Now and Forever (5 page)

A groan of pleasure, pagan and unbridled, broke free. The sound terrified her with its urgency even as it destroyed the last of her inhibitions with its pure, female power. It was all so strange yet so familiar, as if she'd been waiting for his touch to bring her back to life.

He lowered his mouth to her breasts, then slipped inside her heart and absorbed her fantasies. His mouth was hotter than flame against her skin. He captured one nipple between his teeth and she cried out again, not from pain but from a feeling so primitive and fierce that she wondered if she would survive another onslaught of sensation.

She was weightless, floating in the clouds, suspended in the throbbing darkness of an erotic dream. A rhythm, insistent and old as time, began to move inside her as her back arched, offering herself up to him on the altar of sensuality.

She'd waited forever for this moment. Dreamed about it. Longed for the only man who could take her on this journey.

And now she wanted more.

She wanted him to brand every part of her body with his mouth. She reached for the waistband on her white pants but he pushed her hands away and accomplished the task with a caress that brought her even closer to the edge of madness.

She was more beautiful than he'd remembered. Long slender legs, rounded hips, the narrow strip of dark red curls, wet with desire that begged the touch of his tongue. The sounds she made as he worshipped her inflamed his soul.

She wanted to touch him, to reach out and place her hand against him and know that his power and heat belonged to her and her alone, if only for the night.

Again he seemed to understand what she wanted before she could translate desire into words. Rising from the bed, he stripped off his clothing. He didn't need the trappings of style to impress. His body was lean, powerfully muscled. A thick mat of dark hair furred his chest, narrowing down over his flat belly to--

He didn't disappoint. He'd never disappointed.

He was everything she'd remembered and more.

Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked and looked away so he wouldn't notice.

But he did.

He dropped down onto the bed next to her and curled her body against his. "I want you," he said bluntly, "but as much as I want to make love to you, I've never taken an unwilling woman." He moved away so their bodies were no longer touching. "It's your choice, Emilie. Your decision."

This was a moment out of time. Her chance to taste life at its sweetest with no regrets to shadow her memories later on. She could be whoever she wanted to be tonight, captive or conqueror or both.

What she felt, what she wanted, went beyond words. She nodded, meeting his eyes, letting him touch her soul the way he'd touched her body.

He gathered her into his arms. They lay together on the bed, bodies pressed together, savoring the primitive feel of skin against skin. The pure, animal pleasure of it tumbled the last of her defenses.

She began to move against him, small, silken movements designed to tempt and tease. She felt as if she was spinning out of control and he was her anchor, the one real thing in a world she no longer recognized.

#

She was ready. He knew it by the sounds she made deep in her throat, by the moist heat of her when he cupped her with his hand, by the wild and hungry look in her green eyes when he parted her thighs and knelt between them.

He stroked her slowly at first, letting the need build between them to a fever pitch, then he deepened the motion until she cried out and he knew he could wait no longer.

"Now," she whispered against his mouth. "Now...now... now...."

Her words were all he needed.

She was softness and warmth, hesitant and passionate both. So small, so tight, that for a moment he feared he might hurt her with his power but she urged him on, shuddering beneath him as she finally opened for him, sheathing him inside her welcoming body as if they had been made for each other by a benevolent god.

He had been the first man to know her body, to teach her the rites of lovemaking, and the thought that she had been with anyone else in the intervening years made him long to wipe their memory from her mind and brand her as his and his alone.

It was a fierce and primal call of the blood. She was all that he wanted--and more than he'd dreamed. He was a physical man and he knew a moment of pleasure with the woman he'd loved that ripped him apart then made him whole again.

She was his in ways he couldn't explain or understand. She was all the things he could never be, kind and honest, generous and loyal.

The day she walked out on him she had taken his heart and soul with her. And tonight he had found them again in her arms.

If this wasn't forever, it was closer than he had ever dreamed.

And somehow he knew that nothing about his life would ever be the same.

#

In the dark all things were possible.

That night she explored the wilder shores of sensuality with a man who understood her secrets before she gave them voice. As long as the moon cast its light upon them, the magic was theirs alone.

They napped briefly, then she brought a bottle of champagne to the bed, an old and dusty bottle she'd saved for a celebration that had never materialized.

"Cristal," he said, with an appreciative whistle. "I'm impressed."

"You should be," she said, climbing into the feather bed with him.

She eased the cork from the bottle and laughed as the resounding pop shattered the stillness of the bedroom. "I love that sound," she said, pouring the bubbly golden liquid into the cups. She placed the bottle down on the night table then raised her cup. "To unexpected guests."

He met her eyes. "To you."

She took a sip of champagne. "I suppose this is where we catch up on old times."

"I'm more interested in what's happening right now."

She lay back against the pillows, eyes twinkling. "Suppose I tell you all about the Patriots Day celebration the town's having tomorrow."

