Her blood, kept on simmer for hours, erupted to the boiling point, lava heat pooling low in her stomach. She pulled him closer, kissing him deep and long.
He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she did the same to him, a private duel with no rules.
He pulled away and took a deep breath. “My sweet, I wanted to take it slow to—”
“To hell with slow,” she said, burrowing her hands underneath his open robe and running her hands up and down his chest. “Take that off.” She wanted to feel skin and lots of it.
He answered her with an animal noise torn from deep within his throat. He ripped loose the knot on the sash and shucked his robe. She sat up and scooted onto her knees to face him. He unbuttoned her long brocade robe and shoved the material off her shoulders, but the close fitted sleeves stuck on the ruffles of her nightgown.
Eleanor stood in the middle of the great bed.
She tugged each arm free and tossed the robe aside. Then she pulled the frilly white cotton nightgown over her head, pitching it into the darkness. A bright arch of lightning highlighted their nakedness and mimicked the electricity between them.
His lips were at the perfect height to reach her breasts. He leaned forward, steadying her with his hands on her hips, branding her flesh with his fevered touch. He swirled his tongue around the peak of one breast and then the other. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his breath causing her nipple to pucker into a tight bud.
He raised his head, and the look in his eyes made her feel beautiful. Her knees turned to warm butter. She placed a hand on either side of his face and sank down to lie back on the feather mattress, pulling him with her, spreading her legs to welcome his weight between her thighs.
A streak of lightning sizzled nearby, and the immediate boom of thunder muffled their groans as their bodies moved together. She wrapped her legs around him. Grabbing fistfuls of coverlet, she raised and rolled her hips, matching his rhythm. She pulled him deeper with each stroke, encouraging, demanding the increasing tempo. She felt as if she were running headlong toward the rim of a cliff. At the edge she flew into space, soaring through the storm raging inside and out.
Shermont wanted to last longer, but her silken sheath vibrated with contractions, a rhythm he could not resist, a pull so strong he couldn’t hold back any longer. He reared back, every muscle in his body braced. An animal growl escaped his lips as his release exploded and exploded.
He collapsed on top of her, rolling to the side and flopping onto his back, drained and sated. No need to ask if it had been as spectacular for her as it had been for him. She, too, was breathless and limp. He reached out to take her hand, not wanting to lose the connection between them, even as he refused to analyze its meaning.
Eleanor fought the urge to roll toward him and snuggle. No promises, no strings, she reminded herself. Just sex. Okay, great sex. But that was all. She kept repeating the “just sex” mantra silently, even though she knew she lied to herself. After a few moments of shared stillness, she was the first to move, using a corner of the pillowcase to wipe a bead of sweat from her temple.
“I wish I’d brought my fan,” she said, proud that her voice reflected the no-commitment tone of her comment.
Only then did Shermont notice the stuffiness. The storm had done little to lower the temperature. Knowing he would fall asleep if he didn’t move, he gave her hand a squeeze and then rose from the bed and padded naked across the room. He threw open the French doors that led to a balcony facing the north lawn. A breeze wafted inside, bringing with it a refreshing mist of raindrops.
Eleanor watched him silhouetted in the moonlight. She got out of bed and wrapped the sheet around herself sarong-style, tucking in the end and letting the length drag behind her as she followed him, drawn to his side by the cool air and the sound of running water. Peeking out the double doors, she discovered the gargoyle decorations on the side of the house were actually downspouts. One was located just to the left of the terrace. She stepped outside and reached up to put her hand in the running water spurting from the grotesque horned monster’s mouth.
“It’s practically warm,” she exclaimed.
“It’s coming from the roof, so I imagine the slate tiles held the warmth of the sun. It won’t last long.”
Like so many things. She cupped her hand in the stream of water, directing the spray to her face, and laughed in delight.
He disappeared for a moment and returned with a scoop that looked like it belonged to the fireplace. He held it into the spurting water, and a deluge hit him in the face. She laughed at his surprised expression. After moving his arm, he shook his head, splashing water like a dog.
She jumped back, still amused, and then he turned the scoop to direct the spurting water toward her. She shrieked, grabbed his arm, and tried to pull it away from the spout. Rainwater sluiced down their bodies.
He wrapped his free arm around her waist to pull her away and only succeeded in loosening the sheet she wore. It dropped to her waist, and then the soaked material slid to the floor of the balcony. He pitched the coal scuttle over the railing and wrapped her in his arms. Their playful wrestling quickly turned into a fevered discovery of rain-slick bodies as they explored each other with their hands, lips, and tongues.
He was of a mind to go back to the bed, but she didn’t want to leave the fresh breeze. They made it as far as the thickly carpeted floor just inside the French doors.
His plan to take it slow this time was easier made than played. First, he planned to kiss every inch of her body, bared to his hungry eyes in the moonlight. He started at her toes, then ankles and knees. When he reached the junction of her thighs, she pulsed almost immediately. He backed off a little.
Eleanor burned for him. So close, so close. Like climbing a mountain, yet she couldn’t reach the top. She dug her heels into the carpet and raised her hips. With his tongue and hand he brought her to the brink and back, to the brink again and again, until she was a mindless mass of quivering need. “Now, Shermont, damn it, now,” she demanded, even though it sounded more like breathless begging.
“James. My real name is James.” For some reason, he needed to hear her say his name.
She did … as he entered her … and as she soared to the heights. And again, softly, as she slid down the other side of the mountain.
He held her close. Eleanor felt so right in his arms, fit exactly as if she belonged there. He wanted to sleep with her in his arms and wake with her. He must have dozed off to that pleasant dream, because he woke to find her, stubborn chin resting on the back of her hands folded on his chest. He’d never understood the feminine need to talk at such a time. Now he realized it was a piece of biological good fortune that gave the man a chance to regenerate for the next session.
She smiled. “What did you mean when you said your real name is James?”
He hesitated.
“Does this have to do with the elder Shermont finding you on the road?”
“I see the gossips’ tongues have been wagging.”
“Within the hour of my meeting you,” she said with a grin. “An unbelievable story.”
“That part is true. When I came to my senses and Shermont asked my name, I remembered nothing. He insisted I must have a name, so I chose James. Somehow it felt right.” He picked up her hand and placed it over his heart. “In here. Not that it’s been any help determining my identity, but at least I know part of the name I chose is truly mine.”
“Part?”
“I chose Bond as a last name.”
She couldn’t stop a guffaw.
“What’s so amusing? James Bond is a perfectly good name.”
“Yes, yes. It is.”
“Then why are you—”
“There is a rather famous … character by that name in my … country. Wait until my father …” She rolled to her back. Her father would find it amusing, too. If she ever got a chance to tell him. What would he think if he didn’t receive her usual Sunday night phone call? Would he worry?