Escape From Reality (9 page)

He pulled her
breast into his mouth, sucking hard, almost greedily. Leila felt his body
moving in time with hers, the hip resting against hers pressing against her as
she rose.

His hand moved
to her other breast, pulling back the gown, fondling her briefly before he
moved to suck that breast.

Leila’s body
was suffused with a liquid heat, coursing through her, pooling deep inside her.
Her fingers found their way back to his hair, winding through the thick
strands.

Finally he
looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers. He sat up, took her hands, and pulled
her upright.

“This comes
off.” His voice was rough with passion and he tugged impatiently on the gown. Leila
rose to her knees and he helped her slide the gown over her head. Before she
could lie back, he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face between her
breasts, turning his head, kissing her softly. He held her and she held his
head gently to her body.

After a moment,
he let her go and she sat back, hands reaching for his shirt. He watched her in
the dim light as she undid the buttons with trembling fingers. As she reached
the last button, her hand brushed across his lap, across the bulge of his
erection. Leila hesitated, resting her hand on him, feeling the heat and
hardness his jeans concealed. He drew in a sharp breath, grabbing her hand.

“Lie back.” He
stood, removing his shirt, dropping it to the floor as she lay back on the
sheets.

His eyes never
left hers as he undid the button and zipper on his jeans. Leila tried to hold
his gaze, but her eyes slid over his chest, past the flat stomach and taut
navel, then lower as he began tugging his jeans over his narrow hips. This was
exactly what she’d described in her assignment, every detail—almost every
detail. He was perfect.

As his jeans
slid lower, the dark line of hair she’d written about appeared, the line that
extended below his navel, growing thicker as he lowered his jeans. Leila’s
breathing was shallow and fast, practically panting, eyes widening in
anticipation. He tugged the jeans a fraction of an inch lower and Leila’s
breath stopped. Slowly, he leaned over Leila, rested a hand beside her, and
blew out the candle.

For a fraction
of an instant, there was silence and then Leila cried out in frustration. He
laughed from somewhere nearby, and she heard the sound of his jeans hitting the
floor. The mattress dipped with his weight and she felt the heat of his body a
moment before his hand slid across her stomach. He leaned close and she drew in
his scent, rich and spicy, deeply masculine.

There was no
moonlight, and for an instant Leila cursed the darkness. But the hand on her
stomach moved lower and she forgot about what he looked like, only able to
focus on where his hand was going.

Fingers slid
between her legs as his mouth found hers. He claimed her again with a powerful
kiss, and she instinctively wound her arms around his neck, holding him close.
Her legs moved on their own accord, hips rising, thighs falling open at his
touch.

And then his
touch moved lower, further, feather-light strokes deepening as his kiss
deepened, fingers probing deeper as his tongue took possession of her mouth.
Her moans were muffled against his lips, his throaty growl against hers.

He shifted his
weight, one long leg moving over the top of hers. His hip pressed against her
body and she felt his erection, hard and hot, rubbing against her skin. But
that wasn’t enough contact. She craved more, much more. Wiggling beneath him,
she pulled and guided him until he rested between her legs, his hips pinning
her to the mattress.

Lifting his
head, he broke their kiss. She felt his breath against her cheek, his open
mouth brushing against her neck. He shifted his weight again and she drew her
legs up his body, over the hard muscles of his thighs.

He brushed
against her, hotter than she could have imagined, and his hips shifted
slightly, the muscles of his thighs tensing beneath her legs as he braced
himself. Leila moved her legs further up his body, bringing her hips up to meet
him, opening herself to him.

There was a
long moment where he held himself, poised, just touching her, moving slowly,
lightly, teasing her with a hint of what was to come. She bit her lip, aching
to feel him inside her, the anticipation almost overwhelming. With one
movement, she knew, he’d be there, filling her completely, totally. All she
needed to do was wait. Waiting was agony, but a delicious agony nonetheless.

He lifted his
head and she wished for light, to see the look on his face, the passion in his
eyes, the passion that matched what raced through her own body. His hips flexed
as he pulled back slowly, just a little, enough to let her know he was ready.
And she was more than ready for him.

Then he was
there, thrusting into her, slowly, seemingly forever. Leila let out a long, low
moan as he drove himself forward, her hips rolling upward, her body accepting
everything he had to give her.

Finally he
stopped, exhaling against her neck, holding himself inside her for a moment.
Raising his head, he braced his forearms on either side of her, his fingers
playing over her face, finally coming to rest in her hair, tangling themselves
in the long strands. His breath moved across her forehead, and then his lips
pressed against her skin.

Her hands
skated over the hot skin of his back, playing over broad shoulders, down the
ridge of his spine, lower, to the small of his back, and then up the sharp
slope of his buttocks. She dug her fingers into firm flesh and as if spurred on
by her touch, she felt the muscles beneath her hands clench, his hips driving
forward even further, as impossible as that seemed.

And then he was
moving, hard and fast, Leila matching him stroke for stroke, as if all the
anticipation and pent up longing had been released. He buried his face in her
neck, his breath rasping harshly against her skin.

Leila tipped
her head back, sounds she never realized she could make coming from her parted
lips as every thrust drove her toward some unimagined plane of pleasure. Every
inch of her body was alive like it had never been before. The core of her,
where he lay claim to her, where they were joined, felt like a molten pool.

She lost track
of time, focusing only on the movements of their bodies. At some point he slid
a hand beneath her ass, fingers digging into her flesh, lifting her, his body
flexing and twisting, as if there were some way he could consume more of her,
or she more of him.

