Another Eden (23 page)

She went stiff; she all but winced. He froze. "Sara? Does this hurt you?" She hesitated, then said, "No—no."

The unmistakable surprise in her voice chilled him. He didn't like her tone or her hesitation. "Listen to me," he told her, eyes intent, framing her face with his hands. "If we ever do anything that hurts you, you must tell me." She nodded. "I mean it."

"Yes, I will." She smiled tenderly, hiding the rough edge of sadness that nudged through her. He didn't believe it yet, she knew, but there would be no other times for them. Just now. "Love me, Alex," she whispered. "Make love to me."

Sighing her name, he began to move in her, slowly at first, his long, sensuous strokes urging her higher. His deep, hot kisses consumed her; she forgot everything except the way her body felt, abandoned to his. It had never been like this for her; she could hardly believe how good it was. "Alex, this is so…"

He agreed completely. But he could tell that her pleasure was still a long time away. "What do you like?" he said against her lips.

"What?"

"Tell me what you want, love."

"I don't know what you mean," she admitted, embarrassed. "I told you, I'm not any g—"

"Shut up." He kissed her softly, inwardly cursing her husband. "Do you ever come, Sara?"

"Come—"

"Spend. Climax."

"Oh. No, I don't think so. Maybe. I'm not quite sure." She was blushing furiously. She wished he would stop talking and continue. It had been so lovely before, but now she felt stupid, and almost ashamed. When he pulled away from her and lay on his side, she wanted to weep. "It's no good, is it? I'm sorry, I knew—"

He kissed her again to silence her. Leaning over her, braced on his elbow, he said, "Do you know how beautiful your body is? You have beautiful legs, Sara, long and strong, such a lovely shape."

While he spoke, he caressed her thighs.

"You're beautiful too, Alex, your—"

"Thank you, but we're talking about you. I like your feet."

"My feet?"

"English feet. Long and skinny and aristocratic." They looked down at her feet; she flexed her toes self-consciously. "This line of hip here—now, this is lovely." He ran his hand over her hip bone, between waist and thigh. "Not voluptuous. Gently feminine. Just right." His hand slid to her belly. "And this. You look beautiful in your clothes, Sara, but you look even better naked. That's rare. Women would kill for this navel." His hand moved again. "This is the most feminine pelvic bone I've ever seen."

She lay still, wide-eyed, bemused, ready to laugh but utterly fascinated. He spread his fingers, tracing the delta on either side of her thighs to the apex in the middle, ruffling her pubic hair with each soft pass. What would he say about
that
, she wondered hazily.

Nothing. But he kept his hand there while the rest of his attention wandered to her breasts. He kissed her nipples, once each, then raised his head, relishing her quick gasps. "Such pretty breasts, Sara. But even that son of a bitch must've told you that sometime."

"Alex—"

"Sorry. Sorry. But it's like going to the Grand Canyon and then forgetting to tell anyone the view was nice."

Sara snorted, a rude, unladylike explosion in her throat that made Alex bark out a loud, delighted laugh. They kissed wetly, their smiles colliding. She had almost forgotten his hand, which twitched to life between her legs then. Once in a while Ben caressed her like this—no, not like this. No, not in the least like this. She arched, wincing. "Alex!"

But this time he knew he wasn't hurting her. It wasn't pain, it was the newness that stunned her. He kept on, watching her face, anticipating every response. But she couldn't let go. Twice he brought her to the brink; both times she stopped, physically stopped, as if she feared the thing that might happen next was much too perilous and unpredictable to risk giving in to.

"Sara," he murmured against her throat. She couldn't speak. "I'm going to kiss you here."

Her eyes opened. His stroking fingers told her the place he had in mind. "Alex, you can't be serious."

"I love the way you talk," he mentioned, touching his lips to her chin. "I've never appreciated it as much as now, though. The incongruity."

"The what?"

"The disparity. Between the accent and the sight of you, legs open, enjoying my tongue on your pretty little quim."

