Taboo (17 page)

Work—gone. Parents—gone. The future could take care of itself. Nothing mattered but this man she loved more than any person alive or dead; this man, whose masterful hands helped her thrust the last of her fears into oblivion.

As he touched her intimately, plied her flesh with loving, agile fingers, with his clever mouth and tongue, she thrashed against the silk nightgown, its encumbrance unforgivable for keeping even a fraction of their bodies apart.

Finally, naked, entwined, they sought the secrets of each other's skin, nothing hidden or left untouched. She stroked him as he caressed her, marveling in the length and breadth of his body, delighting in his whispers of encouragement and groans of delight.

How long they wrestled and fondled, she didn't know. She only knew that if he didn't take her at last, she would go mad.

"Don't wait," she pleaded through kiss-swollen lips. "If you wait, I'll die."

"We'll die again and again," he promised, his teeth clenched with the effort of restraint. "We'll die the little death together when I bury myself inside you and we're finally one."

Quickly, he sheathed himself. She regretted even that between them, and told him so.

"I hate it too," he whispered roughly. "Because I want it all. I want you to feel me hot and surging, coming inside as deep as I can reach."

"Reach now," she begged. "Don't stop until you're home." Shamelessly, beyond caring, she spread her legs and guided him to the threshold of her entry, knowing there would be pain, but none that could rival the agony of his absence.

Sliding his hand between their bodies, he stimulated her with slow, sensitive caresses, while he eased himself inside, just the smallest bit. She arched up for more, but he held back. She panted his name and quivered, while he whispered sex words, love words, to stoke her spiraling hunger.

Would be never appease her? she wondered dazedly. Was it some kind of torture he was bent on administering? With a growl that was animalistic, so primal it surely hadn't come from her, she sank her nails into his back and was rewarded with an answering, hoarse groan.

"You want me. You need me."

"Yes, yes," she chanted. "More than anything, yes."

"And you're in love with me."

"I do love you, Grant. You know I do."

"Say you're
in
love with me. Forever in love."

"I'm
in love with you, Grant.
Madly, passionately. Yes, forev—"

The words caught as he thrust into her. He sealed his mouth over hers, swallowing her sharp cry as if it were his own. The emptiness was suddenly too full, and her body jerked in protest.

"Easy, easy," he whispered. "Hold tight to me, and I promise to make it right."

He soothed her, held her captive with his weight, with his kisses, until her body miraculously adjusted to make a perfect fit. Then he began to move with slow, expert strokes. Gradually, when she was sure this was only becoming better, the pain a wondrous precursor to ecstasy, she began to move slightly with him.

Grant murmured his praise and increased her pleasure. When she thought it could never be better, it suddenly was. He was entering her fast and deep, and she was rising, endlessly rising to greet each powerful thrust, riding with him on a tidal wave that cast them both higher, far from reality.

She looked up into his face, and saw his eyes were slitted with passion, every muscle strained, taut. There was the smell of fire, of musk, of sweat... and then her world broke apart, flinging her in so many directions that she thought she must have died and this was paradise. She called to him and he joined her, pulsing with life, with love, and, as they rocked complete in each other's arms, with the joy of ecstasy's laughter.

* * *

Somehow they made it to the bedroom with the wine. He hadn't carried her—they had remained mated each step of the way. Their endless coupling was a ballet of epic proportions. Tender, ravenous, sensual, erotic, a hedonistic indulgence of the senses that must have been blessed by heaven but was so marvelously, deliciously wanton, it had to be sin.

The wine was long gone, and so were her inhibitions. They had no secrets left, and there was no room for regrets.

Gazing at his sleeping form, Cammie offered a prayer of thanks. Her heart overflowed at the sight of him, the beauty that was Grant. He was a modern-day Adonis, externally more beautiful than any man had a right to be. But that wasn't his real allure. It was
him.
What he was inside, which far exceeded the outside package.

His parents were exceptional people. They had to be to have given birth to and raised such a man.

Cammie sighed and her brows drew together. It was the first time she'd let herself think about them, about the issue that remained unresolved between her and Grant.

They had two more days together to discuss what they should do. She didn't want to taint the wonder of the night by concerns that wouldn't go away, but could wait. Just as she thought she and Grant should wait, make sure this was forever, before risking the family balance.

Snuggling deeper into his embrace, she pushed the unwanted thoughts aside and pressed a kiss against his neck. Before she could whisper "Good morning," he rolled her onto her back, holding her hands high above her head.

"For being in such a deep sleep," she said, "you sure are a quick riser." She giggled as his beard scratched her chin, then he lowered to nuzzle a plump, ivory breast.

He nudged her hips with his and growled, "I rise a lot quicker than you think, young lady."

She gasped as he thrust inside her and then lay very still.

"Is that safe?" she asked, noticing she was sore but most definitely accommodating. He fit tight, perfect, secure.

"Not too smart probably, but for a minute, I think we're safe. Be still, don't move. Just let me feel myself inside before I wake up and have to act rationally."

"I don't want to act rationally," she whispered impulsively. "I want us to make love again and again and never stop."

