Rafe’s quads tensed as Holly rolled on the condom, her firm grasp threatening to undo him. Sure, he’d had flings with a couple of women since Simone’s death, but he’d never allowed himself to connect with them at any level but the purely physical, to their frustration. He had to be careful. He actually felt something for this woman, right in his soul. If he opened himself up to her—no matter how good it felt—what would stop him losing control of his emotions and sliding into the dark place where impulse and instinct took over from logic?
She straddled his lap and replaced her fingers with her wet chatte, sliding along the length of him, back and forth, back and forth, as she slipped her tongue in and out of his mouth in a matching rhythm. Enough foreplay. He’d been in the red zone too long already. He gripped her waist and lifted her. She groaned as she sank onto him. That alone threatened to end things before they began. Nothing sexier than an aroused woman. He pushed up to the hilt and held still, restraining himself from roaring as she squeezed her muscles around him.
She wrapped her hands around his neck, her nipples brushing his chest. He began moving his hips and hands, setting a slow pace. He wanted this to last forever, to begin to make up for all the years that no one had loved her. She slid up and down, in time with his thrusts, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, pushing her hips to rub herself against him with each slide.
“Faster,” she whispered. “Harder.”
He breathed out slowly. “Patience, princess.” First, he wanted to hear the urgent panting that told him she was close, because once they sped up, his satisfaction was inevitable. He wanted to take her with him, to hear her cry out again.
He scraped his teeth against her smooth shoulder and kissed it. Leaving his thighs to hold them up, he wandered his hands up her body and cupped her breasts. He flicked her nipples with the pads of his fingers until they tightened, then rolled them between thumb and finger, his fingernails grazing the tips. Her breath became husky, somewhere between a groan and a plea.
He pulled her head down and kissed her deeply, increasing his rhythm in concert with his tongue’s plunder. She took the hint, her fingernails biting into his shoulders as she held on, the pricks of pain at the burning in his thighs bolting lightning into his groin. His quads were about to cramp. Merde. He reluctantly left her mouth and lay back on the hammock, gripping her hips as she drove him ever closer to the edge.
He closed his eyes as the fog of oblivion descended, muffling her crescendoing cries, the ocean, the wind, concentrating his every sense on the place they were joined. He kneaded her derrière, the skin slippery with sweat and her wetness. She tipped forward and balanced her hands on his pecs. Too late for control. If she wanted to be in command, he’d let her. His desire wound tighter and tighter as she rode him, the darkness closing in.
A strangled cry burst through the haze—Holly, toppling over the edge, her muscles milking him. He exploded, the shock spiraling through him, scalding the muscles in his thighs even as it gave release, and shooting up his chest to release a yell of pressure from his throat. He bucked with the aftershock, swearing loudly as they wound down to stillness. No anger. No darkness. Just release, as sweet and cleansing as absolution. He took a scraping breath.
She slumped onto him, panting. He drew up his legs, wincing, and hooked them around hers. A shudder racked her body.
“Cold?” he said.
“Hell, no.”
“Didn’t think so.” Full sentences in English would be beyond him for a while.
He kissed the top of her head and wrapped his arms tightly around her, as she flattened into him, her cheek on his chest. A fresh breeze played on his face. Their skin was slick and hot, the blanket under his back was soaked. His body begged him to push her away, to let the air cool his sweat. He didn’t move. He wasn’t one for embracing after sex, especially in heat like this, but a release like that called for a slow comedown. His head spun. Was it the otherworldliness of the island, the knowledge that they were alone in the jungle, just a forgotten part of the ecosystem? Was it the craziness of the whole situation? Was it because he was tenser than he’d been in his life, in every possible way? Because sex had never felt like that before—like it meant something beyond the physical, like more had entwined than just their bodies.
“La petite mort,” he muttered.
“Meaning?”
“It’s a French saying. ‘The little death.’ The—I don’t know the English—transcendant feeling when you lose yourself in an orgasm.”
“Transcendent? Oh yeah, I get that—I got that, just now.”
“I’d always thought it was exaggerated. But now...” He’d died a little, lost control and brought it back. Not a risk he should have taken with Holly, but it was a positive.
“La petite mort,” she repeated, awkwardly. “I like it.”
They lay there for five, ten, a hundred minutes, silently melting into their surroundings. The wind was beginning to turn, the breakers booming ever louder from the other side of the island, the water of the lagoon surging onto the sand, the temperature dropping as a breeze cleared out the humidity. Goose bumps sprang up on her back as his hands skimmed it. He drew in the edges of the blanket, cocooning them. She purred in lazy approval.
“Early birthday present,” she murmured.
“When is your birthday?”
“In another month. I’ll be thirty.”
He bit his cheeks to stop himself making promises.
“When’s yours?” she said.
“I don’t know what my birthday is, or my exact age. The Spanish aid workers who rescued me from the militia gave me one—December twenty-five.”
“Wholly unoriginal.”
“They also gave me my surname.”
