Somewhere on St. Thomas: A Somewhere Series Romance (10 page)

I clamped my legs shut, but too late as he located a spot that made me twitch and gasp.

“Aha,” he said with satisfaction, as if checking something cooking on the stove for doneness. “You’re going to have to shift gears.” We’d approached a stop sign, and he put in the clutch, but he apparently wasn’t going to remove his hand from where it was working some serious magic.

“Oh God,” I yelped, writhing, and I worked the shifter as his hand worked me.

I came for the second time that day, two blocks from the famous downtown San Francisco Fairmont Hotel. I was still flushed and panting with the seismic upheaval to my nervous system, only dimly able to focus, when Rafe pulled up with panache beneath the portico of the venerable hotel.

It looked like the mission to lose my virginity was finally going to be accomplished.

I rolled my skirt down, smoothing it toward my knees. I made sure my jean jacket was tightly buttoned. My feeble preparations didn’t help. I was intimidated by the valet in gold-braided uniform who approached the truck and opened my door. I glanced over at Rafe, astonished that we were going to such a classy place.

He winked as he blew me a kiss from the hand that had just been between my legs.

I was as shocked by that as by anything that had just occurred between us on the front seat of his rusty old black truck. It felt like everything we’d been doing was stenciled on my face and anyone who looked at me could guess, and my complexion couldn’t have been pinker if I’d been dipped in boiling water.

I stepped out of the vehicle and stood awkwardly on the sidewalk. Chilly San Francisco wind blew up my skirt and fanned my bare ass. My hair lashed my cheeks. I wrapped my arms around myself for warmth and comfort. I was embarrassed, terrified, and yet determined to get what I’d come for.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I muttered to myself, one of my mom’s favorite sayings. She’d be upset to see me here now, about to do what I’d decided to do after lying to everyone to get here. I thrust the thought of my family firmly out of my mind. Rafe shut the door of the truck firmly and said something to the valet, who got into the vehicle and drove off without batting an eye.

“Are you sure you can afford this?” I took Rafe’s arm and huddled against him, feeling seriously outclassed as we went into the famous lobby, sparkling with crystal and gleaming with wood and leather.

“I was going to bring you here for dinner. Now we’ll just go up to the room early.”

I was struck dumb by the splendor of the Fairmont. Rich carpeting, gold-framed art, refined lighting picked out seating clusters in the grand lobby. I clung to Rafe’s arm as he checked in, cool as creek water. “Reservation for McCallum,” he said. “And guest.”

“Yes sir, Mr. McCallum.” The voice of the concierge was respectful.
That’s how classy this place is
, I thought.
They don’t even allow the staff to discriminate against drifter sailors checking in with penniless college students.

We went up in an elevator gleaming with walnut and burnished brass, an attendant in the hotel’s uniform inquiring what floor we were on. I felt awkward shyness settling between us and stepped away from Rafe, losing my courage as I looked up at the changing lights above the door.

What am I doing?
I’d surely regret this, and with Rafe who didn’t fit with my life goals. I had escaped the Virgin Islands through brains and willpower, but this man, who’d worked trimming coconuts off the trees on my parents’ management estate, was already rocking all my assumptions about life—and he had a hold on me I couldn’t shake.

As if sensing my uncertainty, Rafe reached out and took my cold hand in his large, warm one. I felt every inch of his height and frame dwarfing mine, and it was thrilling and intimidating. He smiled down at me.

“Glad to be with you,” he whispered into my ear. “Thanks for coming to San Francisco.”

I stared down at my feet in their impractical ballet flats. There was a smudge on my freckled knee, and I rubbed at it, reflecting on my folly. It wasn’t too late to tell him to stop the elevator, ask him to take me back to Lisa’s boardinghouse until my departure. Because I knew Rafe was a gentleman. He was doing this with me because I’d said I wanted it.

I had no one to call to talk over my ambivalence, because no one knew I was here.
No one
. Not my parents, not my roommate and best friend, Shellie, nor her brother Sam. Not my supposed boyfriend Henry, who I was “taking a break” from.