"For a lifetime and more," he concurred. His eyes bored into hers, serious eyes that matched a serious voice. "Cammie Walker, I want you always. In the good times and the bad. I want to—"

They both stiffened at the sound of a car pulling up close to the cottage. Within moments there followed a loud
thud
of a shutting door. For a split second they stared wordlessly at each other.

Familiar voices outside had Grant rolling off her, automatically reaching for a nonexistent pair of jeans. Cammie sprang off the bed, frantically scrambling for a robe when all she could find was the discarded wine bottle. Her scarlet nightie lay in a heap with Grant's clothes in front of the fireplace.

"What are we going to do, Grant?" she asked urgently.

He was already headed for the small living room, and in seconds flat was throwing on his pants. The red nightgown sailed in her direction just as she heard a knock on the front door.

Grant tossed the discarded blankets into her room, then leaned in as his gaze traced her nude body, which was shaking, and not from the cold.

"You get dressed," he said calmly. "I'll make coffee for Mom and Dad, and get them ready to hear the news."

"What?" she croaked, fumbling around for anything besides the incriminating gown to wear. "What news?"

"Why, about us, of course."

Chapter 11

"No!" She shook her head emphatically while she scrambled through a drawer. She jumped into a pair of sweatpants so fast, he thought her life must have depended on it. "Grant, no. It's too soon."

He heard the jangle of a key being fit into the lock, but chose to ignore it. Cammie's opposition was far more disturbing than being discovered.

"What do you
mean
it's too soon? There'll never be a good time, Cammie. The sooner we set the record straight, the better."

"Not yet! Grant, please. I'm begging you—"

"Knock, knock." Edward called. "Anybody home?"

Cammie's pleading eyes were the last thing Grant saw before she lunged forward and shut the bedroom door.

His heart sank, an iciness wrapping around it at her rejection. Oh, how he hurt. It was too deep, too deep.

Drawing on more self-control than he knew he possessed, he forbade himself to kick open the door and drag her out half-dressed to confront the final obstacle.

He turned, his mouth set in a grim line—the closest he could get to a smile—just as his parents entered the cottage.

"Well, if you don't look a mess," his mother chided as she scanned the untidy room. "Looks like y'all had a party and forgot to invite us along. Really, Grant. Sleeping till noon? You and Cammie must have been enjoying yourselves last night."

"Oh, yeah," he said as raw emotions twisted through his gut. "We had a ball." Rapping sharply on Cammie's door, he called, "Hey, Cammie, wake up. The folks are here. They want to hear all about the good time we had last night."

With a jovial laugh, his father added, "Next vacation, we'll join you. Guess we got here late, but better late than never, right, Dotty?"

The door behind Grant cracked open and Cammie peeked out, her face pale and anxious.

"Hi, Mom and Dad. Guess we slept late. As soon as I'm dressed, I'll meet you in the kitchen."

"Cammie," Dorothy said with maternal alarm, "you look ten times worse than Grant. You're not ill, are you?"

Before Cammie could retreat, Dorothy hurried forward to put a hand against her forehead.

"No fever," she concluded, clucking her tongue while Cammie began to look even worse.

"No, no, I'm just tired," she muttered, glancing nervously at Grant. "I'll be fine as soon as I take a shower and drink a cup of coffee."

Grant glared accusingly at her, and she quickly dropped her gaze.

"I'll fix you kids something to eat," Dorothy said, and headed for the kitchen. "I do declare, children. We leave you alone for a week and you wear yourselves out. Is that any way to spend your vacation?"

"We wouldn't have spent it any other way, would we, Cammie?" Grant said.

"No." she said in a faint voice that made him want to shake her.

"So how many fish did you catch so far, son?" Edward asked as he and Grant followed Dorothy. "Did Cammie beat you as usual?"

"We're tied for once," he said shortly, stealing a last glance at Cammie and hating the silent plea he read in her eyes. "I think her luck just ran out. Because this time I mean to win."

* * *

Grant stared straight ahead at the road, the silence in the car thick and stretching as far as the blur of yellow lines on the highway. He glanced over at Cammie, who was concentrating too hard on the needlework in her lap.

In a fit of frustration he snatched the embroidery hoop out of her hands and hurled it into the minuscule backseat.

"They're gone," he said curtly. "You can drop the 'all's well' routine. As we both know, all is
not
well. That farce we put up is still turning my stomach."

"I can't believe they came to keep us company." Cammie gripped her own middle as though she were the one battling illness. "It was like a dream turning into a nightmare. Hearing them outside when we were..." She shuddered.

"Finish the sentence, Cammie," he challenged hotly.

"Please, Grant. I'm not up to fighting with you about this. I'm still shaking from the ordeal."

"Okay, then
I'll
finish it," he snapped. "Hearing them outside when we were having sex. Hot, don't ever stop, make love to me forever, sex." But he wouldn't mention, he added silently, that he was about to ask her to marry him, to sleep in his bed every night and have his babies. Or that he was even ready to make a fool of himself and start spouting poetry. "Come, grow old with me, the best is yet to be..." Hah!

"Why do you have to be so nasty about it, Grant? Can't you let it drop until we can discuss this rationally?"

"No, I can't. And believe me, I'm not being half as nasty as I'd like. Thanks to you, we're still Mom and Dad's little angels, not two adults in charge of our own lives who don't need parental consent to make our own decisions."