Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan (24 page)

It was just the catalyst she needed.  Pressing her lips together to stifle the moan of pleasure, she shuddered into a blinding orgasm, unaware of Mack's arms holding her up as he maintained the rhythm for another couple of thrusts, only barely registering the last jarring impact as the finale to his rut.

Blood pounded inside her brain, but above that she heard Xavion's voice.  "Stop?"  

"Yes," she panted, "Stop."

Mack released her and she crumpled onto the ferns, her limbs boneless.  There was a murmur of voices, then she felt hands turning her, cradling her against a chest.  Xavion's chest.  Panting and weak, she relaxed into the warm wall of muscle that flexed as he lifted her and began walking.

Gradually the rocking motion lulled her and her breathing became more even.  The damp-earth smell faded, replaced by sunshine and the sea. 

                                        
Chapter Fourteen

Dee opened her eyes to find Christophe seated on the edge of her sleeping platform.  He was watching her, and looked as though he had been for hours. 

"What time is it?" she asked softly, not moving, wondering how much of the day she'd missed.  Her stomach felt empty.

"Nearly light."

There was a second of silence. 

"Light?" she repeated dumbly.  "What light?  Daylight?"

"Yes.  Dawn.  Sunrise," he said, as though he wasn't sure she was quite awake.

"But how can it be morning?"  She frowned.  "It was morning when I - "  Christophe's gaze shifted away from her suddenly. "...when I fell asleep," she finished awkwardly. 

Mack. 

There was another silence as she remembered what she'd allowed - what she'd wallowed in - and was surprised.  Pain and degradation.  She'd had no idea they could be so... satisfying. 

Christophe, of course, would never understand.  He was too young, too innocent.

Still looking away, he said, "You have slept a full day."

That jump-started her brain.

"
A day
?"  She sat up and the fur coverlet fell away from her.  "But how?"  She couldn't have slept for twenty-four hours.  She'd never done it in her life.  "Christophe?" 

His eyes met hers for a second before they skidded away to her shoulder, then slowly, fearfully, down towards the breasts that were now exposed.  She followed his gaze and winced at the cut.  Her nipples were red, but not as painful as she would have expected. 

She looked back at Christophe, and found his doe eyes exploring her upper body.  The fire had bathed her in its glow but she was too far away to feel its warmth.  Cool pre-dawn air stole over her and her nipples hardened, aching.  Christophe was mesmerised. 

She, in turn watched him, thinking.  Then she asked, "Was I drugged?  Is that why I slept so long?"

"Yes," he whispered, watching the rise and fall of her chest.

"And you tended me?"

"Yes."  His breathing was becoming deeper, slower.  His voice huskier.

Dee could smell eucalyptus.  Christophe must have applied a salve to the cut on her chest and her tender nipples.  Had he touched her elsewhere while he'd had the opportunity? 

She smiled at the thought, imagining her body in sleep, warm, pliant, moving only with her breaths.  She imagined Christophe's tentative hand sliding under the hide, its soft fur caressing the back of those slender fingers as they explored her ribs, the slight mound of her belly, then lower to her own downy pelt.  Had he touched her there?  Had he fearfully taken the only opportunity he thought he'd be allowed? 

Dee wanted to open her legs to him now, wanted to let him have total access to her body to see, touch, taste what he wanted.  And she wanted to taste him again.  Wanted that achingly sweet kiss. 

Would it be allowed?  "Am I yours today, Christophe?"

His attention never wavered from her breasts.  "Pietre hasn't decided yet."  

Pietre
?  "Who?"

Christophe stared for a moment longer, then his gaze flew to hers in confusion.  "I mean... Peter.  He hasn't...  We haven't..."

"Heard yet," she finished for him, seeing fear invade his eyes, feeling it give her a kick.  Power.  She forgot her promise to Xavion and asked, "So, how does he tell you?  Does he come here himself or is there some kind of radio set-up?"

Christophe slipped off the platform and started backing away.  "I have duties and- "

"I want it to be you, Christophe."

That stopped him. 

"I want you and I to make love.  Here.  Now."  Dee slid off the platform and stood naked before him.  The adrenalin was pumping.  She wanted Christophe.  To hell with Pietre and his games. 

"Xavion - "

"Isn't here."  She looked around, then advanced on him slowly.  "There's no-one here but us.  We can do what we want."

"I can't."  He was backing up again, shaking his head, but his eyes were all over her body.

"Then I'll have to take you by force."

His startled gaze met hers a second before his back connected with the wall, and she was right there with him, her hands on his chest, her body not quite touching his, their breaths mingling, lips close.  She had him, exactly as she had the first time.  Only now she was going to finish it. 

"I must obey Peter," he whispered, but it was a last ditch effort.  His eyes were closing, his lips parting for the kiss they both knew she would take. 

She wanted to crush him against the wall, to plundering his mouth and ravage the malleable body beneath her hands, to
have
him. 

But she didn't.

Her hands paused on their journey to his hair, and tremblingly explored the fine bones of his shoulders.  "I won't be rough with you, Christophe," she promised them both. 

"Please, don't talk about..."

Her fingers tightened before she could stop them.  "Mack?" 

"Yes." 

She felt him shudder and tried to imagine how his desire must be conflicting with horror at what she'd done.  She could scarcely believe it herself, but then, that had been another Wendee.  Not the gentle, patient Wendee that was intent on seducing Christophe.

Her fingers relaxed and she took a deep breath, filling her senses with the mysterious scent he exuded, his breath, his skin, his hair - the essence of Christophe that was so unlike any other male she'd ever met.  It was a boy-smell, fresh and warm, yet with the distinctive undertone of arousal.  Infinitely aphrodisiac. 

She might look into those vulnerable eyes and think she could resist him, but not if he was close enough to scent.

"I can't think of another man when I'm with you, Christophe," she told him honestly.  "You're so beautiful, so graceful."  She admired the muscles of his arms, tracing them down to his slender wrists and trembling fingers.  "There will be nothing crude between us.  It will be like a dance," she whispered, feeling the tenderness flowing from her fingertips. 

He made a noise like a strangled sob, but her hands were sliding up into his hair, tilting his unresisting head down to meet hers.  "A beautiful, erotic ballet," she promised, and took his lips, tasting again the trembling innocence that had so captivated her the first time, luring her to forget her desire for his body and simply drown in the sweetness of his kiss - the way she had to tease his tongue out, drawing it into her mouth where his moan of desire vibrated against their lips.

It was so tenuous, so exquisite that time began to lose its meaning.  Again she imagined herself kissing him for hours, the pleasure building inside her like the voluptuously furry petals of an unopened orchid rubbing against each other as they waited to burst open and fill the air with their heady perfume.

It was enchanting, and she wallowed in its purity for an endless time.  Longer than was safe.  She'd been torn away from him the first time.  What if it happened again?  They could yet be interrupted.  Should she quicken her seduction? 

Christophe moaned softly against her lips, lost in his own world of pleasure.  He seemed perfectly content to follow her lead.  But was this all she wanted?