Every Whispered Word (18 page)

Something within her was reaching out to him, he could feel it as surely as he could feel the silky breeze she had described brushing against his skin, the scent of exotic flowers drifting around him, the awesome quiet of the African night. He leaned toward her, closing the space between them, feeling as if he were losing his mind, and incredibly, not caring.

Just one kiss, he told himself fervently, holding her fast with his gaze as he dipped his mouth down to hers. She held herself perfectly still, not opening her lips to him, but not backing away from him either. Her breath fluttered softly upon the roughness of his cheek, as warm and gentle as the ocean breeze of which she spoke, and the scent of sunshine and meadows flooded his senses, until he no longer knew whether it was night or day, London or Africa. She sighed then, her lips parting ever so slightly, an invitation that Simon found heartbreakingly shy and inexperienced and beautiful. She was not his; he understood this completely as he drew his tongue along the brandy-sweet line of her velvety lips, slowly, gently, swearing that he would stop in another moment.

Just one kiss. Just one, and he would be satisfied. Then he would send her on her way, across the ocean to Africa, where she could have the freedom and the life she so desperately craved, with its mysterious relics and wild animals and oceans filled with dancing stars.

Camelia stood frozen, achingly aware of the warm caress of Simon's tongue against her lips, the soft roughness of his skin against her cheek, the potent promise of his hard body standing just beyond hers. Heat pulsed through her, hot and urgent, which was nothing like the horrified panic she had felt when Elliott had kissed her earlier that night. Instead she felt tense and strange and liquid, as if her body had suddenly been awakened from a deep slumber and now was flaming with need. She stood utterly still, her nerves taut with anticipation, her entire body flushed with a new and restless desire. This was what it was to want a man, she realized, confused and awed and overwhelmed by the intense sensations pounding through her.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, Simon began to move away from her, breaking the searing touch of his mouth against hers, leaving her lost and alone.

A throaty plea escaped her as she reached up and pulled him down to her once more, pressing her lips hard against his. She opened herself to him, her tongue tentatively slipping into the dark, brandy-sweet mystery of his mouth. The quilt slipped from her shoulders and pooled onto the floor, leaving her in only the filmy veil of her nightgown. She moved closer to his warmth as she kissed him, desperate to feel his heat and the granite hardness of his body against her as she inexpertly twined her tongue with his, wanting only to be closer, and closer yet, until there was nothing between them but this magnificent, extraordinary longing.

A hollow ache bloomed inside her, tender and painful and frightening, opening the door to a fragile longing she had sometimes sensed but not really understood. But as she stood with her arms wrapped tightly around Simon's powerful shoulders, the only thing that mattered was that he not stop holding her, or touching her, or kissing her. Something had changed within her, and although she did not understand it, she knew with absolute certainty that she did not want it to stop.

Simon tightened his hold upon her, the last vestiges of his reason vainly protesting that this was wrong, that he should not touch her, that he had no right to put his hands and mouth upon her this way. But his body was afire with the most glorious need he had ever known, and he could not seem to summon enough rational thought to properly analyze just exactly why he shouldn't be probing the pink heat of Camelia's exquisite mouth with his tongue, or roaming his hands across the soft curves of her shoulders and waist and hips. She moaned and moved closer, until the lushness of her thighs was caressing his hardness.

He groaned and cupped his hands beneath her bottom as he pressed against her, his mind lost to the citrus-sweet scent of her, the tangy hot slickness of her mouth, the incredible sensation of her lean softness shifting eagerly against him. He was not a man given to passionate desires, yet in that moment he was so full of need he didn't think he could bear it. Nothing mattered except that Camelia wanted him, he could feel it in the desperation of her touch, could taste it in the sweet ardor of her kiss, could hear it in the bewitching little pleas that were escaping from her throat.

And he wanted her, with an intensity that was illogical and unthinkable and wholly, utterly unstoppable.

