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“Swum at night?” He prompted, though she suspected he knew what she meant. She shook her head slowly from side to side.
“Swum in Italy?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Ah.” He threw his own shirt to the ground and stepped out of his jeans. She’d seen him naked enough times for his body to be imprinted in her memory bank, but seeing him like this, his honed, athletic frame cast in silver by the moonlight, her breath burned in her lungs.
“You’ll like it. I promise.”
He didn’t need to promise. She knew she would.
Cristo, she was beyond beautiful. That was a word that he’d used often to describe anything from women he was seeing to art he admired, to business deals he was in the process of negotiating. Lauren Monroe wasn’t anything so pedestrian as beautiful. She was enchanting. Fascinating. Consuming. Yes, consuming. He watched from a distance as she walked into the water, a few metres to his side, her body bathed in the night light, her fingertips brushing the top of the water as she moved deeper, a wave crashing against her mid-section made her laugh so her breasts shifted and his eyes traced the outline of them, her nipples, hunger stirring in the depths of his soul. Her hair was pulled over one shoulder, loose and dry now with the hint of a wave, her lips parted in profile as she stepped deeper still.
He went at her pace, wanting to savour this experience through her, to feel it as she did.
Another step and she was up to her belly button. She turned towards him, a smile lifting her lips, changing her face. He slowed, stopped walking and stared, before continuing after her. A second later, her fingertips pushed through the water some more but faster this time, splashing him.
Surprised, he tipped his head back and laughed. She splashed him again.
“Oh, really?” He grinned, changing course and closing the distance. She squealed as he reached for her, splashing him again at close range. He scooped her naked body out of the water, holding her against his chest, his eyes boring into hers as he walked deeper into the ocean. A wave came towards them and he turned so his back bore the brunt of it, but the foam still cascaded over his shoulders, covering her in a disappearing blanket of bubbles. She squealed a little more as the water receded.
“Don’t play with fire unless you are prepared to be burned,” he warned with a small laugh, before unceremoniously lowering her into the water up to her neck.
She pushed a hand out and splashed him but it didn’t matter now, they were both wet. He made sure she could touch the bottom before releasing her completely – she took a second to find her footing and then splashed him again. He did the same and on it went, splash for splash, until they were both drenched and laughing, breathless and alive. Only then did he reach for her beneath the water, his fingers catching her wet, smooth skin and dragging her closer to him, his lips finding hers on autopilot, kissing her as thoroughly as he ever had, his tongue warring with hers, his hands lifting her out of the water, holding her body against his until her legs wrapped around his waist and she held on for herself, her hands gripping the back of his neck, her lips as hungry for his as his own were for hers.
He groaned into her mouth – or was that her groaning into his? – and dropped them lower in the water, so it came to their shoulders. It wasn’t enough – it was never enough with Lauren. He wanted her with a ferocity that took his breath away. He shifted himself a little so his arousal nudged at her sex then pulled back, breaking their kiss so he could look down at her with silent inquiry. She nodded, just a small shift of her head, her response to the silent question given quickly and freely. She wanted him.
It was mutual.
They were as trapped by this storm as each other, and he was glad.
He drove himself into her tight wetness, her muscles squeezing him in welcome, her body so familiar to him now, so perfectly, completely familiar. He hitched himself into her as far as he could, feeling every sensation the moment provided – from the gentle lapping of the waves to the rush of her breath against his neck, the dig of her nails into his skin, her ankles pushing at the small of his back, her hips rocking back and forth, moving as she needed to have him move, taking him and releasing him, driving them both inexorably closer to release.
He groaned as his own pleasure rose to a crescendo, his fingers driving through her hair, tilting her head back so he could kiss her better, his body taking charge now, his hips pushing forward, rocking against her, pleasuring her until she was calling his name into his mouth, over and over, her body wracked with silent cries of pleasure and need. His fingers took one of her nipples and plucked it, pulling it in a way he knew would drive her wild with a mix of pleasure and something close to sensual pain, spiking shockwaves through her body that he felt reverberate in his. She moaned and he moved to the other nipple, his arousal driving into her as he kissed her and his hand tormented her and finally she was free, crying out as pleasure exploded through her, bursting from her like a tsunami, leaving him to follow in its wake, his own release powerful and overwhelming, so he held her tight, kissing her as the waves rocked them, together, then receded, easing them back to a hint of normality. He kissed her again but slowly now, gently, as if to say he understood – they’d weathered that storm together, as they would more before she left. And she would leave – and he would watch her go for good that time – because nothing, even something as mind-blowing as this, could last forever.
Chapter Eleven
“WAKE UP, SLEEPY HEAD.”
He watched as she shook her head and then buried it beneath one of the white linen pillows. “Later,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible.
“No, now.”
There was no answer.
“Lauren…”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
He grinned. “It’s almost six, and you wanted to be back –,”
She squawked. “Almost six? What k
ind of evil blackout curtains do you have?” Her voice was husky in the morning, coated by sleep. She blinked at him blearily in the light cast by his bedside lamp. Raf reached over and pressed a button, the thick black blinds slid upwards mechanically, revealing the glow of dawn breaking over the ocean.
“Is that better?”
“No, we have to go.” And then, as if realising they were in bed together, she paused, looking at him a little self-consciously, her lips parting on an exhalation. “Yaya will be up soon, and we always have breakfast –,”