He groaned and she swatted him with a pillow sham.

"Laugh all you want," she said in mock outrage, "but that's a big deal here in Crosse Harbor. We all dress up in 18th century costumes and drink cider and pretend the British are coming. Mayor Gold is playing Andrew McVie."

Zane stared at her blankly.

"Andrew McVie," she repeated. "Crosse Harbor's claim to Revolutionary War fame." He was their one
bona fide
patriot hero. Emilie had spent much of her childhood daydreaming about his daring rescue of General Washington not long before the Battle of Princeton.

She told Zane of the legend surrounding the mysterious hero who had been cloaked all in black. Before a group of terrified onlookers, he had vaulted onto Washington's horse and knocked the General to the ground, just as a musket ball split the air instead of the General's heart.

Emilie's family had always laid claim to the identity of the masked hero. Who else but a Crosse, they'd said, would have the fortitude to execute such a daring rescue? Everyone else, historians included, credited Andrew McVie.

"Unfortunately, most of the Crosses were at a wedding celebration that day so their case was pretty hard to prove," she said with a laugh. "So much for family history."

"So this whole love affair with the past is actually in your blood."

"I guess you could say that."

He went quiet.

"What?" she asked, leaning closer to him. "You look pensive."

"Pensive?" He flashed a quick grin. "First time I've been called that."

"Seriously," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking you were my wife once. I should've known this."

"We weren't big on talk," she reminded him. "There's a lot I don't know about you too."

"You're probably better off."

She didn't argue the point.

"So who are you going as tomorrow," he asked, "Betsy Ross seems like a natural."

"Great idea, but historically inaccurate. However, I am the star of the show." Tomorrow morning she would arrive at the village square for the festivities in a hot-air balloon.

He laughed out loud. "And a hot-air balloon is historically accurate?"

She shook her head. "But it's great publicity for the Historical Society. How could I say no?"

"I wouldn't have had trouble."

"That's because you don't understand history and you never will."

"There are a few other things I do understand," he said, taking her champagne and placing it on the nightstand. "Why don't I tell you about them...."

#

They polished off the bottle of Cristal afterward. Emilie padded back out to the kitchen, positive she had some more tucked away in the pantry.

"It's not Cristal," she apologized, "but there's no such thing as bad champagne."

Zane, who had followed her into the kitchen, took the bottle from her.

Emilie disappeared back into the pantry and returned with a box of saltines, some peanut butter, and a gift-sized jar of raspberry jam. She arranged the items on an old lacquered tray she'd found at a yard sale last summer, then added two plates and a beautiful silver knife.

Back in her bed, she made a show of spreading the peanut butter and jam on the tiny crackers then presented each one to Zane with a flourish. He watched as she arranged the crackers along the edge of the plate in a semicircle. She'd always had the gift of spinning straw into gold, he thought. Somehow she'd made peanut butter and jam taste like nectar of the gods.

"I haven't been to the market in ages," she said, refilling their cups, "or I would have made something wonderful for you. I
can
cook, in case you don't remember."

He grinned at her over his cup of champagne. "Em, I never did give a damn if you could boil water."

Her eyes widened at first in dismay then she laughed. "I guess it really didn't matter, did it?"

He pushed the plate aside. "Lie down."

"What?"

"Lie down," he repeated, more forcefully this time.

And she did because this was part of the fantasy. In that secret world, for just this one night, a man could command and a woman would obey.

The sheets felt cool and silky against her back. The champagne had softened the edges of her perception. It was difficult to tell where her body ended and the feather bed began. She was floating on a cloud, drifting along in a wonderful erotic haze--

"Trust me." Dangerous, seductive words. She closed her eyes and let herself float free.

Her belly was warm. The champagne wasn't. She gasped at the sensation as it trickled toward her navel.

"You're crazy!" she said, laughing. "The sheets...."

The sheets, however, were in no danger. Drop by drop, inch by tantalizing inch, he licked the golden wine from her skin. Her navel...the slope of her belly...the juncture of her thighs...the sweet, sweet center of her being.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him close to her, wanting this dark splendor to go on until she exploded into a thousand glittering pieces of gold.

But more than anything, she didn't want it to end.

#

Emilie sat up against the headboard the next morning and stared down at the man sleeping next to her. She'd been lying there for ages, eyes pressed tightly closed, listening to the slow and even ticking of the clock on her nightstand, praying she would wake up to discover she was alone in her bed, same as she'd been every single night for the past five years.

The gentle ache between her thighs...the delicious feeling of having been loved often and well...the sensation of standing at the edge of a high cliff and stepping out into space.

Vivid images of his mouth against her belly, his hands against the small of her back...she couldn't have imagined the deep, almost primal pleasures, no matter how hard she tried.

She reached over and touched his shoulder. Hard muscle. Warm flesh. A living, breathing ex-husband.