And so he devoured her with his mouth as he lifted her into his arms, cradling her against him with fierce possessiveness. He kicked the door to his study closed, then lowered her onto the small sofa that rested against the wall. He pulled his mouth from hers to rain hungry kisses upon her sun-bronzed cheek, along the elegant curve of her jaw, down the wildly pulsing hollow at the base of her throat. The translucent layers of her nightgown melted away as he kissed lower, until his lips were moving across the pale silk of her magnificent breasts. He drew his tongue over one coral-tipped peak, then closed his mouth over it and suckled long and hard, rousing the firm, dark berry to life. He released his hold upon it and moved to lavish equal attention to the other breast, licking and suckling and kissing while his hands moved restlessly across the curves and planes of Camelia's beautiful body.

Camelia closed her eyes and threaded her fingers into the tangled red-gold waves of Simon's hair, wantonly holding him at her breast as he caressed it with his mouth. Her nightgown had slipped down to her waist and was cascading off the sofa and onto the floor, leaving her bare skin exposed to the warm night air. Somewhere in the farthest recesses of her mind she was vaguely aware that it was wrong to let Simon kiss her and touch her so, but she could not piece together why that should be. After all, she was not some blushing young girl who was being kept sheltered and pure by protective parents in anticipation of a handsome marriage contract.

She was an independent, grown woman of twenty-eight, who had long ago abandoned any childish notions of romantic marriage. From the time she was ten Africa had been her home, and the life her father had given her did not allow for a husband who would expect her to exist only to accommodate his needs. This realization had granted her an extraordinary amount of freedom, but it had also meant moments of staggering loneliness, especially since her father's death.

She pushed the thought away as she focused on the sensation of Simon nestling his face in the valley between her breasts, then showering kisses along the lean plane of her belly, gradually easing her nightgown further down her body. Down and down he moved, the roughness of his jaw grazing lightly against her hot skin, his breath warm and reassuring as it gusted softly against the dip of her navel, the rise of her hip, the creamy velvet of her thigh. Gradually her gown fell away and his breath was teasing the silky, aching triangle between her legs. She held herself very still, suddenly unsure, but before she could protest he kissed her there, gently, reverently, his hands caressing her as he moved a little lower. Then the tip of his tongue slipped inside her, sending a surge of pure hot pleasure slicing through her.

She gasped in shock and stiffened, thinking she should push him away, but he anticipated her sudden modesty and grasped her wrists, gently holding them at her sides as he continued to lap at the dark hot pool he had discovered. Up and down he licked, flicking his tongue along the slick pink folds of her, tasting her and teasing her until her bones began to liquefy and her flesh was on fire. Pleasure sluiced over her, dark and shocking and intense, rinsing away all thought of modesty or control. She could have stopped him if she wanted to, she understood that completely, and somehow the bewildering realization that she didn't really want to eradicated the last fragments of her tattered reticence.

She sighed and sank deeper into the sofa, feeling the warmth of Africa wash over her even though the night was cool, and the open air of the plains surround her, even though she was in a small London town house. Pleasure was pulsing through her now, but with it came a kind of restlessness she couldn't understand. She began to shift and turn beneath Simon's tender assault, overwhelmed and yet vaguely dissatisfied as her flesh started to strain and stretch and reach for something more. She opened her thighs wider to him, inviting him to taste her more deeply, not caring anymore whether he thought her wild or wanton. He growled and sucked hard upon her, laying claim to the most intimate secrets of her body, and then he slipped his finger inside her and began to thrust, slowly at first, then faster, filling her and emptying her as his tongue and mouth swirled over her.

Her breath began to come in shallow little puffs, her breasts rising and falling as she tried desperately to fill her lungs, but somehow there wasn't enough air, and her body grew tense as she strained to fill the terrible emptiness now mounting within her. Never had she known such wanting, but she had no idea what more it was she wanted. Simon continued to ravish her with his mouth and hands and fingers, devouring her as his fingers slipped in and out of her, urging her to keep reaching and reaching for whatever it was he was trying to give to her. She shifted and arched beneath him, feeling feverish and liquid and strange, and her breath continued to come in desperate little sips, which sounded like pleas upon the quiet night air.

