The Castaway Bride (7 page)

“So how...?”

Matt’s face was very serious. “I swam with you to shore. But you took in some water on the way.”

Cristy looked at the pounding surf. She’d fainted in that? And he’d had to drag her to shore?

“I... I could have drowned.

“Thank God you didn’t.” Matt’s voice was hoarse. The relief in his eyes told her without him saying a word that she’d been in danger and he’d had to fight to save her.

She started to tremble; little tremors that started in her hands then had her shaking so that her teeth started to chatter. Not from cold but from shock. She could hardly get out the words: “Th... thank you for saving me.”

Matt pulled her into his arms and hugged her close to him. “I was a surf lifesaver when I was a kid. I know the drill. It was easier to hold you up out of the water when you were comatose. No struggling and trying to strangle me in gratitude.”

Cristy managed a feeble laugh. As the shock receded and the shaking stilled, she let herself relax against his warm strength. His arms were tight around her. She was safe.

Matt might make light of the way she’d wimped out at the sight of a dolphin, but it wouldn’t have been easy to get a tall woman like her—comatose or not—to shore. Held so close to him she could appreciate the power in his strongly-muscled chest and shoulders that had enabled him to do so.

She owed him big-time—not only for rescuing her from her wedding but also for saving her life.

She pulled away to face Matt and tell him how grateful she was but the words refused to come. His eyes were shadowed with fatigue and his mouth a tense line. But with his hair all wet and wild, his salt-drenched clothes clinging to the outline of his muscles, he looked more than ever the boldly handsome pirate. And she was in his arms, held so close that she could feel his heart beat, smell that sandalwood-tinged scent of his maleness.

Her own heart tripped up a beat in awareness. His gaze fell to where her breasts swelled above the tight bodice of her wedding gown. Her nipples tightened in response and she swallowed hard at the sudden constriction in her throat that had nothing to do with the salt water she had imbibed.

Suddenly the hug of comfort and gratitude turned into something very different as she wound her arms around Matt’s neck and pulled his head to hers. With frantic hunger she kissed him.

Matt hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he kissed her back answering her demand with a hot, fierce possession of her mouth that took her passion and ran with it.

A thrill ran through Cristy’s body as Matt’s tongue probed the soft recesses of her mouth; dueled with hers. This was far, far better than her fantasy. This was not a kiss of life but a living kiss, rich with hunger and fire and a reassurance that they had each tangled with danger and survived.

She was possessed by an overpowering need for him. She pressed the aching peaks of her nipples urgently against his chest, gasped as his hand caressed her back, moaned as it slid to the soft side swell of her breast.

Every muscle tensed in an agony of anticipation of his touch; relaxed then tensed again as he pushed aside the scant cover of her low-cut bodice, the lace of her corselet bra. He captured first one hard nipple and then the other between his thumb and forefinger, and kneaded them until she moaned deep in her throat.

Her face flushed hot with desire, her breath came in short gasps. She pulled away from his mouth and hotly, urgently kissed along his jaw line and down the strong column of his throat, nipping and tasting his salty skin; lightheaded from the smell of spicy sandalwood and salt and Matt. Her heart pounded and thudded almost out of control.

Her hands on his shoulders, Cristy pushed Matt onto the sand then straddled him, reveling at the feel of his long, hard body under her thighs and bottom. She claimed his mouth again, nipping at his lower lip with her teeth, then caressing it with her tongue before sliding it between his lips.

With a deep, sensual growl Matt rolled her over so he lay on top of her, taking them further into the water so they were lying in the shallows, the sand hard and wet beneath her back. He captured her hands and imprisoned them with his, pinning them to the sand above her head as he kissed her with growing urgency.

Waves swirled around her ankles and calves and Cristy felt overtaken by their rhythm as the waters pushed onto the beach and then withdrew, only to gather themselves relentlessly for another onslaught.

She moaned as she felt the hardness of his arousal pressing urgently through the damp folds of her dress and against the soft flesh of her belly. Inflamed by an answering need, she shifted her legs to accommodate him. The roughness of the hair on his legs brushing her thighs excited her almost beyond reason.

