Whisper (The Voice trilogy Book 1) (23 page)

He drives himself deeper until we become one, liquid and replete. Piercing the celestial heavens with the heat and intensity of our lust for one another, the big bang erupts all around us and we are nothing but energy. Every cell in my body is alive, humming with electricity, reaching for him. Our auras are surely mingled as we are sucked into a vortex in which only he and I exist. The world is alight with our lovemaking, the sun jealous of our heat. He collapses in a sticky mess on my chest. His damp forehead pressed between my breasts. Breathing ragged and clipped.

“God, Sophie.” His lips move against my skin, and he shudders again, the final tremor pulsing through him as he empties himself into me. He jerks and
stills, exhausted and spent. We are joined by body, by mind, by sweat and tears. So tied up in each other it’s no longer clear where I end and he begins, and it feels amazing.

Curled against his chest, I lay silent and satisfied to a degree I did not know was possible. His arms wound around me like possessive, creeping vines. Our fingers laced, twisted in knots. He draws slow circles on my palm, hypnotizing me. The ropes still securely wound up both of my arms, he fingers the silk, murmuring to himself, appreciative, admiring his handy work. It really is beautiful, I suppose. The silky black rope woven from my wrists to my elbows, it lays flat and smooth against my skin. Each cuff has a long chain braid running down the inside of my arm. The knots are intricate, finely made, it’s clear that he has had ample practice. I run my finger across the rope, the throbbing in my arms evident under the sensitive nub of my fingertip. 
             

I had been so distracted by what he was doing to me; I forgot to notice how tight the ropes are. My arms begin to throb more violently, blood pulses from through my veins, struggling against the tight black rope, fighting to get to my hands. I wiggle my fingertips, as they are beginning to numb. Rhys rolls me onto my back and pulls my hands to his mouth. He places a gentle kiss on each wrist, and begins to untie his artful knots. With every unwinding of the rope, blood rushes under my skin,
satisfying, relieving. I rub my wrists and find that the sensation is sensual, erotic. Running my fingers along each line, I revel in the rush of blood and electricity. The evidence of his hunger, his passion is written all over my arms. I muse to myself about the possibilities the ropes represent. How else could he tie me in knots, what else could he do to me? How much can I take?

“Where did you learn to tie knots like this?”

“Just something I picked up.” A sly wink raises the corner of his lopsided mouth and I giggle like a silly school girl. We spent the better part of the night chasing exquisite tiny deaths. He pushed me beyond the limits of my imagination, pushed Nadja out. But my body is in shock, unable to recover. My skin is sticky and hot and raw. A brush of his hand and I may burst into flames or turn to dust. I am spent and deliciously achy. He rolls off the bed, taking his magical hands with him.

“I need a shower. Join me?” He holds his hand out for me, but I cannot even raise my arm. I smile sleepily at him and nod, unable to peel myself from the bed, unable to take another sensual assault, which is surely what will happen if I get in the shower with him.   

The shower roars to life and I decide to escape to the kitchen while he reluctantly showers alone. My body has been twisted and turned in ways I could never have imagined. I am sore and stiff from being tied up, something that frightened me until the first sensual twist of the rope. I rub at the rope marks that are seared into my skin. The indentations so fresh and tender, row after row of gentle bite, the braid of the rope still evident in my flesh. The slightest pressure and I can feel him all over me again. Anchored to the bed, unable to do anything but absorb all he could give me. He spread me open and made me feel powerful when all my power had been taken away. The rope marks will fade, but I will never forget that. I shake it from my mind and set to work gathering ingredients for waffles. Nothing better than a little sweet carb kick for recovery.

“What are you doing?” He shines like a god, freshly showered, inky black hair still wet, gently curling at his forehead.

“Making waffles. You earned it.” I smile before turning back to my work, grabbing a block of sharp cheddar I found hiding in the back of the fridge. I grate the cheese over the bowl of waffle batter.

