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He reached out and fingered the thick bathrobe she had tightly belted around her after showering a few moments ago. “You look clothed to me—too damn clothed for my taste.”
“That’s the point. If you have to work for something, you appreciate it more.” She stepped away from that encroaching finger and headed back below deck.
“Then you should consider yourself the most appreciated woman in the civilized world,” he growled.
Maybe he hadn’t meant for her to hear him, but she did. Her knees went a little weak. Every time she thought of the things he’d said that morning her heart started thumping hard and fast. She was so happy she was afraid she might fly apart.
They would face problems in the future, probably in the near future. She didn’t know what form their relationship would take, whether there would be any formal commitment or just an unspoken arrangement as lovers whenever they happened to be together—which might not be very often. But all of that was in the future. For right now, for these couple of stolen days before they caught a military transport back to the States, all they had to do was love each other.
He hadn’t said he loved her, but he didn’t have to. She felt it every time he touched her, with a wrenching blend of tenderness and almost savage lust that made his hands tremble, or when he looked at her with his emotions naked in his eyes. John was so controlled that the very fact he let her see what he was feeling told her more than words ever could.
She didn’t have to have any promises, any plans. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe losing Dallas had made her afraid to count on the future; all she knew was that she was happy just having John now.
He came below deck and leaned against the door frame, watching as she took all the articles of clothing out of the bag and placed them on the bed, dividing them into his and hers stacks.
“Are you going somewhere?”
“No, I just want to get dressed. I guess I can’t believe Ronsard has given up, and if there’s trouble I want to be wearing more than a robe.”
John strolled forward and hooked a finger in the belt around her waist, pulling her against him. She went willingly, looping her arms around his neck. “We’re safe enough here on the boat,” he said. “The only way anyone can get to us without being seen is from underwater. We’re under constant surveillance, and the boat has electronic countermeasures in place in case anyone tries to eavesdrop.”
“So we have to stay on board until we’re picked up?”
“I wouldn’t mind a couple of days of downtime.” A slight smile curved his lips. “On the other hand, I’m not Superman, either, so we might as well get dressed.”
He stripped off his tuxedo pants, which was all he was wearing, and was in shorts and jeans by the time she stepped into a pair of underpants. He eyed her feet. “You need Band-Aids on those blisters before you put on socks and shoes. I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
Niema sat down on the bed and examined her feet. The blisters didn’t look bad and weren’t bothering her; the antibiotic cream she’d put on them the day before had helped a lot, plus she had been barefoot since coming on board the boat. Still, he was right: They needed protecting. Runners learned to take care of their feet.
He came back with a small white kit in his hand and sat down beside her. “Feet up,” he said, patting his lap.
Smiling at the luxury, she turned around and lay back on the pillows, lifting her feet onto his lap and giving herself up entirely into his hands. These strong hands gently cradled her feet, dabbing cool ointment on the blisters and covering them with adhesive strips. He performed the task with the same fearsome concentration he applied to everything.
Still holding her feet in his hands, he looked up at her: “Did you know the feet are an erogenous zone?”
Alarmed, she said, “I know they’re a ticklish zone.” She tried to regain custody of her feet but with very little effort he controlled the motion.
“Trust me.” His tone was both so
othing and cajoling. “I won’t do anything to tickle you.”
She was trying to jackknife into a sitting position when he pressed his mouth to her right instep. She fell back on the pillows, her breath tangling in her throat, spikes of pleasure shooting all the way to her groin. She sucked in a deep breath. “Do that again.”
“My pleasure,” he murmured, caressing her instep with his tongue and eyeing with interest her hardening nipples.
Niema closed her eyes. What he was doing was incredible: She didn’t have the least inclination to laugh. His touch was firm, almost massaging. His tongue unerringly found the most sensitive spot on her instep, stroking it until she had to choke back moans of pleasure. Then he turned his attention to her left foot, shifting so he was facing her and a foot was in each hand. He divided his attention between them, kissing and licking and sucking until she could no longer hold back those moans. Her body twisted and arched, and her breathing became ragged.
She was scarcely aware of when he deftly slipped her panties down her legs, only that he was cupping her bottom in his hands and lifting her up to his mouth. His hair was cool on the insides of her thighs, his mouth hot as he stabbed his tongue into her. She was so aroused that she began climaxing in moments, the sensation so intense that blood roared in her ears and reality contracted until it existed only in the sensation between her legs.
When she finally managed to open her eyes, he was smiling at her. “See?”
“Wow.” She stretched languidly. “Do you have any more tricks?”
He laughed as he stood up. “A few, but we’ll work up to those.”
He had taken the edge off her interest in getting dressed, but she did it anyway, then joined him on deck. The sun was bright on the water. She looked across at the crowded beach and the city beyond. “I wish we could go into the city,” she said as she slipped her sunglasses on her nose.
“Maybe later. Let’s see if we pick up anything else on Ronsard before we go into the city.” He picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the beach.
