Skin on Skin (20 page)

I
t was the quietness that finally stirred Anna. That opened her eyes and turned them to him. He lay beside her, his body tense and tight, while hers felt boneless. Her body sated, his unfulfilled.

One tanned arm was flung up, covering his eyes, as if that somehow helped his body contain his weeping need. Clear, liquid desire oozed from the swollen head of him. He’d been so kind, so patient, so gentle. She wanted to please him now, in turn, as he had pleased her. And so, though her body was sated, fed so well that it no longer needed or wanted, she reached up over him and plucked up the foiled wrap that had lain there so patiently waiting.

The shifting of the bed, the ripping sound of paper made Rand lower his arm. He throbbed, he needed, he burned. And yet he was happy. She had been so beautiful, so surprised in her release. She had surrendered so sweetly to him, to his pleasure, had lain so trustingly beneath him as he had probed her first with his finger and then with his tongue. The taste and feel of a woman, this woman, the feel of her hands gripping his hair as she shuddered beneath him—even now the memory of it filled his heart, made bearable the aching unfulfilled need of his body.

His eyes flew open to see her poised above him, her skin flushed, her lips passion-reddened, passion-sated, passion stirring once more anew.

“Your turn.” She smiled and his cock lifted hard and heavy against him at her words. At her action.

She pulled the ring of rubber firmly over his thick crown, rolled it down to his base.

She shifted up, settled over him, straddling him, her long hair falling in an inky wash over his waist, his stomach, his thighs, wisping over him like a thousand kisses. Another smile, and something darker in those mysterious eyes of hers: knowledge. Waiting pleasure.

“Touch me,” she said.

He didn’t wait for another invitation. His hands filled with the sweet delicacy of her breasts. His thumbs rose to brush and explore her rosy tips, finding hardness there among all the softness. Her eyelashes fluttered down like butterfly wings at his touch. She sighed, a slow release of breath, then opened her eyes to peer down into the very essence of him, of who he was. Who was he that he could make her feel this way? Gently she pulled him back, angled him up, lowered down onto him, watching him as she touched him to her, as he probed her, as she rolled him in her wetness, over her moist pouty lips, and then through them.

She held him with her eyes as she slowly took him into her body with effort, with grace, with steely determination. She had to fight to push him in, to get the thick head of him to enter into her willing but tight body, so long unused. He wanted to throw his head back at the sweet, swallowing tightness of her, but her gaze refused to release him. And so he watched her. Watched her watch him as she took him into herself like a sweet dream, like finding heaven when he had been so long in hell.

Heaven became hell when she finally pushed the fat crown of him in, surrounding that part of him in weeping wonder. In hot bliss. In tormenting stillness. And then in excruciating slowness.

Dear God, he felt so big. He
was
big, despite his denial. Big and hard, so hard. Like steel. She panted, relaxed, pushed down. If only she could get him all the way in! She swiveled his hips, moved in testing increments up and down. Such small, careful movements, not wanting to dislodge him after working so hard to get him in this far. She leaned forward, over Rand, and pushed down, gasping when his head lifted up and he latched upon a taut nipple, his mouth replacing the roughness of his hands, pulling, tugging, sucking on her, sucking a groan out of her, tightening her around him, squeezing a vibrating groan from him, transmuting that painful sound of pleasure through her breasts, shafting it down to where he joined in her, that tiny bit. It was lovely, it was breathtaking, his mouth upon her, the edge of his teeth around her hardness like a sweet promise. She felt a hot gush of her liquid honey spill over him, its purpose to make it easier to slide in. But the clenching tightness of her sheath snug around him resisted his entry.

Reluctantly, she pulled back away from him. His eyes rose back to hers, watching her as she danced over him—swivel, lift, gentle rise, firm push down. Lift, push, around and around, with barely any progress.

He’d said all it took to please a man was to be inside a woman. But he hadn’t said how hard it would be to get him in there.

Her hand came down to measure him, to feather up, then down to his base. She almost wanted to cry with frustration. Not even halfway in.

He looked like he was in agony, jaw muscles bunched, eyes blazing like jewels set afire, body clenched all over. Tight with restraint, with being gentle.

“Help me,” she pleaded.

His hands lifted from her hair where he had buried them, like black silken ropes sweetly binding him. A harsh breath. “Can I be on top?”

“Yes.”

