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‘It’s OK to feel sad that you had to give up something you loved, lived and breathed. It doesn’t make your love for the twins any less, and it doesn’t make you a bad person if sometimes you resented what fate did to you. Going surfing won’t turn you to the dark side.’
How did she do that? Understand those deep, dark feelings of guilt and helplessness he’d experienced back then. Discomfort touched him. This was too much, too close, too … something. He needed to make a choice. Imogen had offered up a deal: art class in return for a surf session. So he needed to put his man pants on and get on with it.
‘OK. Deal. I’ll go surfing tomorrow and you’ll go to the art class.’
‘Deal,’ she said.
Joe felt a little light-headed as silence blanketed them once more. This time it was a different silence. The kind that bound them together somehow. His muscles ached with the need to hold her in his arms.
As if on cue, behind them the strains of the music changed from an electro carnival beat to the pure sound of a haunting, melodic song of love and yearning.
The hell with it. He gazed down at her and the words fell from his lips: ‘Let’s dance.’
It was an awesomely bad idea, but for the life of him he couldn’t bring himself to care. No more thinking—right now he wanted to dance with this woman and no other under the starlit sky. Stupid? Probably. But that was the way it was.
Without a word she pushed away from the railings, stood up straight and stepped towards him.
It felt ridiculously right to tug her into his arms, bringing her lush curves flush against him. Biting back a groan, he slid his hand round the slender span of her waist to rest on the flare of her hip.
A shiver ran through her body and she pressed against him, her breasts against his chest, her hair tickling his chin. As lyrics about desire and vows and promises were crooned onto the evening breeze they swayed together, their bodies a perfect fit.
Imogen looped her arms around his neck, her fingers brushing his nape, and this time he couldn’t hold back the groan as his pulse-rate rocketed. His hands rested on the curve of her bottom and she looked up at him, lips parted, eyes wide and dark with desire.
How he craved her—with a longing that hollowed his gut in an intense, deep burn of heat. There was only so much flesh and blood could stand, and his had stood it.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Rational thought tried to intervene.
‘Unless you want to stay for the photographs? The paps will be here soon.’
‘I don’t care. Let’s go.’
There was no hesitation in her voice—just an acknowledgement that her need was as great as his.
She swallowed. ‘Though we should say goodbye to Leila …’
‘We’ll write a thank-yo
u note.’
Impossible to wait, to make the time to find the bride and groom amongst the crowds. He clasped her hand, interlaced his fingers in hers and pulled her towards the steps leading off the yacht.
Imogen pushed the door of the yurt open, her heart hammering against her ribcage and her whole body one great big mass of need. Following behind her, Joe shoved the door closed and she turned to face him, terrified he’d change his mind even as she knew he wouldn’t.
He was no more capable of stopping this—whatever this was—than she was.
Every one of her senses felt heightened. Dizziness swirled in her head, and her legs were like blancmange. Staring at Joe, she thought he looked so defined, so focused, against the backdrop of pink canvas. The strength of his jaw, the angle of his cheekbones, the sinful line of his mouth …
Two steps and she was right up close as he leant back against the door and pulled her into his arms. Reaching up, she cupped his jaw, the roughness of his six o’clock shadow tantalising her fingers.
His hand was thrust into her hair and he angled her face for his kiss before his lips locked over hers in fierce demand. A demand she met without hesitation—met and matched—her entire being consumed by a need only this man, only Joe, could fulfil.
Her greedy fingers tugged at the buttons of his shirt and they pinged to the canvas floor. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that she could now run her hands over the sculpted muscles of his chest.
He groaned as she stroked his skin, ran a thumb over his nipple. ‘I want you, Imo. So bad.’
Joe broke their lip-lock to trail a sizzling stream of kisses along her neck, unerringly finding the sensitive spot that drove her frenzied. She arched her back to give him better access, and then gave a gasp as he scooped her up and resumed their kiss.
