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Meredith.
In one stroke, he was at her side. Throwing an arm about her waist, he powered their way up with the other, until they broke the water’s glassy surface from beneath. From her first splash to their surfacing, the entire ordeal had probably lasted thirty seconds. Rhys felt like thirty years had been added to his age.
Kicking fiercely, he pushed them to the pool’s edge, where it was shallow enough for him to stand. He set Meredith on a boulder submerged just below the water’s surface, cradling her head and shoulders in his arms while the water did what it would with her billowing dress.
She did not move. Her eyes were closed.
Sputtering, he pushed the hair back from her face and bent his head to check for breath. Warmth puffed against his cheek.
“Meredith.” He gave her a shake. “Meredith, wake up.”
Some vestige of his battle mentality asserted itself. There was once a time when he’d been cool and collected in such situations. He checked her for obvious signs of injury, looking in vain for signs of swelling or blood.
When that yielded no discoveries, he resorted to frantic shaking again. “Jesus, Meredith. Don’t do this to me.”
Her eyes fluttered open. Straightening her arms, she brought herself to a sitting position on the boulder. Her legs dangled free in the water.
A faint smile nudged the corners of her lips. “If that was a test of faith,” she said evenly, “I think you failed.”
“You … You …” Rhys shook a finger at her. “Damn it, you know that was—”
“Fate?”
And now he swore. Violently, crudely, punching at the water as he did. Rhys knew anger. He’d lived angry, to one degree or another, nearly all his years. But never before had he felt so enraged and so relieved in equal measures. The combination was so dizzying, so confusing … he couldn’t even speak, or think.
Only act.
When she laughed at his rage, he wedged between her floating legs, pulled her lithe form flush against his angry bulk, and quieted her mouth with his own. No tenderness. No caution. Just raw emotion and need.
Now then, Merry Lane, he thought as he drove her jaw wide and made his best attempt at possessing her with his lips and tongue and teeth,just you try to laugh at this.
She didn’t laugh. No, she moaned with pleasure and clutched him to her shivering body. Gave back as good as she received, catching his tongue and pulling him deeper into the kiss. They battled with lips and teeth, each working to persuade the other. Eventually the argument slowed, deepened, became more of a thoughtful discussion, and then … and then, delicious accord. They moved in a rhythm, his tongue stroking hers, and she clung to him, throwing her arms around his neck and wrapping her legs around his hips. They fit together so perfectly, as though they’d been fashioned just for this. Even she couldn’t deny it.
He let her up for a quick breath, as a test.
“Rhys,”she breathed. “Yes.”
And then he kissed her again, triumph surging through his body and centering in his groin. He was hopeless with words, couldn’t sing worth a damn. Even the way he ate his food sent women fleeing. But when he kissed her, she went pliant in his arms. This mouth was good forsomething.
Their garments were soaked through, matted to their skin. He could feel every contour of her body, every rib and nipple and fingertip. And by the way she ground her pelvis against his, he assumed she could feel every hardened ridge of his. Despite the coolness of the water, heat smoldered between their bodies. Her thin muslin skirt and petticoat swirled around them on the water’s surface, leaving her bared beneath.
Her leg twined around his, and he thrust his hand under the water to grip her thigh. Encouraged by her soft moan, he slid his palm up the underside of her leg and cupped her backside. And once he’d gone that far … he couldn’t stop himself. He reached between her thighs to touch her sex.
Their kiss slowed now. He took his time, exploring her mouth gently with his tongue. Tracing her folds lightly with his fingertips. She shifted in his arms, giving him freer access, and he slid a finger inside her heat.
God, more mysteries of science. How could she possibly be wetter than water? But she was. Wet, warm, slippery, inviting. For him.
Forhim.
Gasping, she tore her lips from his. “Can you feel that?” she whispered, pressing kisses to his jaw and ear. “Can you feel how much I want you? I’ve wanted you for so long.”
If the evidence weren’t currently sheathing his finger, he could hardly have believed that she wanted him at all. But what did she mean, for so long? He’d barely been back in town a week. Though he’d give her that—it had been a damn long week.
Releasing his neck, she burrowed one hand in to the space between them, cleaving his waistband from his chilled abdomen. The wet fabric didn’t have much give, but her agile, slender fingers slipped into the gap and worked slowly downward. He froze, one finger still buried inside her. Her breath came hot against his ear. At last, her fingertips grazed the swollen head of his cock.
“Jesus.”
She swirled a finger around the tip, and pleasure exploded inside him. He bit her shoulder to hold himself back.
