Deception Island (17 page)

In the fading light, his expression darkened. “
Ma chérie
, you don't know these people. Knowing you are safe will help me do what I need to.” He sipped water. “I apologize for the rudimentary accommodation while you wait for rescue.”

“Compared with what I'm used to, this is heaven. Seriously.”

“Wait.” He laid down his plate and drew a champagne bottle from the cooler. He popped it, poured it into two cups and handed her one. “To our futures. May they be better than our pasts and our present.”

“To rescuing Theo.”

They leaned forward and clunked cups. She closed her eyes as tiny bubbles tickled her throat. Now that she could associate the sensation with Rafe, and not Jasper, she would forevermore let champagne be a small pleasure. “The present isn't so bad. It's the future I'm having trouble seeing.”

“Don't worry about that. I will fix things for you.”

And how would he fix the fact that Nowheresville no longer seemed like the sanctuary she'd clung to for so long? She pushed away from the box, stretched out on the ground with her head on her backpack and closed her eyes. The sounds around her amplified—the rush of waves on sand in the lagoon, the occasional pop from the fire, a rustling in the undergrowth behind her, the call of a cricket nearby, backed up by a chorus of millions. Wood smoke mixed with sea air and the aroma of cooked fish and Rafe's soapy-clean skin. Hey, if this was Nowheresville, it wasn't so bad. Was twenty-nine too young to become a hermit? How long could she hide on the island, living on fish and bananas and coconuts, hiding from honeymooners, raiding the cabin for matches and sunscreen and medicine, and whatever else she couldn't do without?

ChapStick. She'd run out of that pretty quick. Even the thought of it made her lips sting. She patted her pockets. Damn, she'd left it in the cabin.

A rush of movement jump-started her heart. She sat bolt upright, eyes wide. Something smacked her back down—Rafe's body, on top of hers. What the hell?

“Wow. You're not at all subtle.” She tried to sound casual, but her pulse jackhammered.

“Not with snakes.”

“What?” The word caught in her throat. She followed his gaze to the ground beside her. Holy cow, a snake. She flinched, but he had her pinned. “Do someth—”

“I already did.”

She peered closer, tracking the blue coil of its body up to an unnaturally blunt end. In Rafe's hand, a knife gleamed. He flicked the creature away—first its body, then its severed red head.

“Was it poisonous?”

Silence. Stillness. She turned back to Rafe. His eyes focused right on hers, dark and deep. He held himself up on one forearm, his chest brushing against her breasts each time he drew in air, his hips pressing into hers. Oh, God.

“Remind me to tell you how to deal with snake bites.” His husky voice heated her up from the inside. He stabbed the knife into the earth. “Later.”

He didn't freaking move. His eyes didn't even flicker. Nervous energy wet her mouth. She swallowed and tentatively planted her hands either side of his waist. Under his T-shirt, thick knots of muscle flinched. He blinked, once, slowly, a wash of dark lashes.

“Will you run away this time?” She barely recognized her own voice, it was so low. “Because I don't think I could bear it.”

“You genuinely want this? Because I would never take adv—”

“I want this, like you wouldn't believe. Rafe, we don't know what's going to happen tomorrow—we'll find out soon enough. Let's just do what our bodies are telling us to. No strings, no awkwardness. We can wake up tomorrow and remember how screwed up our lives are, but tonight I just want to forget. I want to feel nothing but this—you, right next to me. You inside me.”

“Mon Dieu.”

Sea water lapped. An owl hooted. She held his gaze until her eyes watered. He eased his full, delicious weight onto her, achingly slowly, moving his hands up to frame her head, smoothing her hair away. She closed her eyes—this was going to be all about the feel of him, the earthy, salty smell and taste of him. And the feel of her—her breasts pressed into his chest, their stomachs and thighs flat against each other. She slipped her hands under his T-shirt and slid them up his back, her fingers exploring the ridges and dips.

“I need to forget everything but this...but you,” he said, touching the hollow at the base of her neck. He skated one finger slowly up her throat and over her chin, leaving her nerves somersaulting in his wake. He rested a finger on her lips, charging them up with a ticklish awareness. She parted them, slipping her tongue out to taste his finger pad, tracing the grooves of his prints. Mmm, wood smoke and mango. If only she could explore every part of his body this intimately, pore by pore, over days, weeks, months. She'd have to settle for hours.

“How do I say ‘kiss me' in French?” she whispered.

“Embrasse moi.”

Oh yeah, even that sounded better in French.