His sounds had
deepened, moans becoming growls, growing louder, more urgent. Leila’s arms were
flung wide now, fingers twisting in the sheets, her body speeding toward what
could only be oblivion.

He drew back
from her, his chest rising from hers, and her body instantly arched upward,
taking on a life of its own as his hips drove into her at a relentless pace.
Something deep and powerful welled up inside her and she writhed beneath him,
head thrashing from side to side. The world went soundless for a moment and
then she heard herself, from a distance, then louder, clear, cry after cry as
her body shuddered and twisted in his grasp. Finally the tremors slowed and she
drew a shaky breath.

His arms were
still wrapped around her, holding her loosely, and he thrust slowly, but not as
deeply. She relaxed in his arms, letting his momentum carry her for a moment.

Gradually his
thrusts became shaper, harder, more aggressive, each one accompanied by a deep
grunt. Leila drew her legs higher along his body, wrapping them around his
waist. Her movements triggered something in him and his arms tightened around
her again, his body wrapping around hers.

With a sudden
powerful thrust, he sank himself deeply, completely, holding himself still
inside her. Every muscle in his body was taut, his arms like iron bands around
her. She held her breath, not wanting to break his concentration, waiting for
him, for what she felt certain would be his climax.

Then beneath
her hands he began to move, his hips pumping hard and fast into her, each
thrust accompanied by a noise so primal it sent a shiver through Leila’s body.
She was unprepared for the intensity of his climax, for the power of his
thrusts, the animalistic noises.

Leila was swept
up in his passion, in his release, her body responding to his, a fresh cascade
of sensations sweeping through her. She found herself answering his cries with
her own, her body alive again with ecstasy.

They held each
other for a moment, arms and legs relaxing, slowly moving apart. He rolled onto
his back next to her and she curled against him, hand on his chest as his arm
encircled her. The soft breeze from the window played across her skin, a
delicious counterpoint to the heat that spread across her body.

Leila had never
felt so complete. Not just happy, but as if for the first time, something
clicked inside, some connection had been made. It went beyond the physical
sensations in her body. Granted, he’d saved her life, but it went deeper than
that. She’d had sex before, had even had what she’d considered making love, but
there had never been this connection with those men, even men she thought she’d
been in love with. And yet this man was a stranger.

Leila was
content, drifting into sleep, her head on his shoulder. Almost asleep, she
roused herself to ask the one question she had of the man beside her.

“You never told
me your name.”

He shifted on
the bed, his arm pulling her close, lips brushing across her forehead.

“I can’t, Leila.
You haven’t given me one yet.”

* * *

Leila woke with
a start, heart racing. The room was dark, and for a moment she lay blinking,
confused.

And then it all
came back in a rush, the memory of the man in her bed, what he’d done to
her…all of it. And she smiled.

She turned,
reaching across the bed, seeking his warmth, his broad chest, already breathing
deeply, trying to catch the scent of him, of them together.

The bed was
empty, the sheet cool beneath her fingers. Sitting up, she fumbled for the
matches and managed to light the bedside candle with a shaky hand. Its yellow
glow spread across the bed.

The bed was
empty and she was alone. More than empty, the other side of the wide bed
appeared undisturbed, the second pillow full and plump, the sheet smooth.
Nothing at all like a bed where two people had made wild passionate love.

Leila sat up
and it was then she realized she was wearing the red satin nightgown. But he’d
pulled it off of her body, dropped it somewhere out of sight. She didn’t
remember getting up, pulling it back on. The last she remembered, she’d been
curled against him, her bare skin against his warm body.

She shook her
head. No, the last thing she remembered were his words, the answer to her
question.

“You haven’t
given me one yet.”

Leila lay back,
pulling up the sheet, wondering briefly if she was losing her mind, if she’d
dreamed the entire thing. She certainly felt as if she’d made love; her body was
wonderfully relaxed, her muscles humming slightly as if she’d done something
strenuous but wholly enjoyable. And there was no mistaking the residual heat
that lingered deep inside. No, she’d definitely not dreamed it.

She wondered
just how far Cheryl, or the owner of the island, was willing to go to carry out
this…whatever this was. Or if the man who apparently was so diligently playing
a part really was that good, to so totally inhabit the role of her hero down to
not having a name and being able to make love to her so thoroughly before simply
walking away.

After a long
time, she leaned over and blew out the candle. For much longer, she lay in the
dark, listening, hoping for the sound of her door opening again, the footfall
on the stone that meant he was back.

Chapter
Six

Leila woke
slowly, sunlight flooding her room. The bed was as she’d discovered it during
the night, the second pillow still full, undented by her lover’s head, the
sheet unwrinkled by her clutching hands. She sighed, climbing out of bed. At
least she’d have Cheryl’s critique to look forward to. Maybe she’d mention to Cheryl
that the intense workshop was getting a little too intense, especially if the
actor they had hired had decided to recreate the love scene from her novel.

Leila opened
the door to the hall. A single sheet lay on the silver tray and she picked it
up, retreating to the bed to read it. But all it contained was a single
sentence in Cheryl’s impeccable handwriting.

“Meet me for
coffee.”

Setting the
paper aside, Leila climbed back out of bed, shedding her nightgown and walking
slowly to the bathroom. Her shower was brief, disappointment clouding her mind.
Cheryl’s critique must be so bad she didn’t want to devastate Leila by writing
it down.

Leila pulled
the first dress out of the wardrobe that wasn’t sequined or to the floor, a
pale blue linen sundress, with a row of buttons running down the front. The
seemingly bottomless lingerie drawer provided a beautiful set of cream satin
bra and panties, each outlined with delicate embroidered flowers.