Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (22 page)

T
rue to his word, he bared all while she smoked the cheroot down to ashes and gaped like a ninny. She had always known he was perfection itself. She saw immediately that it was true all over. He had the strong muscular body of a Greek athlete and skin that was tanned—except in certain areas—and smoothly unblemished.

She was quite familiar with his broad, bare chest due to the long days at sea, but his thighs and buttocks and manhood were a novelty to her inquisitive gaze. “Oh, my,” she said.

“My indeed,” he said, staring back. He took her hand. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what?”

In answer, he turned, still keeping hold of her hand, and jumped off the edge of the rock into the lagoon. Isadora gasped at the cool silken shock of the water slipping over her. They went down, down, down, feet grazing the pebbled bottom and then they floated up, breaking the surface.

Isadora coughed violently, spewing out water. She flailed her arms, found Ryan and clung to him. “I remembered the other reason I shouldn’t bathe,” she said between coughs.

“And why is that?”

“I don’t know how to swim.”

He caught her against him, and she marveled at the feel of their flesh touching, sliding together, the water facilitating the movement. “Ah, Isadora. I adore-a you. Hold on to me, and I’ll show you.” Kicking out, he towed her to shallow water where her feet could touch the bottom of the lagoon. She loved the feel of the water gliding over her. In the sunlit places it was warm and buoyant; in the cooler shadows the dark eddies gave her a delicious chill. She was Eve, she was a wood nymph, she was a natural creature, never bound by the tight corset stays of convention. Here she was in this natural world with a man who looked like a god teaching her to swim. It was all a fantastic dream—the colors too bright for the mortal world, the lagoon too beautiful for ordinary humans.

“Take my hands,” he instructed her as they stood shoulder-deep in the water. “Let the current buoy you.”

The gentle downstream flow lifted her. He showed her how to flutter her feet, then held her at the waist while she moved her arms. She stood grasping a liana vine while he demonstrated a dive beneath the surface. She tried it, keeping hold of the vine but plunging in, feeling as sleek and weightless as a fish. She opened her eyes to a blurred sunlit world, then drifted upward, laughing as she broke the surface.

He swam over to her. “You
are
a quick study. I’ve never taught anyone to swim before.”

“You’re not teaching me to swim, Ryan. You are teaching me to live.” She leaned her head back, dipping in her hair, gazing up at the blue sky framed by towering branches and exotically shaped leaves. “In Boston, each day was the same. I got up, I had breakfast, I spent a few hours reading or writing correspondence. Sometimes there might be an invitation but it was always for more reading or conversation at someone else’s house.” She giggled. “It sounds so silly, yet what could be sillier than swimming naked in a lagoon in the middle of the jungle?”

She waved her hand absently in the crystalline water. “It’s not that I dislike Boston,” she said. “I think it’s more that Boston dislikes me. Society favors women who are witty, charming and amusing.”

He swam toward the cascade. “You are all of that. I never laughed so much as I do with you.”

“But you’re the only one.” She experimented with her hands. If she paddled them away from her, she drifted backward. “All the young women who are socially successful in Boston are not merely witty and charming. They’re also extremely pretty.”

“So are you,” he said.

She laughed. “Whatever it is that we smoked has made me quite drunk. But not nearly so drunk that I would believe that.” He started to speak. She held up her hand. “I am untidy and ungainly, with no sense at all of how to dress or comport myself. I have a unique gift for making others feel awkward. I—”

He dove beneath the water and surfaced in front of her, so close she could see the way the myriad droplets magnified his pores. “You are absurd. Absurdly adorable. Isa-dorable. I wish I could make love to you.”

She watched his face, his mouth, mesmerized. “I think you already are.”

“Not with mere words, love. With my hands. My mouth. My body.”

She drifted back, fascinated yet not frightened in the least. This was Ryan, after all. “You mustn’t.”

“I know that.”

She thought for a moment. “Why mustn’t you?”

“Because,” he said with excessive patience, “you must keep yourself chaste and pure.”

“Oh,” she said. “For Chad?” She hadn’t thought about him in days. At the moment she couldn’t even recall what he looked like. “Chad. What sort of name is that, anyway? It sounds like a fish or perhaps a skin condition.” She paddled on her back to the waterfall and let it beat upon her head. The water was cold; it created a delicious shiver when it mingled with the warmer water of the lagoon.

“I think you should do it anyway,” she said suddenly.

“Do what?”

“Make love to me.”

He started to laugh as if she’d made a joke. Then he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Why?”

“Because…I’ve never done it before. Like smoking the hemp leaves. It is my last day in Brazil. We are completely alone.” She swam out from under the waterfall and looked at him directly. “No one ever need know.”

He lunged through the water, pulled her toward him. She studied his wet face, his slicked-back hair, his soft blue eyes as he guided her to calmer waters. A smile lifted one side of his mouth. “No one ever need know, eh?”

“No one’s ever wanted to before, so you understand I’m curious.”

“Curious. About what I’d do when—
if
—I were to make love to you.”

“Yes.”

He grinned wickedly. “I really like your question, Isadora.” He moved back and swam in a slow, deliberate circle around her. “
If
I were going to make love to you, I would start by undressing you.”

“You’ve already done that.”

“Then I’m already making love to you.”

She felt a jolt of awareness deep in her belly. “Oh, my. Then it’s too late for honor?”

“It might be.”

“Oh, my,” she said again. “What would you do next?”