She pushed up onto her hands and knees, astride him, jolting the hammock. “Oh, God.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
She slumped beside him, her skin reconnecting with his—all the way down—and slung an arm across his stomach. “I just slept with you, and I don’t even know your surname.”
“It’s just made-up, so what does it matter?”
“All names are made-up—some just more recently than others. It matters.”
He cupped a satiny shoulder. What was the harm, now? He’d already let her in far deeper than he should have. “Angelito.”
She played with the hair around his nipple. Mon Dieu. Much more of that and he’d be ready to go again. “You’ve got quite the angel thing going on. What does it mean, angel what?”
“Little angel, in Spanish.”
She laughed, her belly quivering against his side.
“What’s so funny?” He rolled over her and took her mouth in a kiss, pinning her arms above her head as the hammock rocked. Stifled, her laugh became a groan.
“You are an angel,” she said, when he released her mouth. “But not the harp-playing kind. More of the kick-ass demon fighter.”
He sure felt more demon than angel right now. He stretched down to untie the net. “Come on,” he said, easing to his feet. He held out a hand for her. “Swim. I need to cool off.”
Her gaze wandered down his body. “You sure do.” She reached for her shorts.
“What do you need those for?”
“Good point.” She grabbed a couple of condoms instead. “These might be more practical.”
* * *
The moon was high by the time they settled back into the hammock, Holly’s body tucked into Rafe’s under a blanket. The gentle sway reminded her of being on the ocean, of freedom. The man in it reminded her of the simple joy that came from togetherness and intimacy. But it was different from the flippy-stomach feeling she remembered from the early days with Jasper. More mature, more knowing, more equal.
And this time she knew just how to extract herself without getting hurt. Later. She trailed her hand over the rises and dips of his chest, letting her fingers come to rest over his rib cage. She would walk away with good memories of this day that would never be sullied by the inevitable heartache and disappointment. Rafe nuzzled her hair, and his lips pressed against her forehead. He held the kiss a long moment. She closed her eyes, soaking up the buzz. One perfect night with an incredible man was more than some women got in a lifetime.
Slowly he sat up, pulling off one of his amulets. “Here.” He pushed it over her head. She swallowed, her eyes stinging. Great. Just as she’d tried to convince herself there was nothing lasting about this moment, he went and gave her something older than civilization.
“For protection,” he whispered. He bent over her, tracing the cord’s path from her collarbone to where the stone rested between her breasts. It felt heavier than the couple of ounces it weighed. Oh, God, she couldn’t afford to get any more attached to him.
“That looks kind of personal.” She grabbed the stone and went to remove it. He caught her hand, and the amulet, in both of his.
“It is—very.” He frowned. “My son wears one, too. It will keep you safe until I come for you, until I deliver you to your new life.” He pressed her hand against her chest, enclosing the stone. “Please.”
Her eyes burned. “I’ll give it back when I see you again, when we’re all safe.” She couldn’t speak above a whisper. The amulet...it made their connection tangible, somehow. Like their fates were entwined—hers, Rafe’s and his son’s—and they would find a way back to each other.
“Deal.”
“We should sleep.”
He cradled her cheeks and kissed her, his lips soft and lingering. “We should. We’ll take turns, just in case. You first.”
“Sure?” she said, yawning at the thought of sleep. Sleeping curled up with him? Forget frangipani and mango—that was paradise.
“I don’t think I can sleep just yet.”
She wasn’t about to argue. He drew the blanket around them and she snuggled in to his rough body, surrendering to the warmth and comfort he offered. Amulet or not, she felt irrationally safe. Prison had taught her to appreciate the rare moments when life was good, even if the bit before sucked and the bit afterward was sure to suck. This was one of those moments.
This melty feeling in her chest, her stomach, her bones—it was just tiredness, right? It wasn’t...she couldn’t be...? No. Holly Ryan, convicted felon, falling in love with her captor, Capitaine Rafe Angelito of the French Foreign Legion? Ridiculous.
She yawned so wide her jaw hurt.
“Fais de beaux rêves,” he murmured, his chest vibrating under her cheek. “Sweet dreams, princesse.”
For once, she didn’t need dreams. Right now, reality was sweet enough.
* * *
Rafe shifted, and the hammock swayed. Cool air played on his face, tempering the warmth of Holly’s body. How could a day in which he’d hauled a stinking corpse for an hour end in such a magical way? His stomach twisted. Was Theo sleeping, too, taking respite from whatever hell he was in? He drew Holly in tighter, his chest stinging with the craving to do the same for his son.
He closed his eyes, pulling up like a slideshow in his mind the look of delight on Theo’s face when he’d won his football team’s player of the day award, on Rafe’s last visit home. He was so proud that Papa got to see his game, for once. The boy’s cheeks still hadn’t lost the cherubic chubbiness of his early years, spent in the bubble of warmth and safety and plenty every kid deserved.