Chapter 17

Before Holly could repeat the words, Rafe covered her mouth with his. Stubble scraped her chin, the sensation competing for attention with the silkiness of his lips and the wet rasp of his tongue. He explored her slowly, sending her the message that he was prepared to take his time. This wasn't the hot, desperate need for temporary oblivion, as on the park bench. It was the next step in their unfurling of secrets.

He shifted slightly, and his erection pushed into the dip between her thighs, igniting desire deep inside her. Water whispered in and out of the lagoon as waves of arousal rippled through her, swirling and building.

She moaned and drifted her fingertips up the curves of his back and shoulders to the soft suede of his hair, as he moved his hands down. As they kissed, he scooped under her butt, drawing her up so her damp heat ground into him, unleashing rivulets of hot, liquid pleasure through her, lighting her up to the soles of her feet. With both hands he kneaded her butt, slipping a couple of fingers under the hem of her shorts, and following the line of fabric to her sweet spot. Thank God she'd worn her shortest pair. He massaged her through the Lycra of her bikini as his tongue laved her mouth, exploring her top and bottom. Tiny explosive charges peppered under his fingers. She ached to feel his naked body against hers, but the effort of undressing seemed too great, with all her neurons focused elsewhere.

She pulled her mouth away. “Take my clothes off,” she said, the words coming out half plea, half order.

He hissed something in French, his eyes half-hooded.

“I hope that means ‘yes.'”

“Oui, princesse, avec plaisir.”

She could have melted at his pronunciation, low and gravelly. “Call me that again.”

“Princesse, princesse, princesse.”

He eased down until his mouth was level with her waist, unknotted her T-shirt—
his
T-shirt—and pushed up the hem, just far enough to reveal her stomach. Oh, man, he
was
going to take this slowly. Capturing her hips in firm hands, he flicked his tongue over her navel. She shuddered. His lips traveled over the curve of her belly to her hip. He gently bit the bony part. How could
that
be erotic? But—oh, man. As his mouth meandered to the other hip, his hands glided up her waist, bunching her T-shirt. She sat and raised her arms. He knelt, his thighs flanking hers, and smiled lazily as he swept the T-shirt over her head. He yanked his off with one hand. Better and better.

His mouth returned to hers, gently urging her back down. He palmed her breast, but the padded cups of Laura's bikini were doing nothing for her. As if reading her mind, he slid his hands to her shoulders and eased the straps down, his fingers tracing their former path to the curve of flesh pushing up from the tightening cups.

“You're gonna have to take that off,” she murmured.

“D'accord.”

How did he get that sexy low
R
sound? He threaded his fingers behind her and navigated the clip, giving her an opening to arch up and lick his sweat-slicked collarbone. The tang hit her taste buds. So far it had been his tongue doing the exploring. That was going to change. In a little while.

“How do you say, ‘Mmm, tasty,' in French?”

He released the clip, his torso reverberating with a laugh. Discarding the bikini top, he swept his tongue over her nipple and caught it gently between his teeth. “Mmm,
délicieux
.”

Her thoughts dulled as he teased and pulled and tongued her, first one breast then the next. A groan rolled through her. His hands slid south, and she closed her eyes, only vaguely conscious of deft fingers flickering over the fly on her shorts and pushing them over her hips. She arched, her hands seeking his shoulders, feeling his muscles contract and release as he moved over her. He stroked the front of her bikini panties, strong and deliberate, and sucked a nipple against the hard roof of his mouth, lighting up a fuse between her breast and the apex of her thighs.

He hooked a finger under the Lycra and drew circles deep into the flesh, the silky slide of his path and his deep growl telling her how slippery she was. Like she didn't already know. With every slow circle, she rose to a new plateau. The sounds around her muffled, her own moans and sighs coming from a misty distance.

He released her. Damn. She'd almost been there—what was he thinking? He yanked down her bikini and buried his mouth in the spot his fingers had just left.
Oh, that's what he's thinking
. His tongue resumed the circling motion, round and round, licking and lapping and sucking and sending her head spinning along with the rest of her. He plunged his fingers deep into her, moving inside to match the rhythm of his mouth. Heat and pressure and light built, sending her higher and higher and higher. With a crack, she exploded, bucking and panting and screaming and—holy shit, she didn't care what else.

As the world re-formed she realized he was laughing, a sexy chuckle so deep it might as well be subterranean. “Wow,” he said.

“Wow, indeed.” She lay back and stared up through palm fronds to a black carpet powdered by stars. “When did it get dark?”