The elevator door dinged open. “Fourteenth floor,” the attendant announced.

I was highly conscious of our lack of luggage as we exited. All Rafe carried was a small black backpack, and I had my purse with a comb, my wallet, and a pair of underwear in it.

He grinned down at me at the door, a shiny black edifice. “The moment of truth,” he said, and slid the key into the brass lock with a definite
snick
. He must have seen me shiver, because he encircled my shoulders and gave a reassuring squeeze as he pushed the door open.

“Oh,” I gasped. “Wow.”

The room was a suite, with an incredible view of the Marin headlands and the lacy red struts of the Golden Gate Bridge, the graceful skyscrapers of downtown providing an architectural counterpoint. The carpeting was cream, the seating an elegant distressed brown leather, and the bed, the very big bed—was a garden of Laura Ashley cabbage roses on fine sateen.

I walked hesitantly in. I’d never been inside such a fancy hotel room before. Rafe followed, setting his bag beside the door and making his way to the combination TV and music console against the wall as I walked to the sliding glass doors leading onto a tiny balcony.

The doors wouldn’t open.

“Locked permanently,” Rafe said. “Jumpers.”

“Oh, wow,” I said, stepping back, the charm lost on me at the grim reminder that all wasn’t happy for some, even in a magical setting like this.

He opened the shiny burled doors of the console. “Hmm. Got quite a selection here.” I came back to stand beside him, looking through a stack of CDs with everything from instrumental to classic rock. “I think a little mood music.” He put on some Otis Redding, which I recognized from my parents’ collection. “How about some wine?”

I wasn’t about to remind him I wasn’t legal to drink yet. “I’d love some.”

He went to a silver bucket and took out a bottle of champagne. “I ordered this ahead of time.”

“So you had this planned?” I paced back and forth in front of the sliding glass windows. I was feeling nervous and keyed up, all the confidence I’d pretended at Coit Tower evaporating in the light of Rafe’s apparent acceptance of my challenge.

“I did. I know you’re leaving in another day or so. Wanted you to have a special treat.” He popped the cork. I watched the shine of the late-afternoon light on tumbled bronzy hair that fell to graceful, muscular shoulders. He was wearing a black tee that hugged his body, and I spotted his tattoo curving around his deltoid muscle. It appeared to be some sort of claw, and I remembered it was a fierce eagle pouncing.

“That’s so sweet of you,” I said.

He filled a flute and held it out to me. “Nothing sweet about it. Making memories to tide you over until we see each other again.”

I felt an immediate wrench at the thought of leaving as I accepted the glass. Our fingers brushed and his touch was electric as ever.

“You do something to me,” I said. “I wish you didn’t. It’s confusing.” I tried to swig the fizzing drink, which promptly went up my nose and down my throat, causing a burning cough.

He thumped my back. “You okay?”

I’d invented a taste for champagne in my playful persona as “Juliette,” a French-speaking immigrant from the Antilles who smoked clove cigarettes, wore a beret, and favored sparkling wine. Pretending to be Juliette had helped me adjust to life so far from home, but the truth was, I didn’t know one wine from another.

“It’s fine.” I sipped more slowly. “It tastes good.”

“That’s right.” He drew me into his arms. “Come here.”

I stiffened instinctively, and I felt rather than heard the deep chuckle in the solid expanse of his chest as I pressed against him. “Relax. We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to. In fact, we can leave right now if you aren’t comfortable.”

“No!” I exclaimed, pulling back to look up into his deep blue eyes. “I want to be with you. Really.”

“I know you think you do.” He tugged me over to the rose-patterned bed, and we sat on the end of it. “But I think you’re confused, and now you’re finally admitting it. I wanted you to have this week doing things with me, spending time, so that you could get to know me. See if you really wanted to be with me, or if you just had a case of hormones.”

I felt the blush sweep up the pale skin of my neck. “I want to sleep with you,” I muttered. “I came here for ‘First Night.’”

