Makin' Whoopee (12 page)

She shook her head in frantic denial, trying to avoid the knowing look in his eyes.

"Dammit, Sara. You've got to stop running. You've got to admit that you wanted this to happen that night at the lodge. You wanted me to take the decision away from you and make love to you right then. It was another way of denying your own sexuality. That's what the dreams are all about." He exhaled slowly, carefully. "You're a very sexy woman, but you refuse to admit it. You've put everything you have— every emotion, every desire—into the business. And you've been bursting with urges that only come out in your dreams."

"That's not true," she whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, it's true. I've seen you do it for years. And I could accept it when you were only denying yourself. I figured it was your life, and you could do what you wanted with it. But now I know you've been denying me as well." His voice was almost weary, his eyes sad as he stared down at her. "It won't work anymore, Sara. You know me well enough to know repression's not my style. I won't let you make the sacrifice for me."

Lowering his head, he touched his lips to hers. Sara held herself stiff. She couldn't let this happen. She tried to back away from him, but he moved with her, his lips still warm on hers.

"No," she whispered as her back met the wall. "No, Charlie. You've got to stop."

He raised his head, keeping his mouth a hair's breadth away, so that she felt his warm breath when he said, "Is that what you want, Sara? I'm not touching you now. Just tell me that's what you really want. Tell me you don't want me. I want to hear the words. Just say, 'Charlie, I don't want you to make love to me,' and I'll stop."

She parted her lips to tell him. Simple words. / don't want you to make love to me. They should have been easy to say, but somehow they wouldn't come. Her eyelids drifted down as her own silence defeated her.

She felt his hands on her face, pulling her head up. "Don't look like that," he said, his voice pleading. "Don't you see? You haven't lost. We've both won. You've been letting me know parts of you—part of your mind, part of your body. But I can't make do with bits and pieces, and neither can you. I want it all, Sara. I want to see it all, touch it all, taste it all, know it all. Everything that's in your mind and body. But the kicker is, I have to give that much in exchange." He paused. "Look at me, Sara."

Slowly she opened her eyes, and the look in his own eyes shocked her.

"I want everything that's been accumulating all these years," he said hoarsely. "You're an explosion waiting to happen, and I want to be rocked by that explosion. I want to be consumed by it. But you're going to have to say it, Sara."

She was shaking all over. Her face was flushed, her eyes dazed. His words sparked sensations that rocked her to her very foundations. She was in the grip of something stronger and more powerful than she had ever experienced before.

Swallowing hard, she whispered, "Please make love to me, Charlie."

His head dropped back and a rough sound came from deep in his throat. He pulled her into his arms, and now she could feel that he was shaking too. "Sara . . . Sara . . ."He groaned, pressing his face to her neck.

Wide-eyed with wonder, she felt an inexplicable need to comfort him. Slowly she raised her hand to his head, holding him against her.

He laughed in tremulous triumph. "This is the second step," he murmured huskily. "It's been a long time coming, but we're finally here, kid. We may have a long, rough way to go, but right now I'll make do with the second step. By God, I'll make do."

This time his lips weren't gentle. They bruised her with their hunger. And she moved fiercely into the pain. Clasping his neck, she pushed her body against his, needing more of him.

"Easy, Love," he whispered. "We're going to take it slow. This won't be a five-minute encounter you can wipe out of your mind. I don't want you ever to forget tonight. I want it to be burned into your mind." Holding her close, he turned out the lamp. "Tonight will be a part of you, something you'll never be able to run from."

He led her to the fireplace and placed his hands on her hips, pressing down until they were both on their knees facing each other. He brushed his hand across her cheek. "We're going to take up where we left off two years ago. You're not the only one who has had dreams. The night that we decided to become partners has come back to haunt me a thousand times. Tonight we'll be partners, friends . . . and lovers. And you'll see that, for us, all these are right."

He untied her robe, then slowly pushed it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor around her. Then he moved back. There was not a word, not a touch, as he gazed at her. She could feel the air around her swelling and pulsing as he stared.

"The loveliest of them all, my Sara Love," he whispered in awe.

She was mesmerized by the look on his face. Reaching out, she unbuttoned his shirt. Her trembling fingers made the job more difficult than it should have been, but at last she was able to remove it. She couldn't take her eyes off his tanned flesh, glistening and rippling in the firelight. He helped her with the rest of his clothes and at last they were equal. There was nothing between them except hyperkinetic space.

On their knees, two feet apart, they made love with their eyes, touching warm, wonderful, secret places. It was a heady sensation, a drugging, powerful experience. She felt tangled and open and wild. So often in the past she had imagined him like this, but it was more than she had ever dreamed, more achingly wonderful, more poignantly painful.

He extended his hand slowly and touched her face. Gently he ran a finger over her eyes, feeling the sharply defined bone above, stroking the softness of the lid. Then he moved to her nose, running his finger down the sloping length of it. It was more than an exploration. There was a wondrous, worshipful feel to his touch, as though each part of her brought him amazement and delight.

He lingered at her mouth, outlining it again and again, his touch a mere whisper. Her lips parted on a sigh, and for a moment her tongue touched the tip of his finger. The salty taste sparked a need for more.

His hand encircled her neck, smoothing down the length of it. He explored the bone that made a shallow V below her shoulders, then dropped to her breast, taking the weight of it in his palm. When he brushed his fingertips across the taut nipple, streaks of pleasure, sharp twinges of need, attacked her down below.

With his open palm he circled her stomach. Then he slipped his hand between her thighs. So simple a gesture, but his touch brought a blinding flash of electric sensation and an equally powerful revelation— this was the way it was meant to be.