“Waffles at two a.m.? Do you know that you are putting cheese in my waffles?” he asks, wrapping his arms around my core, squeezing me tightly before kissing me gently on the shoulder. I shudder under the weight of his kiss. My body is still buzzing from each and every encounter, the intense high building upon itself until I go into some sort of sexual fit. He has turned me into a fully possessed white-hot flame of a woman. I don’t think I will ever be
satisfied, he just makes me want more. He makes me utterly greedy and licentious. 

“It is my Mom’s recipe. She always put just a sprinkle of sharp cheddar in her batter, said it made the syrup taste sweeter. She would always make them for my Dad after he went fishing.” He stills behind me, pausing at the mention of my parents. I back up into him, circling my hips against him, wiping the comment away.

“I feel honored. Can I put on some cooking music for you, Beautiful?” Sweeping my hair out of the way he places a heavy kiss against my neck.

“Yes, please.”

Skin still glistening from his recent shower, black silk pants dangle from his hips, torturing me as he walks across the kitchen to the bay of cabinets that houses a nerve center of technology. He grabs a small remote and closes the cabinets. He turns to me with a wolfish grin. Head cocked to the side, he starts the music and saunters towards me with his hands extended for a dance while Louis Armstrong croons for a kiss.

“Is this appropriate music for waffles?”

“Yes, I believe it is.” I move into his arms and I’m swept away. Around the kitchen, we sway, moving across the cool marble floors, in our bare feet. Like Fred and Ginger. His strong arm wrapped around my waist, fingers tugging at my warm flesh. His eyes are locked on mine, his hand pulling me closer to him, pressing me into his freshly showered skin. His fingers travel down my arm and stop at my wrist. He brings it slowly to his mouth and kisses the line of each rope mark, gently rubbing the pad of his thumb across the tender flesh. 

“I think this may be romance. A girl could get the wrong idea.” I look up into his eyes, clear green pools, safe and warm. He rests his forehead against mine, presses his hand to the small of my back and pulls me closer.

“Oh, I already have the wrong idea, Sophie. Perhaps I have decided that it is in my best interest to sweep you off of your feet.”

“I believe you have successfully done that already. Several times in the last two days.”
             

“Really?”
He seems genuinely surprised. “You hold your cards tightly. How am I to know?” I am once struck by his inability to read me as I had assumed he could, and his ever burgeoning self-doubt.

“How about the fact that almost every time you touch me, I fall flat on my back.” He smirks and twists his head.

“I think your waffles are burning, Beautiful.” He turns me towards the stove and pushes me towards the smoking waffle iron. He laughs at me, removing a piece of coal in the shape of a waffle. “It’s bad luck to eat the first one anyhow. Throw it away and start again.” I manage to make two perfect waffles while he tries his damndest to distract me with his body, his eyes, his mouth. But I am focused on a hearty breakfast so we can get back to bed.

He sets the marble bar with woven black placemats, basic white china and silver, pours orange juice and watches me flip the last waffle out of the iron. I walk around the bar and take the stool next to him. He winds his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, stool and all. Pulling my hand to his mouth, he brushes hip lips along the deepest rope mark. It travels up my wrist from the base of my hand to my inner elbow. His lips are soft and generous, planting feather light kisses on the sensitive skin inside my elbow. The effort echoes in my groan and I shift slightly on my stool.

“I love these,” he muses, running his fingers along the deep rope marks that mar the delicate flesh of my other arm. “All right, little lady, let’s get a taste of these cheddar waffles. I have never heard of such a thing, but here we go.” He takes the first bite drizzled with dark maple syrup and pauses. He turns to me and a wide grin spreads across his surprised face. “These are delicious!” He declares 

“Careful now, I might change your life,” I tease, taking a syrupy bite. He stops and watches me intently, willing me to surrender my full attention. The intensity in the set of his shoulders sizzles and I nearly choke, taking a long, slow sip of juice before daring to make eye contact. When I look up he is pensive, watching me.
Waiting. 

“I have never been with a girl like you, Sophie.” I don’t know what to say, he has caught me in his cross hairs, unprepared, speechless and electrified by his casual confession.