"Alex," she groaned, unable, and completely unwilling, to stop him from spreading her thighs wide and putting his mouth on her in the place he'd been teasing with his fingers. Her "quim"? What a funny—she groaned again, so loud she felt his sharp breath on her, exhaling in another of his gleeful laughs. "Oh Jesus—bloody hell—Alex!" She clamped down on her lips with her teeth. Stupid to think she wouldn't have picked up a curse of Ben's after eight years—but funny she'd never used one until now. Another of Alex's chuckles vibrated through her, driving her higher. "What—are—you—doing?" She had to know; her body was a wreck.

He loomed over her suddenly. "Let go, Sara. It's definitely time."

"I don't even know what you're talking about."

"You've got a pretty good idea, though. Let go, love. Follow me. Trust me. I'm going back now."

This time she laughed, a helpless sound cut short by the prompt and dutiful fulfillment of his promise. His clever hands slid softly across her stomach and the insides of her thighs with sweet, endless patience, while his tongue fluttered light and insistent against the most sensitive place on her body. She didn't even hear it—he knew because he would ask her, later—but for the rest of his life he would remember what she said next. "Oh, okay." Then she exploded. He held to her tightly, sharing the ride, glorying with her in her deep, powerful, surprised release. When it was over, he thought of all the lewd, luscious things he could have done to prolong it. Next time.

He climbed up her damp, shuddering body, panting with her, until their faces touched. She hadn't opened her eyes yet; she was still tense, savoring it, her throat muscles corded and tight. He kissed her with slow, thorough finesse until she pulled her mouth away to look at him. He wanted praise, he realized; not thanks—praise. She smiled dreamily at him, breathing, "Oh, my," and he guessed he'd gotten it.

"Poor Sara," he crooned to her. "What a shame you're not any good at this."

She put her arms around him and squeezed. "What did you do to me? Am I still alive?"

"Well, let's see." He fondled her left breast, tweaking the nipple until it tightened. "Seems to be a little life left here. Over here, too."

Snickering, she wrapped her legs around him. He groaned. She jumped. "What? Have I hurt you?"

"Not exactly."

"Oh. Oh. I beg your pardon—now it's your turn. Do we ever do this together? Go ahead, do anything you'd like, I want you to."

"Well, thanks very much, that's very accommodating of you. Oh, sweetheart—I'm not laughing at you."

"You are, though. This is
new
to me, Alex."

"I know. I know." He soothed her with kisses and sweet, whispered compliments. He'd never in his wildest imaginings thought to find her so innocent; long ago he'd made an assumption that she was at least as worldly as she looked. "That's never happened to you before?" he probed gently.

"No, never."

"Not even touching yourself?"

"Not even
what
?" Her shocked mind raced. He smiled, sad as well as amused. "I'll explain later." She hoped so. "It happens to—" She stopped.

"To Ben," he finished grimly. "I'll bet it does. It happens to Ben every time and never to you. What's wrong with this picture, Sara?"

"We said we wouldn't talk about him," she reminded him unhappily. "Believe me, the last thing I want to talk about is your husband."

She stroked the harsh line between his brows with her fingertips, then kissed it until it went away. "Make love to me the other way, Alex."

"The other way?"

"You know."

"No, how?"

"You know. Using…"

"What?"

"Alex."

"What?"

Finally she saw his game—he wanted her to touch him. She smiled, a slow, seductive smile, totally new, and obliged him. His head fell back; he drew a quick breath through his teeth. How different, caressing him like this, from what it was like when Ben made her touch him. She loathed being forced to give him pleasure. She smiled down into Alex's face, watching his closed eyes, the rather tortured-looking smile stretching his lips. Stroking the thick, silky length of him excited her unbearably. "What do
you
like?" she whispered. "I'm easy," he whispered back, "I like everything."

"Indiscriminate."

"Agreeable." He hummed his deep satisfaction. "What I would like right now…"

"Yes?"

"Is to be inside you." She shut her eyes tight. "Oh, yes."

He shifted, moving over her, sweeping her body with his hands. He loved the feel of her thighs parting under his, so eager and giving. He came into her carefully, alive to every subtle shade of her response. But this time their slow joining was a deep, arousing connection that reminded Sara of nothing and had no antecedents. And for the first time, she knew how it was supposed to end. In awe, she monitored her body's glad rise toward the new and delicious goal. Gratitude distracted her; she kissed him passionately, murmuring fervent thanks. "I didn't know, I didn't know. Oh,
Alex
."