“J’arrive, mon fils,” he whispered. I am coming, my son. Holly murmured. He kissed her salty hair. Why did he get the same urge to protect her that he had for Simone and Theo—and even Gabriel, once? He’d lost Gabriel, then Simone, and now Theo was in danger. He traced the leather cord of her amulet down to the stone, warm from her body. He’d committed to keeping her safe, but he couldn’t open up his life to her, even if it were logistically possible. She’d only be another person to disappoint and lose.
It was nearly time to set her free. Once he did, they would never meet again. It wouldn’t matter if he never again had this feeling with a woman—he knew now it was possible. That was a victory.
Sleep had fallen heavily on her. His eyes felt no compulsion to close. Good. He had no intention of waking her so he could take a turn at resting. He was trained to operate on little sleep. He’d make do with spending the night reveling in the touch of her smooth, lithe body against his.
Many hours later, as the black melted into gray, before the sun returned colors to the world, she stirred and began to move against him, and they drifted into the unhurried sex of people who had all day to do nothing but explore each other’s bodies.
As she eased back into sleep, birds began their morning routines. He’d raised the sail in the night, and wet tropical fronds scratched the plastic, as a shower lightly drummed. Water surged and slapped in the lagoon as the tide crawled out. That gave him six hours until Gabriel’s men had another window of opportunity to access the lagoon, more if they were forced to wait until the seas calmed. And Flynn was on his way. He allowed his eyes to close.
“J’arrive, mon fils,” he whispered, again.
* * *
Dang, nature could be as noisy as a prison siren. Holly hunkered her cold shoulders down under the blanket, turning her body so her stomach and breasts lay flush against Rafe’s side, and her cheek rested on his thick shoulder. He must have pulled on his shorts in the early hours, the spoilsport. She slung her knee over his legs and squeezed her eyes shut against the early morning light.
She didn’t need sight to know the picture around her had changed. The ocean roared as unrelentingly as the freeway she’d grown up beside. Ten thousand tropical plants brushed and squeaked and scraped against each other. Gulls cried like human babies as they circled the lagoon, cutting through the cacophony of squawks in the jungle. Whoever named it birdsong had never been here. More like bird scream. So much for six years of fantasizing about sleeping in until noon. Ever since her release from prison, her eyes had snapped open at dawn, the same time her cell light had flickered on each morning.
She inhaled—spice, man, salt, wet earth. Someone should bottle that. She swept her fingers through the soft curls on Rafe’s chest. He grunted in his sleep. Would the hair on his head curl like that too, if he grew it? Delicious dark-chocolate swirls she could lose her fingers in—and use as traction to rein him in. If he’d been in the French Foreign Legion since his teens, his poor hair probably hadn’t been allowed to grow longer than a buzz cut for a decade or two.
Not that she’d ever see him looking any way but this. She pressed her lips together. If they’d been chapped before last night they were pretty much grated now. Not that it hadn’t been worth it. And, dammit, she’d left her ChapStick in the cabin. Surely she could risk going back to get it? With a strong onshore wind she’d hear any boat’s engine before it came into the lagoon, and the tide would be too low to make the jetty serviceable. Rafe wouldn’t be expecting the militia for hours.
Muting her body’s protests, she eased off the hammock. Nothing sexier than a hunky man sleeping, the masculinity tempered by innocence. No need to wake him—yet. She closed the mosquito net behind her and yanked on her closest clothes. Her pocketknife and the pirate’s phone weighed down the baggy pockets of her cargoes.
She shivered, missing the heat of Rafe’s body, and hunted through her backpack for the outsized sweater she’d barely worn. It was about the only clothing she had that wasn’t stained, ripped or dirty. Her hair was thick with salt and she could feel it sticking out in several directions, but at least it was out of the way. If she didn’t have a mirror, what did it matter?
She walked slowly, giving her swollen knee a chance to ease up. Last night’s acrobatics hadn’t helped it, but the odd bolt of pain had only intensified the other feelings. Muscles ached in her inner thighs and all sorts of other forgotten places.
At the clearing, she sheltered for a moment under a stand of palm trees, their heads tossing in the wind, to convince herself a boat wasn’t about to round the fingers of land that hugged the lagoon. The wind carved salt spray off the water, the mist stinging her eyes and lips. The generator hummed. A drop of rain splattered on her eyelid, and more pattered on the leaves and ground around her. She hurried up the steps to the cabin—she ached to be back in the hammock, in Rafe’s warm arms.
She found the ChapStick, eventually, on the floorboards under her bed. The generator grew progressively louder, the noise rising from a hum to a rhythmic thumping even louder than the wind, like it was about to blow. Weird. She’d better tell Rafe. If it exploded, their food would rot in hours.
She smeared on a thick coat of the salve. Ah, better. Her eye caught movement outside—the shape of a man jogging across the clearing. Rafe must have heard the generator. He’d sure gotten there quick.
She walked to the screen door and pushed it open. “Rafe, the generat—”
He looked up, straight into her eyes. Her scalp tightened. Not Rafe. The creepy pilot from the other night, dressed in a jumpsuit. That thumping—it wasn’t the generator. A helicopter hovered above them. It must have come from the west, its approach masked by the easterly. Shit, shit, shit.