Once Upon a Stormy Night (4 page)

Then something warm and soft caressed his collarbone.
Her lips
—followed by the stroke of her wet tongue along his skin. His breath hitched in raspy gasps as she moved farther down to flick her tongue against a nipple, which sent shards of pleasure straight to his groin. She followed the same path the electrifying current had taken, and it took all his restraint to not jump up from the bed when she closed the warm wetness over the head of his cock.

Her mouth made him think of a hot, moist den of iniquity for his pleasure-deprived senses. As she twirled her tongue and rubbed her lips against his flesh, ecstasy like he’d never known before soared forth and engulfed him. And when she closed her fingers on the base of his erection, he braced himself, moments away from shooting his load in her mouth.

He couldn’t do that; she deserved better.

Lars brought a hand up, to weave his fingers into her hair. With a soft tug, he pulled her away from him.

She released him with a soft “pop,” and glanced at him with wide eyes full of questions.

“Too close,” he groaned, before he moved onto his side to reach for the condoms in the top drawer of the bedside table.

He made quick work of opening the foil package and sheathing himself. Then he leaned toward her, clasped the soft flesh on her waist, and pulled her forward.

“You want me on top?” she asked.

“I want you any way you want to take me.” She dragged in a breath. “Come.”

She braced her palms on his chest and lowered herself onto him. Her heat, the firm, slick muscles of her sheath, drew him in inch by inch. The progression into her tight core felt like a blistering torture of gratification and a drawn-out agony of wanting to be inside her, once and for all.

Simmi had closed her eyes; intense concentration tautened her features. He released her waist when he settled in to the hilt, to trail his hands up her sides until he cradled her heavy breasts in his palms. He flicked his thumbs against her puckered nipples and started to move against her.

Long, slow, tortuous strokes, in and out of her. He enjoyed the rhythm, even though the quiet pace drove him as crazy as he hoped it did her. Her hips moved faster, but he wouldn’t allow her to increase the tempo, grasping her sides to still her movements.

After a while, he opened his eyes. She lay atop him and pressed one cheek into his shoulder.

“What’s the matter,
älskling
?”

He heard her sharp intake of breath.

“I need your arms around me.”

“You just have to say so.” He pulled her close.

“And I need to feel you.”

“How?” He pressed a kiss onto the top of her head.

“On me. In me.” She went silent. “Please.”

“Anything for you,” he said.

With her held tight, he rolled them over until she lay under him. A drop of moisture trickled down his chest. He frowned—sweat, or Simmi’s tear?

Her eyes were closed tight, and in the darkness of the bedroom, he couldn’t make out if tears flowed from their corners. He reached up, brushed the pad of his thumb on the telltale trail of moisture on her left temple.

“Talk to me,” he coaxed. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She looked at him then. “Everything’s perfect.”

“Then why—”

She shushed him once again with a hand against his mouth.

“Make love to me,” she said.

She rocked against him, a subtle reminder that he lay buried deep inside her warm and willing body. The prompt seared its way through him, burned all cognizant thought, his only imperative to race with her to the finish line.

Braced on his forearms, he pushed and pulled, in and out of her core. She wrapped her legs around his waist, drew him close with her hands splayed on his shoulder blades, her short nails raking and digging into his skin.

On a groan, he gave in, and lost himself inside her.

Simmi closed her eyes when her orgasm wracked her. He perched on the brink, too. She could feel it in the rapid strokes of his cock. The weight of his big body pressed on her breasts, anchored her into the mattress without crushing her. He came on a groan, and she squeezed her eyes tighter to ward off the tears threatening to fall.

Perfect.
He is perfect
…. And she’d just had the most amazing moments in her whole life with him.

It’s just for one night.

Sine qua non
for their encounter, shattering for her composure and her heart. With him, she had a connection, a communion. She’d give everything to be able to hold on to that certainty, to have it wrap her whole existence, spend every moment of her life in sheltered bliss.