Matt left her mouth, leaving it aching and swollen, and kissed a trail of hot, inflaming kisses down her neck and across her chest to her breast. When he took the taut peak in his mouth and teased it with his lips and tongue, she writhed under him in an agony of need, undulating her hips under his weight.

Never, ever had she felt such reckless desire. Her breath coming in urgent gasps, she was beyond thinking about what was happening. All she wanted was the sensation of Matt’s hands and mouth on her body.

Matt freed her hands so his own were free. She shuddered with pleasure as he stroked the bare flesh of her thigh and moved with exciting relentlessness toward the triangle of the white lace thong the girls in the office had given her—accompanied by much ribald laughter—as a wedding gift.

She wrenched her hands free so she could caress his back, urge him closer, reach for his buttocks, knead their muscular strength. She sought his mouth, craving more of his kisses, pressed her body to his, wanting more, wanting everything.

Then gasped in shock as a wave hit her—cold water gushed, rushed around, and knocked them both sideways.

The water washed over her face, blinding her. Panicking, she struggled to sit up but Matt’s weight was still on her, pinning her down. As he rolled off of her, the force of the wave dragged her with it toward the sea but Matt jumped up and hauled her to her feet.

She wrenched her hands away from him. They were shaking as she pushed her streaming wet hair away from her face, and wiped the stinging water from her eyes. What the heck had happened there?

Matt didn’t say anything for a long moment and all Cristy could hear was his ragged breathing and her own out-of-control efforts to drag air into her lungs.

“Whoa,” he said finally, shaking the water from his face, “Talk… talk about King Neptune’s idea of a cold shower.”

Cristy scarcely heard him. She was barely able to stand from the trembling in her legs, knocked out not just by the power of the wave that had doused them, but by the insane passion that had possessed her. Her nipples ached and she throbbed with unsatisfied need. Her heart raced at a million miles an hour. She dared not meet Matt’s eye.

What had she done? Or nearly done? He’d given her a friendly, hug—just the thing you do when you’ve just saved someone from drowning—and she’d thrown herself at him. No, thrust herself at him. Practically begged him to bed her.

She couldn’t bear the embarrassment of it. Never, ever had she even initiated a kiss let alone knocked a man down on the sand and then jumped him.

She sent fervent thanks to King Neptune—or whatever had sent the wave that had douched them. Otherwise she might right now be rolling around in the shallows having passionate sex with Matt, right in full sight of anyone walking onto the beach. If only another convenient wave would just roll up and sweep her far, far away from here.

Frantically, she pulled her bodice up over her breasts, but there wasn’t much of her wedding dress left. She felt exposed and vulnerable, her nipples taut through the wet, silky fabric, the flush of arousal staining the creamy skin of her chest.

She dared a glance up at him. Despite his attempt at humor, Matt looked as uncomfortable as she felt. His eyes echoed the shock she knew he must see in hers.

He cleared his throat. Twice. “That shouldn’t have happened,” he growled.

She looked down at the sand, anywhere rather than at his face. “No,” she panted, “not… not a good idea.”

“Let’s forget it ever—”

“I usually don’t—”

This was only making things worse. A flush of humiliation warmed her cheeks. How could she possibly explain what had happened?

Matt wasn’t exactly rushing into the conversation either. He appeared as anxious to avoid her eyes as she was his. They both stared intently at the two flotation jackets bobbing around in the shallow waves, eager to look anywhere but at each other.

Matt lunged to grab one at the same time she did. Her hand grazed his and she snatched it away. Flushing deeper, she waded toward the other one, rescued his fanny pack and handed it to him at arm’s length.

She was still too shaken at the force of the passion that had overcome her to think straight. She prided herself on keeping her cool around men. She didn’t even kiss on a first date.

So what had happened to that self-control she’d spent so long nurturing? To come onto Matt—a guy she scarcely knew—like some kind of sex-crazed mermaid.

Her personal mantra sounded over and over in her head:
you can’t trust lust.
And wow was this lust with a capital L. Super Lust. Mega Lust. Giant-Size Special-Offer Lust.

But… was it really?

Could it have been fear? Shock? Delayed reaction?