Sara felt the rightness of it, the completeness of it, as she waited in trembling silence. Her hands were tightly clenched with the need to touch him back, the need to know the places she had only dreamed of.

Looking up, she met his eyes and knew it was her turn. But she didn't have the strength to be slow and deliberate, as he had been. She wanted to feel the hard length of his body beneath her hands. Digging her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and his arms, she tried to convince herself this wasn't merely a dream that would end in frustration. This was Charlie, and he was real.

"I won't wake up this time," she whispered through parched lips as she ran her hands over his clearly defined abdominal muscles and down to the triangle of coarse, curling hair.

"No, not this time," he said. The words were almost a groan as she caressed the length of his heated masculinity.

With taut, urgent movements, he eased her back onto the rug and lay full length beside her. With his tongue he slowly outlined her lips, finding the same sensitive areas his finger had moments before. She captured his tongue between her lips, sucking it deep within her mouth, feeling and reveling in the urgent sound he made in response.

He tasted her lips, her nipples, her belly, arousing sensations that overwhelmed mere thought, mere emotion. He held life itself in his hands, and he was joyously letting her share it with him.

When his hand slid to the place between her thighs and he felt the heated dampness there, she could sense his triumph, his deep pleasure. His fingers made small circling motions that drove her crazy. She pushed against him, aware somewhere in the back of her mind that this was where the dream always ended. But Charlie didn't stop. He kept teasing the aching, tumescent peak until she cried out.

And at last they came together. It was more beautiful than she ever would have believed possible. And totally natural. This was where she belonged. He had promised that this night would be a part of her, but she hadn't known that he had meant it would be a part of her very soul.

As deep, aching need took over, all thought stopped. She met each thrust eagerly, as though she were greeting her long-awaited, long-imagined fate. The urgency of his fingers biting into her scalp as he grasped her head, the intensity of his harshly molded features, told her that his desire was as great and as powerful as her own.

They battled together to capture the elusive treasure, becoming one entity in the quest. And when they at last found fulfillment, Sara's cry was filled with at least as much wonder as joy. She rode wave after wave of luxurious, electric pleasure, then drifted down to peace and contentment in Charlie's arms.

As Sara came slowly awake the dominant feeling was warmth, warmth that reached every part of her. She lay still in the bed for a long time with her eyes closed as she absorbed the feeling. It was the kind of cozy warmth she felt in the winter when the room was frosty and inhospitable, but she was safe and comfortable under a down comforter. It was a deep, abiding warmth.

The comfortable feeling disappeared abruptly when she felt a slight breath of air on her lips. Blinking rapidly, she tried to focus, but there was a face so close to hers, their noses were almost touching.

Charlie, she thought weakly as she felt the shock of his presence ripple through her. She stared at him intently, examining the man who had made such a difference in her interpretation of herself. And all in a single night. Never could she have imagined such a change. She felt almost. . . almost real.

Immediately she was shocked by the thought.
What a strange idea
, she thought in bewilderment.
Where on earth did something like that come from? Was she really so unsure of her own identity? Did he know?
she wondered, searching his blue eyes. Could he tell simply by looking at her what the night had done for her?

He couldn't know, she told herself as an unreasonable tension gripped her. She couldn't let anyone know what was inside her—her insecurities, her inadequacies. It would be too painful. Still without speaking, she rolled onto her stomach, needing time—time to recall the night before, time to consider the implications.

Moments later she felt his lips on the back of her neck, then on the spot where her shoulder and neck were joined. Charlie wasn't going to allow her time. Tensing, she shrugged in a slight movement of protest.

Nothing so insubstantial as a shrug was going to stop Charlie, though. His lips slid to the small of her back, lingering on that ticklish, sensitive area, causing her buttocks to tighten in response. Feeling her instant reaction, he smoothed both hands over her derriere, his fingers seeming to revel in the feel of the rounded flesh as he quoted a passage she recognized from Lady Chatterley's Lover, a passage that should have shocked her sensibilities but didn't. The words, spoken in such a hushed and gentle way, sounded incredibly erotic.

When she felt his warm mouth on her back all her resistance melted. All her doubts were shoved aside to make room for the wonderful feeling. She sighed, feeling her taut muscles relax as she reveled in his touch.

Rolling her over, he smiled down at her. "Good morning, Sara."

"Good morning, Charlie."

He cupped one breast, his thumb rubbing back and forth across the nipple as he kept his gaze on her face. "You"—now he had the nipple between his thumb and forefinger—"slept well?" he asked, his voice politely bland.

"Yes, thank you," she replied in the same even tone. "And you?"

He sighed dramatically. "Remember the story of the princess and the pea? She tossed and turned all night because there was a lump in her bed."

She raised one slender brow in inquiry. "There was a lump in your bed?"

"Lumps and bumps and curves and an occasional elbow in the eye," he said seriously, then grinned. "But I must not be a true prince . . . because I can't remember ever having a better night."

Linking her hands behind his neck, she said, "I always knew you were an imposter."

"You did, huh?" He moved against her. "And it didn't put you right off me?"

She smiled a slow, teasing smile. "Princes are for fairy tales; imposters are for—"

She broke off abruptly when the door of her bedroom was shoved open. Scrambling to pull the cover tightly under her chin, she watched Irma walk to the window and pull the drapes open with brisk, noisy movements.

"You're both late," the older woman said, glancing toward the bed. "Your breakfast is on the table. Come and get it before I throw it to the pigs." Then she walked out as suddenly as she had walked in.

Sara buried her face in Charlie's shoulder to muffle the sound of her semihysterical giggles. Charlie's laughter was low and soft in her ears.