All for naught.

But that’s what she’d signed up for. Too late now to renege on the terms. She had agreed, and now she’d have to pay the price.

His heavy body lowered onto hers, but before he could smother her with his weight, he wrapped his strong arms around her and rolled them onto their sides. His cock still inside her, he wrapped one hair-roughened leg around her thigh, holding her in place. He settled his chin atop her head, and when she breathed in, the spicy, warm scent of his skin drifted up her nostrils.

Again, perfect. That one certitude refused to leave her.

His breathing eased, grew regular. He hovered between wakefulness and slumber, probably unaffected by the fact they’d be going their separate ways when the night ended.

Live for the moment
, she reminded herself. Except that this moment represented where she wanted to be for the rest of her life, with him, in his arms, enveloped by his tenderness, his caring.

She didn’t even know his name…

Just as well—he’d be easier to forget, to obliterate, once she stepped out of the villa. Something she’d have to do very soon, that she’d prefer to do without him knowing she had left. In a few minutes, he’d be fast asleep, and she’d work her way out of his embrace and leave.

But right now, she could still be with him, hold on to these stolen moments.

Who is he
?

I don’t want to know
. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, so the coppery tang rode on her taste buds.

Simmi stopped fighting. What would it hurt if she knew?

“Hey,” she said.

“Hmm?” The sound rumbled from his throat.

“What does
elksling
mean?” That’s how he’d pronounced the word. Twice now, he’d called her so.

He snuggled her closer to him. “Darling, in Swedish.”

Simmi gasped, but she smothered the sound and the sob that tore up her throat.

She had been wrong—it did hurt to know. That little tidbit had told her he had ties to Sweden, and he’d probably cared…

But for no more than one night. That’s what the deal entailed. Madame Eve paired them for the night—not for any longer.

Being with him, in his arms, showed her what she could have, if she were ever lucky enough to have a man like him in her existence, every day…

How would she live the rest of her life without him, with nothing more than the memory of their encounter?

Chapter Four

The sound of rattling glass panes tore Lars out of deep slumber. After the first time with Simmi, he’d taken her again. They’d indulged in long, sensual games of kisses and caresses. It seemed to him she grew more frantic with every minute that passed, desperation creeping into her touch, her kiss, the further they moved into the dark night. At one point, he’d asked her if she wanted to grab something to eat—he didn’t know if she’d had dinner before she came over. But she declined the offer. Instead, she asked him to take her again. And again. And again.

He shook his head on the pillow. She’d been insatiable, and sometime during the night, he fell asleep, exhausted. If Magnus could see him now, he’d never hear the end of it. He’d gotten out of practice where lovemaking was concerned, his endurance no longer the same. Bloody hell—he couldn’t be growing old, could he?

Lars reached across the bed. His hand landed with a soft thump on the empty mattress.

His eyes flew open, and he sat up straight. Where had she gone?

The rattle of the bedroom’s sliding doors tugged him out of his reflections. He listened to the violent hiss of the wind, the loud splatter of lashing rain on the glass panes, the rumble of the gale through the leaves of the palm trees outside.

He stood, ready to stalk out to the terrace, when he heard a crash.

He rushed to the adjoining living room. Soft light bathed the interior, and he could make out the drone of the electrical generator hidden in the pantry, between the living room and the open-plan kitchen. A power cut, and such awful weather? He recalled the island had been under a cyclone warning earlier—had the situation deteriorated?

Stifled swear words, in Creole—the local language—reached him. He scanned the room, to find Simmi near the small table at the side of the room that doubled as a workstation.

She bent and retrieved the phone from the floor. Lars frowned. She wore all her clothes and appeared about to make a getaway while he slept. Except things hadn’t worked out as she’d planned.

He clamped his jaw, and a stab of pain shot along one side of his face. What could she be up to?

“Going somewhere?”