“I think perhaps I would start with your hand. You have very expressive hands so I thought I might—here—it’s easier to show you.” He grabbed her hand, held it gently in his. “I’m glad you stopped chewing your nails.” He kept his gaze on her face as he slowly lifted her hand to his lips. “If I were going to make love to you, I would do this.” He kissed one finger after the other, lavishing attention on each as if it were a sacred relic. No, a profane relic, for he was not at all reverent. He slipped a finger in his mouth and sucked at it, eliciting a gasp from her.

“Would that offend you if I did it?”

She felt light-headed, woozy from smoke and desire. “It would make me wonder what you’d do next.”

“I’d pull you against me. Like this.”

She found herself in his arms, bare breasts against bare chest, her mouth almost touching his.

“If we were actually making love,” he said, “I would hope that you wouldn’t be offended by this.”

“By what?”

He shifted his hips.

“Oh!”

“That’s merely an indication of how much I’d want you if we were making love.”

“I’m feeling—that is, I would be feeling—some indications myself,” she confessed.

“Very good. And then, of course, I’d kiss your lips. Like this.” He lowered his head.

Ah. She was lost, lost in his kiss. She had the irrational yet undeniable feeling that every moment since she’d first laid eyes on him—dissolute, with a half-dressed doxy in his lap—had been moving her toward this encounter. She felt an upsurge of dizzying emotion, and she clung to him, digging her fingers into his bare shoulders, amazed to feel the silky ripple of muscle beneath her touch.

He lifted his mouth—his warm, sweet, soft mouth—from hers and whispered, “Oh, love, yes, if indeed we were making love, you would touch me like that. And I—” he kissed her again, slowly, lavishly, writing poetry with his tongue “—I would touch you like this.”

He caressed her most private, most feminine places. Places she was forbidden even to put a name to or think about, but she thought about them now, about the trail of fire that blazed through her, unslaked by the cool water. She understood that she was addled from smoking the hemp leaves and so was he, yet she was glad. Grateful. Pleased that there was a substance that would make it all right for her to bathe naked with a naked man.

“And finally,” he whispered in her ear while his hand still did those magical things, “finally I would have to bring you onto dry land so I could finish what I started.”

“What you started…” she whispered.

His hand slid between her thighs. “I want to be where the water is.”

Oh, my.
This time she couldn’t even find her voice, could only nod a mute, fascinated assent. Hand in hand they waded to the shore and fell back on the soft heap formed by her fallen petticoats.

“I knew these things were good for something,” he said, then laughed, bracing himself on one arm to gaze at her. “Look at you, all wet and glistening.” He bent and drew his tongue in a circle around each of her nipples. And she was too shocked and thrilled even to breathe. “You’re a goddess, and if I happened to be making love to you for real, this would be a form of worship.”

All her life she had been made to understand that she was unworthy. That no one—particularly no man—could possibly want her. Yet all those lessons—beaten into her not with a hickory cane but with the far more brutal cudgel of verbal logic—suddenly flowed away on a raft of sweet words from this laughing, red-haired man.

He had declared her a goddess. She reclined in an ecstasy of amazement as his lips drank the spring water from her breasts and shoulders and belly, as his fingers, probing with exquisite tenderness, parted her thighs to explore the damp folds of her womanhood.

“Shall I go on with my explanation?”

“What…explanation?” Rather than sobering up, she was growing dizzier and more intoxicated by the moment.

“Poor Isadora. Shall I continue?”

“Please…do.”

Her breathy assent seemed to amuse him. He slid his fingers provocatively over her most sensitive spot. “The next thing I would do…”

She lifted her hips slightly, the motion far beyond the control of her will.

“…is kiss you right…here.”

“No!”

“Ah, you know your part well. For I would expect from you a slight squawk of protest at this point.”

“Protest?” Even as she spoke, her hips shifted under the delicate torture of his touch. “Of course there would be a protest. It’s unnatural.”

“What could be more natural than wanting to bring the ultimate pleasure to my goddess?”

“It’s sinful.”

“Have you seen it listed along with the seven deadly sins?”

“I don’t even know what it’s called.”

“Then surely it doesn’t exist.” He slid his mouth down her neck and along her arm, up again and then down…lower, over her belly, sipping spring water from her navel. “So you have nothing to fear.”

“We shall burn in hell.”

“Not so.” He nibbled her thigh. “We shall burn now.”

His tongue traced the curve of her hipbone. And he gave her the deepest, most tender kiss she had never dared to imagine, and she had the most extraordinary reaction. As if she had drunk a great swallow of
curaçao
…only this was sweeter. As if she had inhaled a huge breath of herbal smoke…only this was lighter. As if she had dived into a spring of perfectly clear water…only this was more buoyant.

She had never flown like a bird, but that was how it felt. She had never burst into flames, but that was how it seemed. She had never seen stars with her eyes closed, but that was how it looked.

When the shattering sensations subsided, he made a leisurely meandering path of kisses northward. She felt stunned. And curiously, achingly incomplete.

“Ryan?” Her voice was a broken whisper.

“Mm?” He suckled soothingly at her breast.

“Is…is your…explanation over?”

“That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On what you would expect from an encounter like this.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, if I were to make love to you, would you expect a fine physical release similar to the one you just experienced, or would you prefer a deeper, more spiritual joy?”

“You mean, there’s a difference?”

He chuckled, his hand cupping her hip. “Oh, love. There is.”

“I think,” she said, winding her arms around his neck, “that I need a further explanation.”

“It would take a far more serious commitment on your part. A sacrifice, you might call it.”

“What sort of sacrifice?”

“Your heart and soul. Your will. Would you give them up? And your purity—well, I suppose you could say that’s already gone. But your chastity. Technically speaking, that’s still intact. Would you give that up?”