Shyly she took it. He drew her forward for a kiss. Gentle and undemanding, it loosened the coiled fear inside her. Her taut muscles eased as his hand made slow circles on her back. "You taste wonderful," he murmured. "Like nectar. Like music."
She actually giggled. "That doesn't make sense."
"Sense is not welcome within these walls tonight." He slipped his arm around her waist and led her to the pallet. "Lie on your lovely front and I'll drape the sheet over you. Then I will massage you, starting with your back."
She stretched out on her stomach. He arranged the linen sheet over her, the weight of the fabric settling lightly on her bare skin. She felt tense, acutely aware of her nakedness and vulnerability.
"It's easy to tell when you feel anxious." He knelt beside her and moved the mass of her hair to the side of her head. Then he opened the lotion bottle, rubbing the rose-scented fluid between his palms. "You become as hard as a piece of army biscuit. A soldier of mine was spared when a ball struck a biscuit in his pocket. Even a French bullet couldn't penetrate the damned thing."
When she smiled, he drew the sheet to her waist and began rubbing her back with slow, powerful strokes. His large hands glided smoothly over her flesh, kneading and softening the taut muscles. He was right; she liked it. She liked it a lot.
He was so unlike Colin. Though her husband had never been deliberately cruel, he had been vigorous and uncomplicated, and he had liked women who responded with equal directness. He had never once touched her with such gentle sensuality.
The air was heavy with tropical warmth, the sweet tang of the lotion, and the fragrance of the fresh flowers that were brought in every day. The world narrowed down to touch and scent and heat and the two of them. Michael varied his movements, sometimes working with his palms, other times using fingertips or heels of the hand to bring her body to tingly life. He paid special attention to her neck, easing away the iron strain.
She tensed again when he drew his hands along her arms, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. Yet the light, tangential touches felt wonderful. When he didn't roughly grab for more, she relaxed again.
He massaged her hands, finger by finger. The pleasure was exquisite. He was right, there was an incredible range of sensual enjoyment of which she was totally ignorant.
She didn't flinch when he pulled the sheet farther down. "You have the loveliest body I've ever seen," he said, his voice not quite as even as it had been. His hands caressed her bottom. "A perfect pair of hips has a shape rather like a heart. All kinds of symbolism there, don't you think?"
He began to knead her buttocks, molding the curving flesh with his palms. He seemed to know exactly how hard to press and how to find hidden knots of tightness. The contrast of smooth surface strokes and deep compression turned her muscles to wax. "Where did you learn to do this?" she murmured. "Or would I be better off not knowing?"
"My teacher was a delightful French lady whom I met many years ago, when I was newly down from university. She had been in Turkey, and was much impressed with what she learned in the women's bathhouses there." He rubbed the small of her back with the heel of his hand. "Sophie considered it her mission in life to spread Oriental wisdom to the West.
"She was a lucky woman." Catherine stretched luxuriantly. "Not everyone gets to achieve such a noble goal."
He drew his hands down her legs in long strokes, all the way from her hips to her ankles. There was a distinctly sexual component to her enjoyment now. The desire that had been frightened out of her returned, flowing through her limbs like honey. Then his fingers brushed between her thighs with gentle intimacy. She froze, a thread of shivery excitement drowning in a flood tide of fear. "Please stop."
"Of course." He withdrew his hand and began massaging down her calves until he reached her feet. She relaxed, and soon learned that her toes were as blissfully responsive as her hands.
When he had reduced her to the pliable consistency of bread dough, he drew the sheet up to her shoulders again. "Turn over if you would like the rest of you massaged."
An hour earlier, she would have been too embarrassed and fearful to expose herself. Now she rolled over. As she did, the sheet slipped and bared one breast. Michael didn't move, but his eyes narrowed and he became unnaturally still.
"I don't know how much further I can go tonight," she said quietly, "but I want to find out."
"Then let us continue." He swallowed as he drew the sheet down to her waist. "Your breasts are superb. Beautifully full and womanly." He started to say more, then shook his head. "We don't have enough words in English. There's nothing stronger than beautiful. And colors-we need more colors. What would you call the shade of these?" He took each nipple between thumb and forefinger and teased them with exquisitely judged pressure. "Tawny rose? Blush gold?"
Her nipples hardened and heat pulsed through her. "Tan. Pink. Plaid. I don't care as long as you touch me like that."
He took her at her word, massaging the tight nubs until her whole body pulsed with alarming pleasure. Huskily he said, "Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?"
"No," she whispered. "No, I wouldn't mind at all."
He leaned forward and claimed her mouth. The kiss was deep, deep, the heady stroke of his tongue fueling her fever. When he began to make feather kisses along her throat, she lifted her hands to his chest and shyly slid them inside his robe. He gasped and the muscles shivered under her touch.
As her hands stroked lower, hair tickled the heels of her hands and her fingertips found ridges of hard tissue. "You have more scars than anyone I know," she said ruefully. "It's a miracle you're alive and well."
"I wouldn't be if not for you." His lips slanted down her collarbone and over the creamy swell of her breast. The tug of his mouth on her nipple triggered a prickly yearning in the area between her legs that she tried never to think about. It was frightening, yet tantalizing as the serpent in Eden.
He shifted his position so that he was lying alongside her. Her quivery, fearful enjoyment turned abruptly to alarm when she felt the menacing jab of male flesh against her thigh. She tensed, unhappily reminded of where this was leading.
He muttered a curse under his breath and rolled onto his back. "I'm sorry, Catherine." Panting, he dragged his wrist across his forehead. "Damnation. I've about reached the limits of my control. If we are to go on, I'll have to remove the threat of this rude male organ of mine."
Her eyes shot open. "I beg your pardon?"
He laughed a little. "I don't have anything permanent in mind. The way I feel now, it will take very little to render me safe, particularly if you'll help. Can you do that?"
He was making it easy for her to refuse. But it was time she took some risks. For there to be real lovemaking, she must give as well as receive. "What do you want me to do?"
Silently he took her hand and brought it inside his robe, placing her palm on him. She wanted to jerk away when she felt the size and flagrant maleness of the throbbing flesh under her hand. Pain, violation, a cruel and arrogant weapon.
But this was Michael, not Colin, and he was a man, not a brusque, heedless youth. Slowly she squeezed.
The heated shaft jerked sharply and his whole body went rigid. "This… this won't take long at all," he gasped.
She had never realized that sex made a man as vulnerable as a woman, and she was startled to see how easily she could affect him. Her hand tightened on him with more confidence.
He arched against the pallet, sweat shining on his face as he tried to damp down his reaction. She closed her hand over the velvety head and squeezed again, at the same time rubbing the heavy rim with her thumb.