She jumped, and turned toward him. Her lips parted, her eyes widening. She looked away then squared her shoulders and faced him again. “I can’t. There’s a Cyclone Warning Class 3 in force.”

At class two, schools were dismissed. Class three, offices and businesses closed, and people were urged to stay inside during the day, a curfew set at night. She couldn’t go anywhere, but neither could anyone else on the island.

His luck, because otherwise she would’ve run, without telling him her name. Maybe she thought he would never be able to trace her if she didn’t.

Lars wanted to curse. Why did she wish to slink away? The way she treated their night together, she cheapened everything they’d shared, reduced it to nothing but sex.

And that’s not what this is about
?

Right at that instant, he wanted to be back in his home gym, in front of the punching bag, so he could alleviate some of the frustration and turmoil inside him. Without him realizing, the encounter with her had morphed onto him, grafted itself onto his heart, and made him want more than a tryst.

He wanted Simmi, all of her, and not just right then. “Always” would be too strong a word yet, but he knew he craved more than one single night with her, more than a few stolen hours.

But for that, she’d have to open up.

He crossed the room and stopped beside her. The way she braced her back straight told him she stood ready to meet him thrust for thrust. Her eyes betrayed her, though. In just a few hours, he’d come to know their depths, to see what lurked inside them. Right then, he saw vulnerability in her gaze, and when she bit her lip, he knew he’d been right.

It hurt her to leave.

Maybe, like him, she didn’t want this night to end, didn’t want their time together to come to a close.

He reached up and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “Why were you leaving?”

He shouldn’t look at her so. Not with such tenderness, so much caring etched on his features. And the way he touched her… She’d melt if he touched her again.

She couldn’t have that. None of it. Already, it killed her to walk away from him. She’d made a terrible mistake by coming here. A person could get on with life when she didn’t know what she missed. But having tasted solace in his arms, seen what her world could be like if a man cared for her, how could she go back to the empty, brittle shell of the existence she had left outside that villa?

No man had brought her the fulfillment he’d infused into her heart, her body, and her soul in only a few hours. Her stranger. She’d torture herself for the rest of her life imagining him, where he lived, what he did, who he did it all with…

Could he be married? Engaged? Seeing someone?

No, he couldn’t be. She knew for certain honor burnt bright and strong inside him. He had a noble heart, not one of a cheater or someone skilled in deception.

All the more perilous for
her
heart, because with him, there could’ve been…

What
? The men she knew didn’t want her, at least, not for who she was. If he came to know her identity, what job she had, what position she held, he, too, could treat her like just another conquest. He’d be the man who brought down the Ice Dragon. She knew how people referred to her, the gossip they flung like mud at her back.

This man had cherished her,
Simmi
, the woman who existed at her core.

She bit her lip. He should never know who she was. Too much risk, and then the memory of that perfect night, too, would be tainted.

So she took a deep breath. “I had a wonderful night.”

“So did I,” he said in the low growl that turned her knees to jelly.

She looked down and started to move past him. A big hand snaked out and pulled her to him.

“Night’s far from over,” he added in a hushed tone.

Then he claimed her mouth, and all her resistance, resolution, and good sense evaporated under the scorching touch of his lips. She traced a hand up the bulging muscles of his upper arm, across a broad shoulder, along his neck, then tangled her fingers in his thick hair. With her palm pressed against the nape of his neck, she kept him in place while she returned every swipe of his lips, every stroke of his tongue, every nip of his teeth. Fire blazed hot and strong inside her, and she moaned against his mouth.

The night had a few more hours. She could still have him, one more time. One last time…

Without releasing her, he snaked his free arm under her knees and lifted her to carry her back into the bedroom. The sounds of the storm outside—the rattle of the windows, the crash of the rain, the whistle of the wind in the trees—blanketed them inside a cocoon where the violence and the intensity of their feelings and their need warred with the cyclone.

He made short work of undressing her—she helped him along. Then they were naked, skin-to-skin, hot, sweaty, and delirious with want.