Cristy tried to rationalize that mindless surge of longing that had overcome her. But as she remembered lying in the waves with Matt’s strong body covering hers, her nipples tightened and heat flooded her belly.

It was lust all right. And it frightened her. Really frightened her. Because it wasn’t the lust she couldn’t trust—it was herself.

M
att found it difficult to stay steady on his feet. He was reeling from the unexpected force of the passion Cristy’s kiss had unleashed, aching from its lack of fulfillment.

He wasn’t a wham-bang-thank-you-ma’am kind of guy. Sure, he’d tomcatted around in his younger days, but for the adult Matt sex was something to be shared with a special, steady partner. Yet he’d been ready to take this gorgeous stranger on the beach, oblivious to any possible consequences.

He’d been stunned when she’d pressed that lovely, ripe mouth to his. Stunned, surprised and powerless to do anything but respond. He’d wanted to kiss her from the moment she’d fallen against him in the elevator. But who would have thought Miss Perfect would be so passionate? So warm and pliant and wanton?

Never, ever, had a kiss ignited such strong feeling in him. That damn white charger had a lot to answer for.

Because what was more disturbing than the out-of-control passion, was the overwhelming surge of protectiveness he’d felt for Cristy as he’d held her in his arms. He didn’t want to feel that dangerous, potent blend of tenderness and passion. Not for a stranger. Certainly not for another man’s bride.

And yet… he was feeling it. He’d gone from terror as he’d struggled to keep her head above water; to urgent fear as he’d breathed life into her pale face; to overwhelming relief when she’d awoken, bewilderment clouding those beautiful blue eyes.

He forced in a few deep breaths as he tried to rationalize his feelings. Then picked up his panic bag and strapped it around his waist with hands that were not quite steady. His passion had been a natural reaction to fear. So, most probably, had hers when she realized she could have drowned.

Yeah, that’s what this feeling was. He’d encountered it before in his surf lifeguard days. Some kind of basic instinct. Survival and sex, they went together. Simple explanation. They were safe now so it would go away. In fact right this moment she was probably regretting her impulsive passion.

So why couldn’t he stop himself hungering for those creamy breasts that rose and fell in time to her quickened breathing as they threatened to fall from the top of her dress—or what was left of her dress? Why did he keep reliving how they’d felt pressed against his chest, the hardness of her nipples, the urgent pressing of her body to his?

The silky, sodden skirts clung to her thighs, outlining their slender shape. How he wanted to run his hands up her thighs and—

He dragged his eyes away. He’d be praying for another cold sea shower at this rate.

A second wave surged around his legs and he felt its force tugging on him, pulling him—and Cristy—back into the sea. He turned to face the shore. He’d had enough lifesaving heroics for the day.

“Come on,” he said to Cristy, his voice husky. He went to take her hand in his and then decided against it.

Touching Cristy was not a good idea. He’d play it nonchalant. Act as if the sex-games-in-the-surf scenario had never happened.

“Let’s move further up the beach, the tide’s coming in.” Relief flooded her face at his matter-of-fact tone of voice.

She stumbled after him onto dry sand. “What’s happened to the boat?” she asked.

The boat! How could he have forgotten his boat? Matt spun round on his heel in the sand and looked back out to sea.

His precious
Wayfarer
stood lodged on the reef, precarious prey to the waves that thrashed around her. There wasn’t a chance the boat wouldn’t be broken up when the forecast storm hit.

He felt sick at the thought but told himself she was only a boat. It was insured. Replaceable. All that counted was that he and Cristy were safe. He just hoped that the emergency beacon was operating so the coast guard would know where they were.

Cristy sneezed loudly. She was soaked through. So was he.

He had to get them to shelter.

C
risty was too overwhelmed to take in the reality of the situation. This morning preening herself for her wedding, this afternoon stranded on a tropical island with a virile stranger.

You can’t trust lust
, she reminded herself as she watched Matt look out to his disabled boat. His wet, black T-shirt molded to his magnificently muscled body and his knit boxer shorts let neither the shape of his gorgeous buttocks nor the evidence of his recent arousal to the imagination.