Hawke was standing just as she’d left him when she returned.
“Something wrong?” she asked, taking a deep pull on her cigarette and expelling a cloud of blue smoke.
“No.”
“What is it, then? We’ll only have this beautiful light for a short while.”
“Role reversal.”
“What?”
“You do it.”
“Do what?”
“Exactly what you told me. Naked. On the chaise.”
“Me? You must be joking. Really. Or quite mad.”
“Yes, you. Do it. Now.”
She walked over to a chest of drawers and angrily stubbed out her cigarette in the large ashtray on top.
“Listen, Mr. Hawke, I don’t know who the hell you are or who you think I am. I am a professional artist. I don’t derive any erotic pleasure from my subjects. I try only to paint the truth of them. Now, if you-”
“So, I’m a subject, is that it?”
“Of course. What did you think? That I had some other-”
“Asia. Don’t talk. Just do what I say. The blouse first.”
She looked at him, hands balled into fists, eyes ablaze.
For a moment, he thought she might rush him, strike him, rake her fingernails across his cheek, pound his chest. But she didn’t. Rather, the anger fled, and she gave him a smile, skeptical, tolerant, languidly amused. She slowly lowered her head and began to unbutton the row of tiny pearl buttons down the front of her blouse. There were a lot of buttons, and Hawke saw that her slender fingers were trembling.
“You are full of surprises, aren’t you, Mr. Hawke?” she said, fumbling with the buttons.
“You have no idea.”
“I was fairly certain you went the other way.”
“You mean there’s another way?”
She laughed, her eyes afire. She was beyond caring which way he went, she realized. Far beyond.
Hawke, his own eyes never leaving her, went over to the stool. He picked it up and placed it beside the Balinese chaise. He sat on the edge of the stool and took a sip of the rum, feeling it burn down into his gut. She finished with the buttons and stood with her hands on her hips, the cotton blouse agape.
“What are you waiting for?” he said. “Take it off, Asia.”
She pulled the blouse off and dropped it to the floor, suddenly looking up at him with a glance akin to defiance but edging closer to something deeper in the heart. She was wearing no brassiere. Her breasts were full and alabaster pale against the mocha brown of her deeply tanned stomach, arms, and shoulders. The rosy nipples were hard, erect in the damp coolness of the room. Pointing at him.
He looked at her for a long time, passion beating inside him like a second heart.
“Now the skirt.”
She lowered her head again, reaching behind her with both hands to unbutton the skirt. She let it fall to the floor, where it puddled around her feet. She stepped out of it and kicked it away with one foot.
Her finely muscled legs were long and lean and brown. There was a thatch of curly gold between her smooth thighs.
He tore his eyes from her body and said softly, “Look at me, Anastasia.”
She complied, holding his steady gaze. Then she cupped her right hand beneath her left breast, holding it as if in offering, closing her eyes, caressing herself, running a finger over one protruding nipple, then pinching it, kneading it roughly between her thumb and forefinger.
Her mouth was open now, but he could see her nostrils flare as she inhaled through her nose. Her left hand was drifting downward over her belly.
“I want to…” she said in a small voice.
“Yes,” he said.
She reached between her legs. Two fingers disappeared into the already glistening flesh between her now parted brown thighs. Her head fell forward again, and she swayed slightly, a low moan escaping her lips. Hawke watched her, deeply moved by the very sight of her. Stirred, he felt himself growing harder and straining with the need for her but wanting to prolong the intensity of this moment, preserve desire, stay perched on the knife’s edge of it forever.
A savage bolt of lightning struck in the banana grove, very close to the house. For an instant, the room filled with blinding white light. Even the crackling air around them smelled singed, burnt. Hawke felt a slight ache in his heart, caused, he thought, by the bolt. A deafening thunderclap came a second later. The wind had roared up to gale force, and with it came the rain at last, a drenching downpour, hard and slanting almost sideways. The louvered French doors were banging wildly on their hinges. Hawke reached out and stroked her cheek.
“Stay there, please. Don’t move.”
“I’m cold.”
“I’ll close the doors.”
He went around the room and locked the shutters one by one. On the west side, it was difficult to get them closed, the howling wind was now so strong. When it was done, he went back to her, standing close, crowding against her, his face smiling down at her.
He crooked one finger beneath her chin, lifted it, and kissed her upturned lips, parting them with his tongue. She turned her face away, her breathing shallow and quick.
“You are so beautiful,” he said. “Just as you are. Just at this very moment. Unforgettably beautiful.”
“Alex.”
She retreated a step and pulled the tortoise-shell comb from her hair. Tresses fell to her shoulders in a tangle of dark golden curls. She looked at him, seized the thin grey cotton of his shirt in one fist, and yanked it away from his chest, the old shirt ripping away easily, now discarded, and then her hands were at his belt buckle, not trembling now but furious, whipping the leather strap away and ripping his trousers open, pulling them down with her as she fell back against the chaise and sat there before him, looking up with wide eyes at the upright declaration of love or lust or whatever the hell he so obviously had in mind. It no longer mattered to either of them. They were simply locked together, trapped inside the same storm.
She leaned forward and touched her lips to the tip of him, then took a deep breath and touched him lightly with her darting tongue, first tracing a small circle, then lapping at the length of him, licking him, no longer ladylike, just greedy and hungry and thirsty, her lips moving over the taut veins, marveling at the steely flesh so soft and yet so hard. She pushed her head forward, flattening her face against him, and felt his hands at the back of her head, his strong fingers entwining themselves in her hair, guiding her movements.
“Asia,” he murmured, and she heard him from her submerged depths, heard, too, the raindrops beating hard against the roof and shutters as the storm finally broke wide open overhead, heard fierce winds screeching around the eaves, a tumult of thunder crashing somewhere above, not far above, and she lay back against the ruby silk cushions, hooked one long leg over the arm of the chaise, and waited for him.
“You certainly could have fooled me, Mr. Hawke,” she said, laughing, catching her breath, and beckoning him toward her with a curling index finger.
Skin on skin, he moved on her, his weight suddenly upon the length of her, a hardness probing first outside, rubbing against the drenched lips, then pushing deep inside her as she cried out and raised her hips, realigning them, and then he was within her, fully, searching for more and more of her, as if there were no limit to this seeking.
A groan rumbled from the back of his throat, and then his hands were beneath her, clenched, gripping, cradling, willing her to come with him to the next level, too strong to wait, too gentle to force her, his mouth finding hers, crushing her lips, and then his head thrown back in abandonment and surprise as he felt her nearing and then reaching the moment, both of them crying out as the shutters at the foot of the bed were suddenly ripped open by the tearing wind, and the hard slanting rain came down upon them like a waterfall.
“Oh, God, Alex.”