‘You think you’ve failed them, don’t you? The people who trained you? The people you couldn’t save?’
‘I did fail them.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ she said quietly. ‘No one gets to save them all. Not even Superman.’
‘You believe in Superman?’ He tried for a smile and almost managed it. Enough soul-baring. Enough. He couldn’t do this.
‘I believe in you.’
‘Oh, hell, Serena.’ He drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his forehead on her stomach. ‘Don’t.’
‘Too late.’ She wound her hands in his hair and drew his head back before sliding from the table and into his lap as if she belonged there, as if she’d always belonged there. His body responded instantly, even if his brain was still playing catch-up. He felt himself harden beneath her slight weight, inhaled the essence of her and the scent of the sea, and shuddered.
‘You know what you need?’ she said lightly. ‘Right this very moment?’
‘A change of subject,’ he said curtly. No question.
‘Comfort.’ She shifted, and those little white shorts she wore shifted right along with her, all softness and warmth against his growing hardness. ‘Lucky for you I give good comfort.’
But it wasn’t comfort that he wanted from her. ‘What about distraction?’ Because she was way off on the comfort angle. Way off. ‘Do you provide that too?’
‘Mmm hmm.’ She set her lips to his earlobe and her hands slid from his shoulders to his waist and then lower, stopping only to create havoc beneath the hem of his T-shirt. ‘I think you’ll find me an excellent distraction.’
And then her lips were on his, teasing, giving, and the world and his struggle to find a place in it disappeared beneath the weight of his desire for her. His passion built and so did his urge to bury himself deep inside her; to take and take still more, until the only name he remembered was hers.
He tried to damp it down. He called on every last bit of skill he possessed to keep things simple and easy between them, just as she wanted. Just as he’d always been able to do with a woman before. With words and with every drop of control he’d ever been taught, he tried to delay the inevitable. ‘I’m still waiting on that blue dress,’ he told her raggedly as he twined a strand of her hair, that midnight-dark hair, around his finger, around his fist.
‘Maybe if you’d told me you were coming,’ she countered as she slid his T-shirt heavenward.
He helped her take it off, dropping it on the floor beside him before reaching for her again, finding the curve of her throat with his lips as he surged against her, heat to heat, centre to hard, unyielding centre. ‘Trust me, Serena. I guarantee you’ll know when I’m coming.’
He watched her face as he traced a path from the hollow of her throat, down over the curve of her breasts with his fingers, smiling his satisfaction when her eyes grew slumberous and her nipples peaked for him beneath the slippery material of her bikini top. ‘Distract me some more,’ he murmured, leaning back in the chair, still trying for lightness between them, and her smile turned impish.
‘You’re a beautiful man, Pete Bennett,’ she said as she leaned back and lifted her hand to the bikini tie at the back of her neck, sliding it forward so that it lay on the curve of her breast. ‘Sculpted enough to make a woman sigh her gratitude. Hard enough to make her tremble in anticipation.’ She toyed with the end of that string, back and forth, back and forth, until his fingers twined with hers and he took over that particular duty.
He tugged on it gently, not enough to loosen it altogether, not yet, and she shuddered and bit back a whimper, playing the game he’d asked of her, playing it to perfection. He could have tugged that string loose completely and covered the tightly peaked nubs of her nipples with his mouth but he wasn’t quite ready to give up his sanity just yet.
He smoothed his hands over those golden shoulders, played his hands along her arms until his hands found hers and he set them palm to palm, smiling a little at the contrast. She had beautiful hands, smooth, feminine. A direct contrast to his much larger, rougher hands, and one that pleased him. She studied their joined hands with a tilt to her lips that told her the contrast amused her too, and then she threaded her fingers through his and made his hands prisoners.
‘You’d rather I didn’t touch you?’ he queried as her lips traced a path from his jaw to the edge of his mouth. ‘That’s a pity.’
‘I do want you to touch me,’ she assured him. ‘Soon. Very soon. But it’s very distracting and that’s not good, because right now I’m the one who’s doing the distracting.’
‘You’re right. You’re absolutely right,’ he murmured, closing his fingers over hers. ‘But you’ll let me know when you’re done with that?’
‘Of course.’ Her lips met his for a kiss so deeply drugging that he groaned beneath the onslaught.
‘Are you done yet?’ he demanded raggedly.
‘No.’ Another kiss followed, more potent than the first.
‘How about now?’
‘Patience, flyboy.’ But she punctuated her remark by loosening her grasp on his hands as she arched back, her body undulating ever so gently against his—like the lapping of the tide—and any patience he might have laid claim to disappeared beneath a wave of exquisite pleasure.
His hands left hers to slide over her skin, over her belly button, over the thin cotton material of those little white shorts, as he played his knuckles across the area just above where his body met hers. Back and forth, back and forth, while his body demanded more.
‘I think I’m done distracting you,’ she whispered.
‘You’re sure?’
She looked down to where his hand played over those little white shorts and shuddered hard against him, all feminine strength and outrageous heat. ‘Positive.’
‘Because I’d hate to rush you.’
Her eyes met his, dark and needy, as her fingers found her bikini string and tugged it loose. ‘You’re not.’
Her breasts were full and round, dusky tipped and perfect, and fitted his hands as if they belonged there. She gasped, her hands coming up to cover his as she pushed against him. She knew this game, revelled in it, and, heaven help them both, so did he.
With a ragged groan he wrapped his arms around her waist and her behind, carried her to the day-bed in the corner of the room, and tumbled her onto it.
Her clothes went, his did, and his need turned fierce.
He feasted on her lips, her skin, her breasts, and everywhere he touched she responded with a sigh, a shudder, a whimper. Tight, so tightly responsive, her eyes as black as her hair, hot colour riding high on her cheeks as he eased inside her, back and forth, each time filling her that little bit more.
She reared up beneath him, her hands clutching at his arms and her lips finding his for a kiss that seared clear through to his soul. He’d had lovers before, bedmates he’d enjoyed, but no one had ever played him like this. Not like this.
‘More,’ she whispered as he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him, still buried inside her.
‘You’ll get it.’ He found her centre with his thumb, and she found a rhythm guaranteed to send him soaring, arching back, her breath coming in short sharp gasps. And then he was flying apart, touching the sky, taking her with him as he emptied himself into her and gave her what she asked for.
She laughed in the