"What, love?"

"That it could
be
like this." The tightness of it erased all the shame from an act that for years she'd found lifeless and degrading. "I love you, love you, love you," she chanted, while tears welled in her eyes, blurring his face.

He filled his hands with her hair, let it fan out across the pillow. "Golden Sara," he named her, stopping the tear that slid down her temple with his tongue. It had never been like this for him, either. The distinction between loving and lovemaking had always seemed irrelevant. Now it was nonexistent, and he was connected at last to his deepest feelings; he was home.

Their clasped hands tightened; desire drove them up higher until their kisses became artless afterthoughts and every sense narrowed and focused on the extreme objective just out of reach. He thought fleetingly of holding back, of deepening her pleasure by delaying it, but such cunning was beyond him now. Her body trembled on the edge. When she gasped into the air over his shoulder, "Shall I wait for you?" he had the full measure of her innocence. He smothered a gusty, euphoric laugh in her hair. "No, dear, don't wait," he advised kindly, groaning. "You never want to wait." They kissed for the last time, and then the storm broke. Sara felt her body shatter into slivers of bright light and disappear. She might have been frightened, but her lover was with her this time in the weightless black void, sharing her intense pleasure. When it subsided, when their bodies finally reformed and rested against each other in exhaustion and gratefulness, they found that the light had moved into their hearts. For good or ill, no matter what came next, they knew it would never go out.

"What are you doing in there? I thought you were supposed to be my helper." Alex pushed corned beef hash, fresh from the can, to the side of the black iron skillet and cracked four eggs into the empty space. "Want more coffee?"

No answer.

He picked up the pot and carried it across the kitchen to the room he used as a studio. In the doorway, he had to stop. Sara Cochrane, millionaire fashion plate, was leaning over his lamplit drafting board in nothing but his shirt. It was a sight he had never allowed himself even to dream of "Pretty lady," he said softly. She looked up and smiled. Her hair, down and loose around her shoulders, looked like spun gold in the lamp's glow. She had long, beautiful legs, and he'd meant every word about her elegant English feet. She was cupping her coffee mug in both hands, the long sleeves of his shirt pushed up past her elbows. "What's got you so enthralled?" he wondered. "The framing plans for Ben's solarium? Section elevations for the Roman bath?"

"No. This."

Moving to her, he saw with surprise the sketch she'd found, probably at the bottom of his stack of drawings.

"If you hadn't been an architect, you could've been an artist.
Alex
, this is beautiful."

He poured coffee into her cup, then set the pot down on the drafting table. "Thanks."

"Do you always do a watercolor drawing of the houses you design?"

"No, not always. Only when color is important."

"This
is
a house, isn't it?" she asked, suddenly unsure.

He chuckled. "I like to think so."

"Yes, of course, but—I've never seen anything like it."

"What do you think of it?" he asked, with great casualness, sliding two fingers up and down either side of her spine. "That bad?" he prodded when she hesitated.

"Oh no, I think it's—magnificent. It's made of wood, isn't it?"

"Redwood. And this is stucco."

She stared at the sketch, drawn first to the warmth of the colors—ochre and chocolate and rich umber browns—and then to the rash, exuberant design. "I've never seen anything like it," she said again. "There's so much glass—how light it must be inside. The colors are amber and—I can't even describe it. So beautiful. Are these tiles?"

"Colored stones."

"And these on the sides, they're so—" She had no words again to describe the clean, whimsical, trellis-like structures on either end of the house that seemed to be functional as well as decorative. "Imagine living here," she said wonderingly. "Who is it for, Alex?"

He pulled a long lock of her hair away from her ear so that he could kiss her. "No one. It was just an exercise."

"Oh." She felt oddly disappointed. "I can't imagine it in New York. At least not in the city."

"No. If I built it anywhere, I'd build it in California."

"Would you? Would you like to live there again?"

He shrugged, and dropped his hand. "New York is my home now. Come on, let's eat—I thought you said you were starving." They ate dinner in bed. "Alex, this is wonderful. How do you keep the eggs from breaking? You're a much better cook than I am," she said sincerely.