“Somewhere between here...” He rose over her and kissed her. “And here...” He traced a path through her cleavage with his lips. “And here...” He slipped a finger over her most sensitive spot. She shuddered; the touch bordered on painful. He moved down and planted a line of kisses down her hip, her inner thigh, her outer thigh. Suddenly, he reared back. “Eugh,” he said, wiping his mouth.

“What is it?” She propped herself on her elbows. She'd had enough of nasty surprises in this jungle.

“Insect repellent.”

She laughed. He stretched over her, retrieved her champagne glass, long since knocked over, and refilled it. He took a gulp and leaned in for a kiss. She tasted the spark of champagne, the sting of Deet and the tang of...her. Wow was right. She'd had good sex before, but she'd never felt anything like that. Not just the violent orgasm but the feeling that she could surrender herself to him and trust that the memory wouldn't be ruined by a future betrayal. As they kissed, she drifted her fingertips up the stubble on his jaw and cheek, to the smooth skin of his temple. Was she being naive?

Whatever. She didn't need to overthink it, not tonight. Tonight was an escape, for both of them. A delicious—
délicieux
—escape, but just an escape. A mosquito whined in her ear. She smacked at it, breaking the kiss.

“Our defenses are down,” she said, nodding at the darkened fire pit.

“Way down.” His gaze slid down her body.

“I'm talking about mosquitoes.” She tugged his waistband, drawing him in, and coasted her hand over his tented shorts. “Though it does seem you're still wearing too many defenses.”

“Feels like it, too,” he said, huskily.

His eyes shifted and narrowed, focusing on her shoulder. He raised a palm, hovered it a second and swiped at her.

“Got it. We need to retreat, stat.”

He stood, and pulled her up. “Hammock? Will that, uh...” She looked at his shorts. “Work?”

“We'll make it work.” He fixed his focus onto the first-aid kit, his hand still holding hers. “Go, now. I'll meet you there.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You make it sound like a military operation.
Rendezvous HQ ASAP. Over
.”

His face relaxed into one of his rare full smiles. Dimple city. Her heart pinged. Was this beautiful, fascinating man really all hers, if only for tonight? “I'm not used to my orders being questioned.”

“Who made you commanding officer?”

In a blur of movement, he planted his hands on her butt, lifted her clean off the ground and drove her back into something solid—a palm tree. She giggled and wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling drunk—on a few sips of champagne, on
him
. Feeling
happy
. Wow.

He kissed her, his tongue bruising, his erection jammed into her sensitive cleft. Oh, God, she wanted to feel that filling her. The fabric of his shorts had to be getting soaked with her renewing desire. She squirmed. Mosquitoes be damned. She wriggled her legs free, let her feet find the earth and ripped at his fly. Gracelessly, she dislodged the button and lowered the zip. He was blessedly commando. She gripped his hard, engorged length with one hand. His tongue eased off, and he groaned into her mouth. She shoved the shorts over his butt, letting them fall.

“Finally,” she said.

He released her mouth and hoisted her back up. “Hold tight,” he said hoarsely, as if talking was too much effort.

She tightened her thighs around his hips and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, as he stepped out of his shorts and carried her away. If she lifted her hips a fraction and eased them down, he'd be right where she needed him.

“How do you say, ‘I want to screw you into next month'?”

“That doesn't need a translation,” he growled in her ear. “Grab the first-aid kit.” He crouched, hovering over the kit, his quads straining under her butt. She plucked it off the ground, a giggle bubbling up in her.

As they reached the mosquito net, he stopped to allow her to pull it open. He stumbled the last few steps, dumping her out onto the hammock. It swung wildly, forcing him to shoot out a hand and stop it. “Sorry, princess. I'm wound a little tight.”

She shuffled back on the hammock, allowing room for him. Earlier that evening, he'd laid a soft blanket over the strings. “Me, too. It's been...a while.”

“How long?”

He removed a packet from the kit, knotted up the net, and sat straddling the hammock, facing her. His eyes were black, his erection shot up like an invitation.

She crawled to him, until his lips were so close that his hot breath trickled into her mouth. “Six years.” His jaw dropped. She licked his open lips and plucked the packet from his hands. “I know. Believe me, I know. And you? Have there been other women since...”

“None that I...” He traced a finger down her cleavage and circled it around her nipple. She felt the pull as it tightened. “No one important.”

No one important
. She frowned. Did she come under that category?

He lifted his finger and smoothed it between her eyes. “No one as incredible as you,
mon ange
.”

She clenched her teeth on the corner of the condom packet. God, it was a shame they had no future, but she'd damn well make the most of the present. Tonight, she would just enjoy breaking her drought with the most
délicieux
man she'd ever met.