“Can’t hear you!” he responded again.
Impatiently, she tried the door. It was unlocked. She pushed it open, ready to throw the towel right in.
The glass shower door was clear, and the steam hadn’t fogged it yet. She was staring right at him, in all his naked glory.
“Your towel,” she said, dropping it, ready to run.
The glass door opened, and his head appeared. He was smiling. “Just couldn’t resist a look at the old buns, huh?” he teased. “Careful, or you’ll be too tempted to resist.”
She forced herself to stand dead still, slowly taking stock of him, inch by inch. She kept her gaze entirely impassive. Then, her careful scrutiny complete, she spoke at last.
“No,” she said, and with a casual turn, exited the bathroom. She heard his throaty laughter and leaned against the closed door, feeling absurdly weak. Damn him. Every sinewy, muscle-bound bit of him. But as she closed her eyes, it wasn’t just the sleek bronze vision of his flesh that taunted her.
It was all the ways he could use it.
The door opened suddenly, giving way to her weight as she leaned against it. She fell backward, right into his very damp, very warm and very powerful arms.
Chapter Eight
It probably wasn’t strange that he refused to release her instantly.
“You were spying on me!” he said.
“Spying—through a closed door?” she returned.
“You were listening at the door.”
“I wasn’t,” she assured him. His arms were wrapped around her midriff, and they were both wearing nothing but towels. “I was leaning against it.”
“Weakened by the sight of me, right?” he whispered huskily, the sound just against her ear and somehow leaving a touch that seemed to seep down the length of her neck, spread into a radiance of sun warmth and radiate along the length of her.
“I divorced you, remember?” she said softly.
“I’ve never forgotten. Not for an instant.” There was something haunting in his voice, and his hold hadn’t eased in the least.
“Would you please let me go?”
“Damn. You’re not charmed, standing there, me here, my body, your body…memories.”
She fought very hard not to move an inch, certain he was just taunting her, and afraid she was feeling so much more than she should.
“I never denied that you could be incredibly charming,” she said, trying for calm, as if she were dealing with a child. “When you chose.”
“I’m choosing now.”
“Too late.”
“Why? We’re still technically married, remember? Here we are…together, you know I won’t leave this cottage, and I think you believe my concern for you is real. And you are my wife.”
In a minute she would melt. She might even burst into tears. Worse, she might turn around and throw herself into his arms, then cry out all her insecurities and her belief that they’d never had a chance of making it.
“David, let me go,” she said.
“Whatever you wish.” He released her. The minute he did, she lost her towel.
She turned to face him, deciding not to make a desperate grab for it. Standing as casual and tall as she could, she shook her head. “That was a rather childish trick.”
“It wasn’t a trick. I let you go and your towel fell off. Not my fault.”
“Well, thank God you still have yours.”
He grinned and dropped his towel. And his smile, as well.
For a moment he stood there, watching her, with no apology at all for the visible extent of his arousal.
He took a step toward her, reaching for her, pulling her into his arms, hard and flush against his length. She knew, though, that if she protested with even a word or a gesture, he would let her go again.
She meant to say…something.
But she didn’t. His fingers brushed her chin, lifting her face, tilting her head. Neither of them spoke. His eyes searched hers for a moment; then his mouth met her lips with an onslaught that was forceful, staggering. It took only the touch of his lips, the thrust of his tongue, the simple vibrant crush of his body, and she felt the stirring of sexual tension within her so deeply that she thought she would scream. If he had lowered her to the tile floor then and there, she wouldn’t have thought of denial.
But he did no such thing. His lips and tongue met hers with a flattering urgency, and his hands moved down the length of her back, fingers brushing slowly, until they had cleared the base of her spine, curved around her buttocks and pressed her closer still. She felt the hard crush of his erection against her inner thighs, equal parts threat and promise, a pulsing within, creating a swirl of pure sensuality that possessed some core within her. Weakened, shaking, she clung to him, still intoxicated by the movements of his lips, teeth and tongue.
And his hands, of course, pressing, caressing…
She drew away as his lips broke from hers. She needed to say something. Married or not, they shouldn’t be here now. She had moved on. For the first time she had felt chemistry with another man. With…
She couldn’t even recall his name.
David’s mouth had broken from hers, only to settle on her collarbone, where his tongue drew heated circles, then move lower.
“David,” she breathed. He didn’t answer, because the fiery warmth of his caress had traveled to the valley between her breasts, and with each brush of flesh, she felt the need for the teasing to stop, for his lips to settle, for his body to…
“David…”
Her fingers were digging into his shoulder then. His tongue bathed her flesh, erasing any little drops that remained from her shower. Everywhere a slow, languid, perhaps even studied caress, everywhere, until those areas he did not touch burned with aching anticipation. Her abdomen was laved, thighs caressed, hips, the hollows behind her knees, her thighs…close…closer…
“David…”
“What?” he murmured at last, rising to his full height, still flush against her, yet meeting her eyes. “Don’t tell me to stop,” he said, gaze dark and volatile, “Alex, don’t tell me to stop.”
“I—I wasn’t going to,” she stuttered.
He arched an eyebrow.
“I was going to tell you that I couldn’t stand, that…I was about to fall.”
“Ah,” he murmured, watching her for the longest moment as heat and cold seared through her, heat that he held her still, cold, the fear that had come before, that he would leave her, that her life, like her body, would be empty.
“I—I don’t think I can stand,” she said, swallowing, lashes falling.
“You don’t need to,” he said, and he swept her up, his arms firm and strong, his eyes a shade of cobalt so dark they might have been pure ebony. He moved the few steps through the hall, eyes upon her all the while, pressed open the bedroom door and carried her in. And still he watched her, and in the long gaze he gave her, she felt the stirring in her quicken to a deeper hunger, urgency, desperation. It was almost as if he could physically stroke her with that gaze, touch every erogenous zone, reach inside her, caress her very essence.
She breathed his name again. “David.”
At last he set her down, and though she longed just to circle her arms around him, feel him inside her, he had no such quick intent. He captured