The Enchantment (31 page)

Her willingness gave him confidence, and confidence made him bold. His hands roamed freely up and down her naked flesh, exploring every ridge and hollow from her shoulder blades to her small waist. A tiny sigh slipped from her mouth, and the trembling sound of it coiled around Larence's heart.

His tongue teased her lips, urged them to part. She responded quickly, eagerly, and touched her tongue to his. She tasted like melted honey and wildflowers, like

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all the things he'd reached for in his life and never quite attained. Never until this moment even hoped to attain. Sensations hammered his body. Every nerve ending in his body quivered and came alive. He thought for a moment that his heart would burst out of his chest.

Suddenly holding her wasn't enough. He needed to feel every inch of her body. His hands slid down the wrinkled, bumpy fabric of her underskirt and cupped her bottom, dragging her closer. The vee between her legs settled intimately against him. Where they touched, his flesh grew hot, damp, and a need more intense than any he'd ever felt flared like a lit match in his soul.

Instinct took over. He began to move in a slow, rocking motion. His hips pushed and rubbed against hers. She matched him move for move until they were both panting and aching for more.

Then suddenly she pushed away from him.

Larence felt an ice-cold splash of fear. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control the ragged tenor of his breathing. It was over. Now she was going to slap him. Or laugh at him, or—

"Let's lie down."

His eyes opened. She grinned at him like an over-eager schoolgirl and stripped out of the petticoat.

"Come on," she said, taking his hand and pulling him toward the sleeping bags. He moved woodenly alongside her, his gaze glued to the pale round moons of her fanny.

She dragged the sleepings bag together and laid them side by side, then spun around and dropped to her knees onto their cushiony middle.

"Sit down," she said, patting the space beside her.

Larence couldn't move. He needed a moment—just a moment—to savor the look of her right now. To store

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every detail so that later, when he was alone and lonely, he could pull the memory out like a favorite photograph and stare at it. And remember . . .

God, she was beautiful. Sitting there atop the dark green ducked fabric, with her streaming white-gold hair and cream-hued flesh, she looked like an angel plunked down on earth.

For now—for tonight at least—she was his. He didn't know why; didn't care why. All he knew was that God had given him this gift, and he was going to take it. The Devil take tomorrow. He limped over and sat down beside her.

He brought his hand up, and in a tentative, hope-filled gesture, touched her cheek. "Come closer," he whispered.

She did.

He curled his hand around the nape of her neck and anchored her to him. His eyes fastened on hers.

Now was the time to tell her the truth. The awful, humiliating truth. He swallowed hard, feeling heat creep up his cheeks. Although he wanted to, he didn't turn away, didn't take the coward's route. "You know I've never—"

She kissed him, a quick, short kiss that told him what he needed to know. She knew he was a virgin and didn't care. "You know I have?"

He took her face in his hands and gently tipped her chin. Gazing down into those luminous blue eyes, he felt . . . larger than life. Something deep in his soul expanded. An aching, loving tenderness filled his heart.

Emmaline Amanda Hatter, whether she loved him or not, was the woman he'd love until his dying day.

He knew it more certainly than he'd ever known anything in his life.

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This time Larence kissed Emma. As if he'd kissed a thousand women, he took charge. His lips molded to hers and moved slowly, sensually.

The kiss lasted forever and beyond. With each second, each lick of her tongue against his, Larence felt his need for her swell, until he thought he would burst from wanting her.

His free hand cupped her shoulder, kneaded the warm, silken flesh, then slid down the length of her arm.

A groan slipped from her mouth and she leaned closer, fumbling urgently with the buttons on his shirt.

His shirt slid off before he knew it, bunched around his waist. She tossed it aside and went to work on his

pants.

Larence felt her fingers moving nimbly from one button to the next, and his breath caught. Tentatively he let one finger glide up the sensitive skin of her inner arm. She shivered. Her fingers worked faster.

