He sprang free, hard and hot. I took him in my hand and squeezed. French curses erupted, perhaps a few in Spanish. I didn’t know, didn’t care. He felt more than good, better than great. He felt right. And that was such a strange thought, I pushed it aside along with the rest of his clothes.
The sun fell, providing just enough light to cast him in shades of gold and gray. I traced the shadows across his chest with my fingers, let my gaze trace others along his thighs. His penis twitched. I ran my thumb over the tip, liked the feel of it so much I did it again. I wondered how he would feel against my lips—both soft and hard, yet so alive. I went to my knees.
“Raye,” he began, but when my lips closed over him, he stopped talking, started moving. In and out, slowly, deeply.
I wanted to try everything I’d ever read about, heard about, dreamed about, and I wanted to try it with him. He wasn’t from here; he wouldn’t stay. While that might make most women cautious, it made me throw every caution I’d ever had into the suddenly whistling wind.
Why was the wind whistling? Had the damn door opened again?
I drew back, opened my eyes, saw a shadow shimmer in the corner, then another near the door.
Ghosts.
The thought of being watched nearly made me put a stop to something I wanted more than I’d wanted anything, anyone, in … well … ever. Then I remembered the rosemary in my pocket.
Bobby’s eyes were still closed, but they wouldn’t remain that way if I didn’t continue. I blew on the moistness left by my mouth, and he shivered. Apparently he hadn’t felt the wind.
“Keep your eyes closed,” I whispered.
“Mmm,” he agreed.
“Don’t move. I’m just going to lock the door.” I removed the rosemary bottle.
In more ways than one.
I sprinkled the tiny leaves across the doorway. I tossed some of the herb into the air for good measure, then flicked the lock. I hoped that worked. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if it didn’t.
I glanced around the room, afraid of what I might see. But the shimmers had receded. The only shadows lay in Bobby’s now open eyes. Either the rosemary had done the trick, or the ghosts didn’t want to watch. Fine by me.
I went to him, and his thumb stroked my lip, pulled it free of my teeth. “We don’t have to,” he said.
“You’re wrong.” I lifted my mouth.
“About?” His lips hovered a breath from mine.
My fingers curled around his neck. “We have to.”
I felt his smile when we kissed. But the humor soon fled, along with any gentleness. Laughter was for later, as were both slow and soft. Right now I wanted fast, hard, and serious.
His thumbs slid beneath the waistband of my jeans. He ran them along the hollow between hip and stomach. I went onto my toes, arching; my pelvis bumped his erection, and he hissed. I lost the jeans and the underwear. At least I’d remembered to put on a pair without holes. Not that it mattered now.
“Bedroom?” he asked.
I wrapped my legs around his hips, wiggled, desperate to feel him inside. “No time.”
“Whoa.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “Give me a sec.”
He set me on the table. I came up on my elbows as he leaned over and grabbed his jeans. Protection. At least one of us had a brain.
I was naked from the waist down, displayed like an offering to the gods and oddly enough … I liked it. I lay back and waited for the tear of the package, the snick of the condom. Instead, his shadow blocked the waning sun. Next thing I knew, he put his mouth to me.
Though my body shouted, Shh! my mouth said, “Wait.”
“No.”
“I can’t.”
“You will.” He kissed the part of me that screamed for it. “Now.”
He licked that part, tickled it with the tip of his tongue. Not only did that part scream, so did I.
“Then you’ll come again when I’m here…” He put his tongue inside of me, then out. “I promise.”
He continued until that promise was fulfilled, and I checked a few items off my to-do list.
He worked his way upward, shoving my shirt ahead of him, running his lips along my skin. My nipples were as hard as he was, and he spent a bit of time making them harder. By the time he lifted his head, I thought he was probably right about coming again.
“How about a shower?” he asked.
I blinked, my mind full of sensation, not sense. “Uh, sure. Go ahead.”
That he could walk away for a shower—no matter how badly he wanted, and needed, one—kind of hurt. Was it only me who was crazy for this? For him? For us?
He stepped back, held out a hand, which, dazed, I took. Then he led me to my own bathroom, drew me inside, shut the door.
My gaze caught on my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Color bloomed in my cheeks, making my eyes shine very dark. My hair was tousled. I kind of liked it that way. My shirt had caught above one breast but hung over the other. I had beard burn on my neck, probably everywhere else too.
The water started. I turned away from the new me in the mirror.
One foot in the tub, one foot out, he offered his hand, curled the fingers inward. “Lose the shirt.” His lips tilted. “You didn’t think we were through.”
I had. Silly me.