He laughed. “I was inspired when I wrote that one. I want you, too, Ruby. You have no idea how much. But like I told you the first day, I care about you. Too much to just take advantage of what you’re offering.”

“Are you saying no?” I looked up at him. I’d been using that look to get boys to do what I wanted since I was two years old. I knew my big green eyes lined in dark, spiky lashes were hard to resist. Ever so gently, I licked my pouty lower lip.

Rafe let out a stifled groan, bent his head and set his lips on mine. The kiss started out tender but quickly activated the heat that had been turned down to simmer since our make-out session at Coit Tower.

His tongue, tasting of the wine, tangled with mine. He tilted my head for better access, bringing a large, long-fingered hand to cup my breast, loose beneath the T-shirt and jean jacket. He kissed me thoroughly as he massaged and circled the round, palming its weight and flicking the nipple, hard as an acorn, with his thumb, then switching to the other one. He lifted his head to gaze down at my flushed face.

“These feel like the most beautiful breasts on the planet,” he said. “Can I see them?”

“Okay,” I breathed. He eased me back on the acre or so of Laura Ashley and unbuttoned each of the metal buttons of the jacket. I could feel the heat of his gaze on my braless breasts in the thin, tight T-shirt I’d worn in my juvenile seduction attempt.

“I need this off,” Rafe whispered. “Please.”

Mutely, I shrugged out of the jacket and skinned the T-shirt off over my head, tossing the clothing off the bed. Lying back on the bed and looking up, I noticed the tasteful gilt-framed oval mirror on the ceiling for the first time.

It was a revelation to see myself lying topless on the bed. Long, flame-colored ribbons of red hair were spread across the bed, setting off pale, creamy skin dappled with tiny nutmeg freckles. The large, round breasts that had been both blessing and curse since I was twelve pointed dusky rose nipples straight up. The arc of my shadowed ribs and flat belly disappeared into the modest skirt slung low on the graceful swell of my hips, the slight rise of my mound the only configuration in the landscape of my body still hidden.

Rafe’s brown-haired head bent over me as he kissed my neck, his fingers sliding down my body, learning its shape. I relished the sight as he pulled off his own shirt in a quick brisk movement. His large, tanned torso contrasted with mine as he leaned over me, a sight so beautiful I wanted to watch it all day. The eagle tattoo on his arm looked alive, the wings flying as he moved, and what it was pouncing on was me.

His body was pure poetry of form and power, the muscles sliding in rippling movements across his back and arms, the chiseled plane of his chest punctuated by small brown nipples, his belly lean and contoured. Twin columns of heavy muscle supported the tender knobs of his spine as it disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.

I wanted to see it all, touch it all, kiss it all. But for now just gazing at him was a feast. I could look at him all day and never get enough. I relished the fact that he didn’t know about the mirror yet.

I saw and felt at the same time as his hot mouth come down over the sensitive tip of my breast. I arched beneath his mouth with an involuntary cry, watching and feeling his hand slide down the valley of my waist, over the slope of my hip, and back up again.

It felt exquisite, tingling sensation following his explorations, every movement awakening something new in me. I moaned and tangled my hands in the length of his hair. The experience of both seeing and feeling him touch me was so arousing I felt the nervousness that had resurfaced in the doorway of the room disappear.

I wanted this. All of it. All of him. For better or worse.

“Please,” I breathed into his mouth, into his hair, and I slid my hands up his muscled arms and drew his face down to my breast. “More.”

“As you wish.”

Rafe sucked my nipple hard, tonguing it at the same time. I gave a cry as that oversensitive bundle of nerves set off a chain reaction of combustible heat that pulsed, begging for release. He switched to the other breast and kissed his way along my collarbone and down the dip below my sternum. I thrust my hips at him in unapologetic hunger.

“So passionate,” he breathed. “So responsive. You’re pure fire. I knew it the first day I met you.” His hands went to my waistband and he undid the button and zip of my skirt.

I pushed up and he wriggled the skirt down. In the mirror above his head, I watched every line of his body go rigid as he gazed down at me, hissing through his teeth as he gazed at my naked, flame-haired mound.