With a lunge, a twist, he rolled and she was suddenly beneath him. His hands on her hips kept them locked together so that he was still in her. He began to move and she was the one who had to close her eyes now.
Oh, my God.
Maybe it was not having to do the work. Maybe it was being on the bottom. Whatever it was, sensation washed anew within her like burned ashes stirred to life, combusting once more into flames that licked over her entire body as he moved within her with gentle force, with gentle power, pushing into her with steady strength, making her yield to his slow invasion, yielding her softness to his hardness. Making her realize that this…this was truly being a woman. Taking him into her, surrounding him, swallowing him up. But it was her cup that spilleth over. With incredible sweetness, with incredible sensation, with hot, bursting pleasure. The movement, the joining, the physical presence of him in her, around her. So right. Suddenly she wanted it all. Lifting her hips, she surged up, impaling herself on him so that he was fully sheathed within her. Her body to his. His hips against hers. Her curls mingling with his. And the sight of him buried deep, disappearing inside her, sent a quiver, a clenching within her. Pulled a sweating curse, a moaning groan from him.

Eyes locked with hers, he began to move in her. And it was a joining more intimate than anything she could have imagined. The fierce agony on his face, the press of his sweat-dampened body against hers as he braced himself up over her on his arms. The movement of him pulling slowly out of her—heavy, hard, slippery hot—was even better. Rippling pleasure, incredible friction. Her hands came up to grasp his hips. When he started surging back into her, her hands slid down to palm his tight, flexing buttocks as he pushed. He was so hard, both inside and outside where her hands caressed him, kneaded him. Her knees came up, bridging his hips, and that angle made it easier, opened her up more, so that he came even deeper into her, glazing both their eyes, blurring their vision until nothing else mattered but the motion, the union. In, out, rocking inside her, around her, over her. His breath striking her face. His body plunging into her open, more receiving channel. Less tight, more space. A faster pace. That climbing once more. Clenching, tightening, relaxing…to begin that dance again. Apart, together, in her, then out. Until she was lifting her hips in rhythm to his, meeting his thrusts with her own, plastering herself to him, grinding against him. But it wasn’t enough, not enough. He was being so careful. And it was killing her.

“More!” she gasped—begged—as he left her, surged back into her. “Don’t hold back, don’t hold back.”

Eyes gleaming, sweat plastering his hair to his temples, face so tight—he obeyed her. His rhythm sped up, loosened as if free, the force of his thrusts doubling, tripling, taking her breath. She exploded, burst like fireworks set free, a hot wash of ecstasy lifting her up, lifting both of them up as she clenched so tight around him that it felt as if a hot inner fist were squeezing him. And then he burst, too, in a wonderful, wracking, shuddering release, crying out, creaming out, spurting within her. A moment of rapture, then blind heaven, sinking into the softness of her. Having her wrap her arms tight around him, holding him, drifting in the sweet aftermath for a countless moment. One breath, two, and he found enough strength to roll off to the side so that he wasn’t crushing her.

Her eyes opened, dark and languid.

“What’s your name?” he asked, and she didn’t think to lie.

“Anna Huang.”

“Anna,” he murmured. “My name is Rand. Rand Weatherby. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes,” she said, and kissed him.

T
he joining of their bodies, their release…it was as if it freed them of the awkwardness, the unknowingness. Now they knew each other, and the knowing seemed to give them permission to touch, to kiss. To talk.

“Were you coming or leaving?” he asked, stroking her thick pelt of hair as she lay curled up against him, her head resting on his chest, her hand stroking over his shoulder, down his arm.

Her hand, that soft hand, stopped moving, stopped touching him. “Would you like me to go now?” she asked in a careful voice.

He scowled, pulled back so he could look into her eyes. “Hell, no. I want you to stay. Can you stay?” he asked softly, persuasively, his voice so at odds with the fierceness on his face.

She went with his voice. “I’d like to.”

“Then stay.” The displeasure smoothed away from his face. “I was asking about Aceh Province. You’re here as part of the tsunami relief, right?”

Anna nodded.

“Are you coming or leaving from Aceh?”

She relaxed then, letting the tension flow from her, allowed him to put her hand back on his chest, allowed him to rest his hand once more on her hips, stroking, brushing, in a languid, liquid movement up and down the small rise and curve, connecting them in touch though he stayed that small distance away to watch her face.

“Leaving,” she said.

“Me, too. I spent eight weeks in Aceh Besar, in the village of Terbe, building new houses.”

“I was in Abidin Hospital in Banda Aceh for three weeks, treating the injured.”

“Are you a doctor?”

Anna rewarded him with a smile. “Yes,” she answered. Most people would have assumed that she was a nurse simply because she was female.

He smiled back, comfortable, relaxed, totally at ease, his rough, callused hand moving up and down her side in gentle, soothing strokes. “What type?”

“Family practice.”

His eyes crinkled in that familiar way. “The whole shebang, huh. From babies to the old folks.”

“Yes, I like it that way. The continuity of it.”

“My kid brother’s going to be a doctor, too. He’s in his last year of medical school at Johns Hopkins. Me, I like building things. I’m an architect.” His eyes suddenly gleamed with humor. “You look surprised.”

