Ghost Night

Page 23

She grew serious. “I didn’t ask last night, what about you?” she asked him. “Is there any involvement in your life?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t been home that long. Before, I moved too much. The Black Sea, the Great Barrier Reef. Loch Ness. The Great Lakes. The Bahamas.”
“You’ve really been everywhere,” she noted.
“Everywhere—and nowhere,” he murmured. He rolled over and rose. “I’ll put coffee on. Are you a breakfast person? I’m a decent cook—that’s what happens when you live on boats half the time. You get desperate and learn how to cook.”
“But no laundry, eh?” she teased.
“Hey, I packed enough for what I needed. Laundry was done onshore. Eating is a necessity on a daily basis. So, you a breakfast person?”
“Sure, only I help cook,” she said.
He nodded. “Actually, there’s already coffee on. Programmed it last night. I’m going to jump in the shower. Help yourself whenever you’re ready.”
“Thanks.”
He left the room. Vanessa walked into her own bathroom and met her reflection in the mirror. She was still flushed. She washed her face, brushed her teeth and thought about the shower.
Then she thought about the night.
She thought about his words, and about the way he had behaved.
She winced, hesitated, caught her breath.
He was everything she wanted, as well. Yes, he was gorgeous, tall, bronzed, well muscled, with his striking, rugged and intriguing face. Classical features. Golden eyes. But it wasn’t just the tempting pull of his equally sculpted build.
It was the sea. The things he loved. The way he behaved. Even his bark when he was angry. Even the way he looked at her when he was wary, skeptical. It was in his movement, in his words.
She didn’t step into her own shower. She walked down the hall, knowing which room was his from days gone by. She listened and heard the sound of the water flowing in his shower.
“Sean?” She tentatively pushed open the door to his room and walked through it. The bathroom door was ajar and the water was flowing.
She stepped closer. “Sean?”
The shower curtain jerked open and he looked out, alert and anxious.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing!” she declared quickly. So much for being a femme fatale with a casual and sensual style.
“I—oh, God, I’m not at all good at this. I thought that maybe…we could shower together. I mean the way that you were speaking last night, it didn’t seem quite out of the question,” she said.
His shoulders eased. A broad smile slowly creased his features and he looked down for a moment, and then back to her.
“The shower will work better if you come in naked,” he told her.
She laughed, breathless and more than a little nervous. She slipped from her panties, drew the huge T-shirt over her head and walked over to join him. Unabashedly, he looked her up and down.
“Well, since bathing suits leave little to the imagination, I can’t say that I haven’t noticed the infinitely fine attributes you possess. But reality is far superior to anything I imagined.”
“Where on earth did you get your language skills?” she demanded.
He pulled her under the spray beneath him. The water was warm and delightful. His body was pure fire and magnificent against hers.
“You don’t like my language skills?” he asked.
“No, no, they’re fine! Lovely, really,” she assured him.
“Maybe I should stop speaking,” he said. He did so, pressing his lips down upon hers. The touch was electric, and his kiss was perfect, gentle, tasting at first, his mouth molding to hers. And then, as their bodies crushed closer together, it deepened to something forceful and coercive, volcanic in the rush it created within her. Or maybe it was the molten-steel feel of his body, the rise of his erection against her lower abdomen. All she knew was that what she had started so tentatively was now urgent. While the warm water coursed around them, she felt a buildup of arousal within her that seemed insane and yet so wonderful she wanted to experience it forever.
Their hands moved upon one another. They found the soap, used it, lost it, crashed into one another finding it again. Suds covered them, making their flesh slick and sleek, and then the water rinsed off the suds, and they were together again, just holding each other for a moment beneath the spray. She laid her head against his neck and felt the throb of his pulse. She felt his hand slide down her hip, between her thighs. He lifted her, with the water still sending out spray and steam; he held her high, then brought her down, guiding her down on him. She wound her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and he balanced against the fiberglass of the shower as he eased completely into her, his eyes on hers. Then he began to move.