His forefinger continued up her arm, then followed the hollow indentation of her armpit and eased down toward her breast. The roughened pad of his finger brushed her nipple, and the peak hardened instantly.

He brought his thumb up, and the two fingers began a slow, gentle laving.

She eased her lips away from his and let her head loll back. Her back arched, her breasts strained toward him. He did the only thing that made sense: He took a breast in each hand and touched the hardened peaks with his tongue.

"Oh, Larence . . . take your pants off."

"Already? I thought—"

She grabbed him by the waistband and pulled him close. He felt the rapid, heaving strains of her breath 288

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against his face, saw the passion-darkened pools of her eyes. "Take your pants off. Now."

He got to his feet and wrenched off his pants. Throwing them God-knew-where, he dropped back onto the sleeping bags and took her in his arms.

She rolled on top of him and kissed him again. He felt her naked breasts pressing hotly against his chest.

Her hair streamed around his face, curtaining the moon's soft glow and plunging him in utter darkness.

With his sense of sight impeded, his other senses burst to life. He heard the quiet sighing of the leaves above, felt the flicker-soft touch of her hair against his naked shoulders, smelled the wildflower-fresh scent of her skin, and tasted . . . Oh, God, what he could taste . . .

His hands moved to the base of her spine and roved upward, gliding up and down the soft curve of her back, pinning her to him. Naked flesh fused to naked flesh as her hips began a slow, sensual movement against his.

Desire exploded in Larence's body. Pure, white-hot passion. He'd never felt anything like it in his life. It was an aching, burning need. . . .

In one motion, he rolled her beneath him. She stared up at him through wide, night-darkened eyes. He could see the swelling of her lips, the faint scratch marks on her chin from his day's growth of beard.

/ love you. He imagined himself saying the words, ached to say them. "Em, I—"

Her hands clutched his buttocks, and his sentence shattered, his ability to speak evaporated. That need, stronger and more intense, throbbed between his legs. Her hands squeezed, urged him to move. He ground his hips against hers, rubbed himself against the crisp, damp hairs between her legs. Her knees came up around his waist.

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"Now," she whispered thickly. "Now. "

Larence groaned aloud and buried his head in her shoulder. Cupping her tightly, he pulled her close and entered her.

She moaned; the breath felt warm against his cheek. He rocked against her, glided in and out of her in harder and harder drives. She clung to him, matching him thrust for thrust until sweat slicked his back and dotted the valley between her breasts.

Her bent legs slid in sweaty streaks up and down the sides of his body. Where they touched him, his flesh burned. Together they moved faster and faster. Their breath came in burning, panting gasps, and Larence heard himself saying her name over and over again, but the word seemed drawn-out and filtered through a long, dark tunnel.

His body spasmed, went taut. She grabbed his shoulders, and he thought he heard her whisper, "Not yet," but it was too late.

Release burst through him like an explosion of dynamite. He was spiraling through a lightless void where nothing mattered but the sensations pulsing through his body. . . .

Slowly he drifted back to earth.

Emmaline was staring up at him with a half-bemused, half-frustrated look in her eyes. A tiny, reluctant smile tugged one side of her mouth.

He kissed her lips and the smile grew. Rolling onto his back, he slid one arm behind her neck and drew her close. She snuggled up beside him, threw her left leg casually across his thigh. The easy intimacy brought a smile to his lips.

"That was great," he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "Really great."

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He waited for her response. When none came, he pushed up onto one elbow and looked down at her.

"Em? Aren't you going to say anything?"

Her mouth twitched. "It was . . . energetic."

He frowned at that. "Isn't it supposed to be?"

"Yes . . ."she said, but the word was so elongated, he wondered whether she meant it.

He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip, then said, "Do you have any . . . suggestions for improvement?"

"Well ..." Her gaze twinkled up at him. "Next time you might try making it last a little longer."

Next Time! Larence pulled her close against his side and flopped onto his back. In the darkness he grinned like the Cheshire cat. There was going to be a next time.