And she was. “You don’t look like an architect,” she said, putting it mildly. With that hair, that body, he looked more like a construction laborer. But his eyes were filled with kindness and perception, with keen intelligence.

The beard shifted as his mouth curved up in a smile both hidden and revealed by what lay over it. “What, all the hair?”

She nodded, laughed a little. “Yes.” Lifted a hand to stroke “all the hair.” The crinkly touch of his beard tickled her palm, making her giggle. And the sound of her giggling was so unlike Anna, she stilled in sudden surprise.

He was smiling at her, pleased that he’d made her laugh. “I let everything grow out the last couple of months here.”

“And you labored with your hands, didn’t just push a pencil around.”

“No, I also hammered and lifted. It’s been so long since I did that. It felt good.” He stretched, long and languid. “Helping people felt good.”

“Yes, it does.”

His hand lifted to scratch his chest and she followed the movement idly with her eyes, then froze as she caught sight of the line of paleness on the fourth finger. His left hand.

Stupid, stupid, stupid,
she muttered to herself as her eyes slowly lifted up to his narrowed ones, to his lying, cheating stillness.

He was married.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, his voice low as he saw where her eyes had fixed.

“No, I didn’t ask.” And she should have. Not his fault. Hers. “But I can’t be with you anymore if you’re married.” Anna swallowed and sat up, suddenly, terribly conscious of her nakedness, of the sticky wetness still between her thighs.
Oh, God.

“We would not be here together like this if I were married.” His voice was deep, gritty, touched with pain. “She died. A year ago.”

A long, slow breath eased from Anna. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I. Though in some ways she’d already died five years earlier.”

He looked so desolate. The grief in him was real and sharp and drew her back into his arms to hold him, stroke him, comfort him. “I’m sorry.”
For doubting you. For her dying and leaving you.
“I’m sorry.”

A sigh shuddered out of Rand and he held her tight and found himself finally able to talk about it. “We were married for one year before her car accident. Her name was Dianne. She was an artist—gifted, vibrant, so full of life. The accident almost killed her. Maybe it would have been best if it had.” He took a deep breath, said flatly, “It left her brain-damaged, with the mental capacity of a one-year-old child. I hired attendants to look after her in our home. I kept her alive when I don’t think she would have wanted to be, not like that. Unable to walk or talk, or feed herself. With horrible contractures. She would have hated knowing that she was like that. I pray to God that she didn’t. And I kept her like that for five long years before she finally died. I kept her with me because I didn’t want to be alone. Because she was first my wife, and then my child. And when she died, I lost everything. My wife, my child, my family.”

He pressed his face against her hair so that she wouldn’t see him cry. So she could only hear the thickness of tears in his voice, but didn’t see them. He blinked, concentrating on not letting the wetness spill from his eyes.

Her voice drifted to him like soft velvet, her words a soothing, healing balm. “You did nothing wrong in caring for her. She would have done the same for you had you been likewise injured, and you would not have hated her for doing so. You promised to love her and care for her, in sickness and in health. And you did. You kept your vows. Survivor’s guilt.” She laughed, and it was a harsh sound. “It’s a real bitch.”

Curiosity stirred Rand from his own hurt, made him tilt her face up to his. “You sound as if you know.”

Darkness stirred in her eyes. “Oh, yes. I know. Only my guilt is for being happy. Happy that the bastard died.”

“The man who betrayed you?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

She lifted up so that his hands fell away from her face, so that she rose above him, looked down at him. A hand lifted, touched his face in gentle apology. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“What do you want?”

“I just want to be with you tonight.”

“Okay,” he said softly, making her smile, making her bend down to kiss him, to press her red lips, swollen from their kisses, against his lips, brushing softness against softness, firmness against firmness. Tender, seeking, promising. Leaving him dazed.

“Stay here,” she whispered, and he watched her leave the bed and walk gently to the bathroom, her hips swaying gracefully in natural fluid movement. Water ran and splashed, the toilet flushed, and she returned with a damp washcloth in hand.

“Let me care for you, now,” she said and moved the cloth down his shoulders, over his chest, down to the part of him sticky from his own ejaculate after he had disposed of the condom.

Beneath her silky touch, under the rasping brush of the wash-cloth against his skin, he began to stir, to thicken and harden.

“I want to touch you more, explore you more,” she said.

He grew even fuller beneath the caress of her words.

“I want to lick you, taste you. I want to roll your balls in my hand, feel you spurting in my mouth, and taste you sliding down my throat when I swallow you down into me. That…that is what I really want.”

“Jesus,” Rand breathed, prayed, not entirely sure which. He bit back a groan but couldn’t stop himself from flexing beneath her hand, an eager bob.

“Is that a yes?” she asked.

“Yes. Hell, yes.”

She smiled. Like a cat who had licked the cream and was about to swallow it.