“What does that mean? A girl like me?”

“Someone who makes me waffles at 2am.” We eat in silence, savoring the sweet treat. His hand rests on my leg and my foot rests on his stool.

“This is nice.” Looking up into his eyes, I am struck by how comfortable and familiar we have become in such a short amount of time.

“What?” he asks, his mouth half full of the last bite of waffle.

“This. You relaxed, not looming like a force of nature. Me, like this. It just feels good. I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time.” He puts his fork down on his empty plate and turns to me. His eyes sharply focused on my face.

“I loom?” His brows knit together and I suddenly hope I didn’t cross a line or hurt him. I drop my eyes and my voice follows.

“You can be very intense,” I peek up through my lashes, hoping for a calm and kind reaction, “always flexing that alpha male muscle. This is a different Rhys.”

“It’s you, Sophie.” He brushes an errant curl away from my face, his finger lingering at my ear. “You have blurred all the lines. I am breaking my own rules.” My heart skips a beat as a rush of pleasure surges through me at the casual manner in which he can talk this way with me. But, I never meant to blur any lines or force his hand in any way. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that little old me could affect a man such as him in such a way. It’s not who I am, not how the world sees me, not how I see myself.

“Well, thank goodness for air travel. One more day and I will be out of your hair and all will be as it once was. Lines restored, rules reinstated. Tidy, just like you like it.” I watch his face fall slightly before he collects the empty plates and drops them in the sink.

“Right, tidy,” he murmurs, not looking at me.  

Chapter 18  

His fingers flow like lazy rivers down my back, coaxing me from a deep, exhausted sleep. I peek out from the safety of my sleep to discover a darkened room. It is still dark outside. Rolling out from under Rhys’ hands, I curl up into a ball and bury my face in his chest.

“What time is it?” I murmur against his calm, steady heart. 

“Time for a swim,” he whispers, his voice smooth like velvet, coaxing a grin that tugs at my mouth before I ever open my eyes. “Come, we can watch the sun come up.” He pulls away and I am bereft from the loss of his warm skin and intoxicating scent.

“Grab my suit.”

“You don’t need one, Beautiful.”

“Um, yes I do. I don’t want people to see me.” Panic cracks in my voice, an exhibitionist I am not.

“It’s dark, Sophie. No one can see us. Besides, a little exposure can be exhilarating.”  Oh, he is playing with me now, playing on the fear that is all over my sleepy face. I clutch the sheet tightly to my chest. Protecting myself from what’s to come, covering myself now against the threat that I may not be able to cover myself later. He emerges from the bathroom, a pale green cotton robe hanging from his shoulders. He tosses another robe at me and tugs the sheets out of my hands. I slip the soft robe around my shoulders and stand up. Still sleep soaked and dazed, my knees buckle and I sag into his waiting arms. “The water will wake you up, or I will,” he threatens, tucking me under the crook of his arm. We head out to the pool, and into the fading moonlight.

The pool is cool and calm. I dip my toe in and a shock runs up my body. It is black outside, the only light emanating from the bottom of the pool, casting a soft blue light across the water and the pool deck. In the distance, I can barely make out a few twinkling lights on the horizon.

“Cruise ships,” he answers casually, reading my thoughts. We are alone. The thought helps calm my nerves, and I begin to untie my robe. Rhys drops his without hesitation and dives into the pool. His lithe nude form slips, elegantly beneath the water, illuminated by the pool light. He shines, like a deity of the deep, strong legs pushing him, roped arms pulling him. He emerges from the water and shakes his head, playfully spraying me with the rivulets that swing from his inky hair. 

“Come on in, Beautiful. The water is cold without you.” He splashes me again and I give in. There is no winning when he has made up his mind. Compromise and patience don’t seem to be in his wheelhouse. If he wants me in the pool, I can either get in of my own accord, or he will make me. I drop my robe with a flourish, casting it behind me like a bathing goddess. I channel Rita Hayworth, imagining in the dull light of the pool that I am glamorous and confident. The thought is shattered by a face full of water from Rhys.