doubt crossed his face, and she smoothed it away with her fingers. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This is not some one-night stand. I’m not saying that. I’m saying I do love you. I want you. Whether I want to marry you tomorrow…’
‘It could be the day after.’
‘It could,’ she said and chuckled and tugged him close because she didn’t want him to see doubt. She didn’t want anything to interfere with tonight.
For tonight there was only Nick.
He still had clothes on.
‘Not fair,’ she said, and started slowly unbuttoning. He was hers, gift packaged, and she was going to take her own sweet time unwrapping.
Only maybe not. For, as she was concentrating-or trying to concentrate-on buttons, he was kissing her. Slowly, sensuously, achingly beautiful. Her neck, her lips, her eyelids.
She felt herself arch up to him and felt his fingers cup the smooth contours of her breasts, tracing the nipples, just touching, feather-soft, making her gasp with need and love and heat.
The night was magic. The moon was full outside, sending ribbons of silver over the ocean, the ribbons finding their way into the bedroom, across the bed, giving two lovers all the light they needed.
Only she had to get these buttons off!
She ripped.
‘Uh oh,’ he said.
‘Was that a good shirt?’
‘My best.’
‘Sorry,’ she said and her mouth found his nipples and suddenly any discussion of the ripped shirt was put aside.
He was hers, she thought. One loving gesture and she had him, putty in her hands. Or in her mouth.
His breathing was ragged, harsh, as her fingers found his belt, unfastened, unzipped. She could hear his breathing deepening. She kissed his neck, tasting the salt of him.
He’d marry her. Her Nick.
Her fingers sought and found. Explored.
Loved.
Enough. One ragged gasp and he surrendered-or not. His hands caught hers, locked them behind her, and suddenly she was his again, and it was she who was surrendering. He kissed each breast in turn, tantalizing, teasing. Savouring. Their heated bodies moulded together.
Skin to skin.
Their mouths were joined again. Of course. It was as if this was their centre-where they needed to be.
Or maybe… Another centre beckoned. His hands were below her waist and she felt her jeans slipping.
As everything else slipped. Doubts. Sadness. Anger.
This night…this time… It was a watershed. Somehow, what was happening right now was firming who she was. A woman who knew what she wanted.
She wanted Nick, and wondrously he wanted her right back. How cool-how magical-how right!
But…
‘Wait,’ he said, in a voice she no longer recognised. ‘Wait, my love.’
She must, but it nearly killed her to wait, until he’d done what he needed to do to keep them safe.
But then there was nothing keeping them apart. The night was theirs.
Outside, the world was waiting but for now, for this night, for this moment, there was only each other.
They were lying against each other, their bodies curved against each other, skin against skin. She’d never felt like this. She’d never dreamed she could feel like this.
A rain of kisses was being bestowed on her neck, her breasts, her belly, while his magical hands caressed and caressed and caressed. The heat…
The French windows were open. The warm night air did its own caressing, and the soft murmur of the surf was more romantic than any violin. She could vaguely hear the distant chatter of the ring-tailed possums who skittered along the eaves. She’d never felt so alive and so aware and so…beautiful?
But…hot? Oh, these kisses. The sounds of the night were receding, giving way to a murmur in her ears that was starting to grow.
He was kissing her low, loving her body, his tongue doing crazy, wondrous things… Amazing things.
‘Nick!’
‘Hey,’ he growled and chuckled his pleasure and did it again. ‘You like?’
Did she like? She arched upward, close to crying, aching with need. He was above her, sliding up again so his dark eyes gleamed down at her in the moonlight. He was loving her with his eyes.
‘You want me?’ he murmured and what was a girl to say to that?
‘Like life itself,’ she managed and she held him and tugged him down. Down…
But he wasn’t sinking. His arms were sailor’s arms, muscled, too strong for her to fight him. He was forcing her to wait. She arched and moaned and he kissed her, deeply, more deeply still. Holding the moment. Savouring what was to come.
‘My Misty,’ he whispered. ‘My heart.’
‘I need you. Nick, please…’ Her thighs were burning; her body was on fire, but still he resisted. He lowered himself, a little but not enough, just so his chest brushed lightly against her breasts. He kissed her neck, behind her ears, her throat, her eyelids, and all the while his body brushed her breasts, over and back until she thought she’d melt with desire and love and need.
No more. What use would she be to this world if she melted into a puddle of aching need, right here on the bed? She took his shoulders and tugged, fierce with want, strong with need, and she rose to meet him.
And he was there.
