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“I won’t,” I promise.
I lean my head to the side, shivers running down my arms as his tongue traces a delicate path up the side of my throat. He stops on my jaw as one hand lands on my waist and the other on the opposite side of my face. He turns my neck slowly, gently, until my lips meet his.
His kiss is certain and confident, his tongue sweeping between my lips to slide against mine, to taste me, to know me. I reach for his neck, curling my fingers into his hot skin, the pounding pulse of his throat flush against my palm. He rolls his erection along my lower back, thick and straining, as his lips move hungrily over mine. My fingers splay and lift, reaching blindly for his hair, tangling in the silken strands as our lips seal and part, nip and lick, seeking, searching, wanting...
More.
I mewl softly when his lips abandon mine. He takes my hand from his neck, gently pressing it back against the railing.
“Please,” he whispers again.
A breeze kisses my back.
When I open my eyes and turn around, he’s gone.
CHAPTER 6
“It’s called theVictoria Regia,” says a naturalist named Ana, who’s accompanied us on today’s boat tour through the Januauri Ecological Park, “and it’s the largest aquatic plant in the world.”
The white and purple blooms she points out are scattered amongst serving tray-sized, bright green lily pads. As our canoe gently carves a path through the greenery, a white egret lands on one of massive pads, staring at us with a haughtiness that makes me grin.
“The pads are heart-shaped when they are younger and smaller,” adds Ana. “In Portuguese we say: em forma de coração.”
Coração.The heart. I’ve been distracted by mine since last night’s deck encounter with Rio. I didn’t go back into the lounge after our kiss. I went to my room, where I drew a warm bath and satisfied my longings with soap-slickened fingers and hushed moans.
A replay of my fleeting rendezvous with Rio fills my mind, the touch of his lips on mine less sustenance than starter. If I was ravenous yesterday, I am rapacious today, my hunger bordering on madness, my eyes unable to look away from him for more than a moment.
He rows the canoe in front of mine, and I stare at the muscles in his arms as he moves; at the tail of his ponytail, fastened with a strip of leather, as the breeze brushes stray hairs against his neck. My fingers twitch. They know the softness of those onyx tendrils.
He glances over his shoulder at me, his gaze lingering on my lips for a moment before he turns away, concentrating on the task at hand. His job is important to him, which is undoubtedly part of his allure. I could never respect a man whose work ethic was inferior to my own. I don’t especially care what work he does as long as he gives it his best shot. I’m not bothered that I’m a business executive who makes almost seven figures a year in New York, while he’s a bartender and tour guide in the Amazon who probably just clears five. I wonder if the disparity in our incomes bothers him... or if it’s even occurred to him. Somehow, I doubt it on both counts: I don’t get the feeling he cares what I do for a living or how much I make doing it. He’sthatconfident. I’m drawn to that level of confidence, too.
His eyes meet mine again, and he winks at me this time. I shake my head, grinning down at my lap. When I look up, he’s facing away from me again.
“After breakfast,” says Lucas, who paddles our canoe, “we will begin our journey toward the ‘Meeting of the Waters.’ You know what it is?”
Harvey Schlemmer pipes up: “It’s where the light-colored water of the Amazon and the dark-colored water of the Negro meet. The waters do not, however, readily mix. They flow side by side for several miles. Ergo, meeting, notjoining.”