Please, please, please,
she implored silently, having no idea what it was she was pleading for, except that he not stop, not move away, not leave her when she needed him so desperately. Farther and deeper she reached, enduring his excruciatingly glorious assault upon her, the scalding caress of his mouth and hands as he touched her and tasted her and made her his own. She was losing herself to him, losing herself to the dark passion he was showing her, but if that was wrong then it was already far too late. Farther and farther she reached, deep into herself and beyond, until she thought she couldn't bear it anymore, and yet she did bear it, and more and more, until finally she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think. And then suddenly she froze, her entire being focused on an exquisite explosion of pleasure and joy. She cried out, a shallow, desperate cry, and Simon held her fast as ripples of ecstasy pulsed through her, freeing her from every constriction she had ever known, until there was nothing except Simon and her and the unbearable passion between them.

Simon held Camelia a moment, drinking in the velvety heat and scent of her, his heart pounding so hard he was certain a rib would crack. And then he rose and quickly shed his scuffed boots, his badly wrinkled trousers and creased shirt, until he stood naked before her, his skin bronzed by the spill of lamplight. She stared at him, her celadon eyes smoky with fascination, but he did not detect a trace of surprise or fear. No, Camelia had spent most of her life within the wilds of Africa, where she had doubtless seen hundreds of naked or near-naked men going about their lives with proud indifference to the dictates of Victorian modesty. Her unwavering gaze only added to the desire already roiling through him. Whatever doubt or hesitation he might have harbored about his need for her had disintegrated against the brilliance of her raw, honest passion. She wanted him with as much intensity as he wanted her.

Beyond that, there was nothing.

And so he stretched over her, covering her with the hard heat of his body, every fiber of his being on fire as he fought to keep himself from just burying himself inside her. Camelia sighed and wrapped her arms around him, welcoming him, enveloping him in her softness and her warmth, the honeyed dampness between her thighs grazing against him with tantalizing promise. He clenched his jaw, fighting for some semblance of control, trying to grasp at least enough steadiness of thought to permit him to go slowly with her.

She was the most magnificent woman he had ever known, not just because of her beauty, but because of the relentless determination that burned so brightly within her. There was a wildness to Camelia he found exquisite, a spirit that was exotic and bewildering and wonderful. She didn't belong in London, he understood that completely, but the thought of letting her go back to her beloved Africa and away from him was suddenly unthinkable. She wasn't his, and the realization made him feel hollow. He eased himself into her, slowly, gently, holding her tight within his embrace as he stared down at her, lost to the glittering depths of those magnificent sage-colored eyes.

Stay with me,
he pleaded silently, knowing that it could never be, that Camelia would never permit herself to be bound or caged by anyone.
And I will keep you safe,
he vowed fervently, pressing deeper within her, thinking perhaps he could make her understand what he could never express in words. But safety was not what she sought, she had made that abundantly clear by her refusal to give up her excavation of the site she so cherished, despite the fact that there was grave danger in doing so. She sighed and began to shift restlessly beneath him, sensing that he was not giving himself to her completely. He held himself perfectly still. He was losing himself to her, he could see that now, he who had for years lived by the principle of reason over passion. He was losing himself to her and there wasn't a thing he could do to stop it, for she had already seeped into his flesh and his heart and his soul.

He withdrew a little, fighting to regain some shred of willpower, some semblance of control that would enable him to at least steel his emotions, if that was still possible. And then she wrapped her arms tightly around him and lifted her hips, stripping away the last remnants of his restraint as she sheathed him within her exquisite heat. Simon groaned, in ecstasy and despair, and buried himself as far into her as he could, kissing her deeply as he bound her to him, if only for a moment.

Camelia froze, startled by the sharp stab of pain that suddenly gripped her.

“Easy, love,” Simon murmured, fighting to hold himself utterly, excruciatingly still. “Hold on to me a moment and the pain will pass.”