She didn’t know if it was him, if it was the simple fact that they were there, just as they began, with the pounding sound, water and steam, but nothing had ever seemed more erotic to her, and the way that he moved was an arousal unlike any other. She clung to him, arched and writhed to his lift and fall, and gave herself over to the pure carnal rawness of the experience. Far too soon she realized that she was burning and frantic and climaxing. She felt a final great thrust from him, shuddered, and eased slowly down on him, but he held her against the fiberglass until the sound of the water was just that again and the spray and the mist kept them warm, even as they cooled.
His lips found hers again, wet, hard, wonderful. He kissed her deeply, her wet hair entangled in his fingers.
He groped for the faucet at last, stopping the spray. Still nearly on top of her, his lips just inches away, he said, “Try and get me out of bed at night, hmm?”
“I think that you’re quite lovely in bed, actually,” she said.
“I hope you’ll think I’m even lovelier now.”
She nodded.
“Towels,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“I’ll get towels.”
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely, too.”
He stepped from the shower and produced two towels, large towels, with sailing motifs. She wrapped hers around herself and stepped out into the bedroom. His private quarters were neat. He had books stacked on his bureau, most of them sea charts, or books on great sailing ships, some on diving, and one or two fiction. His furniture was solid mahogany without Victorian carving, more in an old west Mission style. It was a personal place, too, though. Not just bare. There were pictures of dive trips and sailing and foreign shores. On the dresser, too, sat a family photo: Katie and Sean, their mother and father. It was a wonderful room. Probably because she had just decided sex with Sean was wonderful, everything in the world about him was wonderful, as well.
“How’s the room?” he asked. “Am I passing muster?”
She laughed. “The room, let me see. Solid, manly furniture. Good photos. Good reading material. Sparse and neat—belongs to a man, most obviously, accustomed to tight spaces on a boat. It’s really unbelievable that he still messes up his laundry, but hey, in the list of could-be faults, that is quite a small one.”
“What about the bed?” he inquired.
“Oh, definitely macho. Studly, even. A lovely bed. Something I’d actually love to try out tonight.”
“Why wait for tonight?” he asked her.
Why wait?
Words coming from his lips were as arousing as the most provocative touch….
And it would be rather senseless at this point to argue the feeling…
She turned into his arms. Towels were lost. What was lost from the steam and spray of the shower was found in slow discovery, touch after touch, complete intimacy. There was the wonder of finding every little scar and wound upon his body, learning where it had come from—a dive into shallow water when he had been a kid; a cut from a catfish, oh, so dumb and he knew it; the only fight he’d gotten into in junior high, and, of course, she should have seen the other guy. There was so much laughter, so much sensuality as she kissed each little wound, as he returned the questionnaire, as they lay entwined until the touches and kisses became breathless and ever more predetermined and purposely provocative, hot and wet and aimed at erogenous zones. They melded together again, holding still for that perfect moment as he thrust deeply into her, then letting basic instinct come into play, the renewed desperation for fulfillment. The sheets became entangled and damp, and still they lay locked together, ever moving, writhing, arching, until the sweet moment of climax burst upon them, and they fell into one another’s arms, damp, depleted, sated and smiling breathlessly. Vanessa listened to the thunder of his heart as it slowed and felt her own, and they seemed to meld, as well.
She rolled away from him and jumped to her feet, heading for the door.
“Hey!” he called.
“We have to start the day,” she replied.
“So we do—but we could lie here a moment quietly, couldn’t we?” he asked.
She caught the door frame and looked back at him. “Maybe you could,” she said softly, and ran out, heading for the shower in Katie’s room.
When the water came down on her this time, it came with the memory of joining him, and she burned beneath the water, both amazed and glad for what she had done, and yet horrified. She wasn’t sure what had possessed her, but she was certain she had never done anything that had felt more perfect and right as it had progressed. It was new, it was magnificent, and all that she wanted to do was be with him, hear his voice and the laughter, and discover again and again how easy it was to lie with him, what an absolute wonder it was to get to know him.
It was crazy. She had just seduced the man who was more or less her employer, a good friend’s brother and someone with whom she was about to embark on a strange mission. Not good.
Oh, yes, good, very good, but…
He was showered again and dressed for the boat when she came down. Coffee had brewed and there was a cup waiting for her by where he sat at the counter, perusing the newspaper. He signaled to it as he saw her. “I just talked to David. He’s gotten hold of Jay, and we’re going to do some more footage at Pirate Cut. Are you a vegetarian?”