Long after Emma had fallen asleep, Larence lay wide awake, staring at the blanket of stars above.

Last longer. The words rolled around in his head, reminding him of the Kama Sutra and other Eastern books he'd read on the subject of sex and erotica.

Yes, he thought with a confidence he'd only just discovered. He could make it last longer if that's what she wanted.

A lot longer.

From somewhere far away came the high, screeching cry of a hawk. Emma woke up slowly, lazily.

Stretching like a contented cat, she yawned. She couldn't remember the last time she'd woken up feeling so good.

Every muscle in her body felt hammered and pounded . . . and joyfully alive. Curling onto her side, she snuggled against Larence's naked body. She eased her leg across his thighs and slipped her hand around his waist, laying her cheek on his chest.

She marveled at how relaxed she felt. She'd always wondered what it would be like to waken with a lover, but whenever she'd considered letting Eugene spend the night—and even considering it had been rare—her stomach had twisted into such a small, nervous knot, she'd practically pushed the poor man out the door. And yet here she was, curled up like a wife against her husband, and loving it.

She felt an intimacy with Larence she'd never known before. It liberated her, made her feel hopeful and free, and there was something else, something even more fragile slipping gently into her consciousness: trust.

She realized with a sense of awe that she trusted him with her emotions. He was the first person, including her parents, with whom she could just be herself. Ag-291

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gressive, angry and bitter, or quiet, afraid, and laughing, she could simply be herself.

With that admission came the most encompassing, most compelling sense of well-being she'd ever known. Wordlessly she curled closer to him.

Sunlight kissed her skin. All around her the desert glittered and came to life. The morning air smelled of freshness and sunlight and . . . passion. Thick, sweet, new passion.

Emma smiled sleepily. Sex had been different last night. Never had she been so ... abandoned.

Maybe it was her role as teacher that had excited her so much. Absentmindedly she twirled a finger through the dark brown hairs on his chest. She'd never had sex with a virgin before. It was a surprise to find, after all her experience, that inexperience was such an aphrodisiac.

For the first time, sex had been something more than simply pleasant. It had been . . . fun.

Her smile broadened. Yes, definitely fun.

That fact was especially amazing considering how . . . unsatisfied the entire play had left her. He'd brought her close—closer than she could ever remember being, in fact—to that elusive something that had always been missing from sex for her. For one brief, heart-stopping minute last night, she'd even thought it was going to happen. But, of course, it hadn't. He'd pulled out of her—like they all did—while her body was quivering with need and waiting for release.

Even so, she knew she wanted him again—and again.

"Morning, Em." He pushed up on one elbow and peered down at her. She plopped back into the sleeping bag's wool. In the morning's pale light, his eyes were the exact color of the leaves overhead. An unruly brown

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lock fell over one eye, and in a couple of places, spikes of hair stood at attention. He offered her a lazy, loving smile and pushed the hair out of his eyes. It fell right back.

Emma's heart squeezed.

He leaned down and kissed her, a long, slow, wet kiss that spoke of time and love and caring.

"How did you sleep?" she asked quietly, brushing the wayward lock from his eyes.

He grinned. "Never better. You?"

"Never better."

He slid his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Together they stared up at the pink-and-blue-streaked sky. Dawn crept across the grass-strewn basin and gilded the mesa beside them.

As usual, the red-tipped hawk was spiraling high above their heads.

"Today's the day," Larence said, and Emma knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Tell me about it again," she whispered, unwilling yet to let this moment together end.

Pulling her close, he began to spin out the legend of Esteban and Fray Marcos and the magical lost city.

Again Emma found herself awed by the magnitude of his vision. His ability to dream astounded and humbled her.

For as long as she could remember, she'd discarded dreaming as a frivolous waste of time. But never once had she considered the price to her soul of such practicality.

Now, in Larence's arms, she saw the cost clearly. Warmth, laughter, hope—these were the "trivialities"