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‘Why don’t you try it and find out?’
And Isla didn’t think twice. She lifted herself up onto her tiptoes, in her heavy, leather walking boots, and she kissed him, the way she’d been dreaming of doing all week.
* * *
And then he was kissing her. His lips slipping smoothly over hers, his tongue moving languorously as he tasted her, sampled her. Over and over again.
Unhurried and unfettered, as if they had hours. Days. Perhaps whole lifetimes. Another level again from the passion of that night they’d spent together, and somehow that made her tremble all the more.
His fingers traced her jaw, leaving her skin scorched in their wake. He made her feel infinitely precious, and utterly desired. No other man had ever made her feel so...aware. Aware of him. And aware of herself.
That night, he’d awakened something in her that she hadn’t even known had been lying dormant. She’d told herself that she’d been in complete control of the passion of that night. She’d chosen to pursue the novelty of a one-night encounter with the clichéd tall, dark stranger, leading to her first ever one-night stand. At thirty-two, she’d decided to lose herself in a way she’d never done before.
But now, here, alone with Nikhil, she was finally forced to concede the truth. She hadn’t been in control at all. It hadn’t been about that night, or that place. It had been about him. Nikhil. She doubted any other tall, dark or handsome stranger would have made her lose herself the way that he had done. He made her feel things she’d never felt before. He made her discover more about herself. And the worst of it was that she wanted to learn more.
* * *
This was insanity, Nikhil thought as he knocked on the door to Isla’s cabin.
He didn’t realise he’d been holding his breath until she opened the door. And stared at him.
‘Nikhil?’
‘Can I come in? I’d rather not stand here in the hallway outside your room for longer than necessary.’
Her eyes gleamed at him then narrowed, echoes of their last encounter practically bouncing off the walls around them. And even though her stance was defiant, her voice was careful and low. Discreet.
‘If you’ve come to insult me again, like the other day, then I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t need you to come here to tell me that you regret kissing me earlier, and I’d rather you dealt with your guilt yourself. Quietly. In your own room.’
He didn’t answer. Didn’t tell her that the only thing he regretted was the fact that they’d had to stop, before the tour group walked back around the corner and spotted them. Or that he regretted that the excursion was so long that he’d been forced to carry on with the afternoon as though he was enjoying himself, when the only thing he’d wanted to do was get back here—and come right here, to her room.
But Nikhil didn’t say any of that. It was hard enough to admit it to himself, without having to admit it to someone else. Even Isla.
Especially Isla.
‘Can I come in?’ he repeated simply.
She glowered at him a moment longer before sighing heavily. ‘Apparently, I don’t have a choice.’
He didn’t answer. He merely followed her inside and closed the door.
‘Why are you here, Nikhil?’ she demanded, when he didn’t speak. But he didn’t miss the slight quake in her voice. ‘To tell me that you regret what happened at the plantation? Because you’ve already made it clear we should stay away from each other, not give into distractions.’
And still he didn’t answer. He had no idea what he was doing there, only that his legs seemed to have carried him along the corridors to her room, all of their own accord. The only thing he knew was that a week ago he’d sworn he’d stay away from this woman if it killed him.
He thought it damned near had.
How many times had he thought he’d seen her retreating around a corner just as he’d arrived? Or imagined he could smell that soft, lightly floral scent in the air as he walked down a corridor?
How many times had he found a reason to be near the medical centre when he could arguably have left it to another officer?
‘Look, Nikhil—’ she twisted her hands in mid-air in front of him ‘—I made a mistake earlier, and I’m sorry. I wouldn’t want to distract you and mess up your head. Or your career. Or whatever.’
‘It’s already messed up,’ he heard himself say, though he didn’t clarify what, precisely, felt messed up.
Perhaps because he wasn’t sure he knew the answer to that either. He only knew that, oddly, it felt like a good messed-up. As if he was messed up with Isla. How was it that the only time he ever really felt like himself—like the real Nikhil—was when he was with her?
It should be exactly the opposite. She made him act crazily, when he was all about control. How was that the real him?
