A Noble Pursuit. Meg Lacey
his heels and filled his eyes with her.
Her skin was like marble, fine and almost translucent, but with a glow that invited a man to explore the vitality beneath. She lay, her arms raised slightly over her head, and let him look his fill. She seemed slightly apprehensive, but when a small whistle escaped from his lips she blushed, then chuckled. It was the chuckle that got him. That small gurgle of sound lifted his heart.
He couldn’t remember ever wanting anything this much. He wanted to take, but he wanted to give, too. His hands explored her, starting with the shape of her face and working their way down, over her long elegant neck to her small shoulders, to her perfectly shaped breasts with their high tight buds. “You are so perfect.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Hey, I know what I’m talking about. I love beautiful things, so when I say you’re perfect, you’re perfect.” He continued his exploration, running his hands down her slender waist, down over her hips.
“Ah—” she caught her breath as his hands traversed her hipbones “—a connoisseur. I’m impressed.”
“You should be. Connoisseurs are very picky.”
“Meaning this isn’t a common occurrence with you?”
His fingers brushed her cleft, delving deeper to find the treasure. “There’s nothing common about this experience, sweetheart.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’re gonna find out.” He smiled and dipped his head to her breast. “Don’t worry. It’s like riding a bike. It all comes back to you.”
Her only response was a moan. Then she gasped and arched as his fingers sought her. “Please,” she whispered.
“I will,” he whispered back as he stretched out beside her, ready to give her all the pleasure he was capable of giving. His index finger and thumb spread her velvet opening for his caress.
She shifted restlessly as he made lazy circles on her sensitive skin, getting nearer and nearer his goal. “I ache.”
“I know, sweetheart, I know. I’ll make it all better.”
His mouth touched her breasts and lingered, laving first one, then the other, pulling and tugging her nipples to an erection that nearly matched his own. Her hands fisted in his hair and pulled his busy mouth up to hers. He needed no urging to take everything her lips had to offer. Mouths open, they did battle, tongues dueling with fierce abandon—advance and retreat, then advance again. His fingers followed the same pace until finally, hips gyrating, she thrust upward.
Frantic to join her now, to revel in her heat, Shay tore off his shirt and unsnapped his jeans, helped by her eager hands. She yanked the denim down, but the fabric stopped at his ankles, caught on his gun.
Shay swore. He sat up and made quick work of his loafers and holster. Yanking his jeans off, he threw them across the room, followed by his briefs, before turning back to her. He was so hard he was afraid he’d break if she touched him. She was staring at him as if she’d never seen a man in full arousal before. There was something in her eyes that checked him for a moment, an awkwardness that he found enchanting. She was like a barely opened flower offering its face to the morning dew and warming sun. He hated the thought that someone might mishandle this woman. He didn’t know why that thought leaped into his mind. He had no reason to think she might be in any danger, other than the memory loss that could be a result of—of what? He had no chance to follow up on his thoughts.
She put her hands on him, her fingers sliding up his manhood to gently squeeze the sensitive head. “You’re so soft. I didn’t know a man could be so soft.” Wonder colored her voice.
Shay groaned as her fingers slipped up and down his length. “I’m so hard I’m gonna explode.”
“Now that would be something to see.”
He stilled her hand with his. “No, sweetheart. It’s better you should feel it.”
She smiled, anticipation sharpening the angles of her face. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Shay came up on his elbows and reached toward the nightstand. Opening a drawer, he withdrew a small foil packet and quickly protected them both before reaching for her again. “Not a damn thing.”
He took his time, bringing her up to fever pitch again, until she cried with the wanting. Then and only then did he slip inside her. He pressed forward, inch by inch, stunned by the tightness of her body, by the barrier he felt. Alarmed for a moment, he stopped and tried to pull back, but her legs clamped him in place, heels urging him on. Clarity faded, leaving only the crimson flame of desire. He gave…and he took…until finally they shuddered to a climax together.
Afterward he smoothed her hair back from her face.
“Thank you,” she said.
Shay grinned. “No, thank you.”
She met his grin with a wistful expression, her eyes serious. “I’ll never forget this moment.”
He yawned and settled her comfortably against his side. “There’ll be a lot more to remember, I promise. I just need to close my eyes for a minute.” Sexual satisfaction combined with an early rising and a long, frustrating day were taking their toll. His eyelids drifted shut for a moment before he jerked them open to look at her face. He smiled again, then pressed a kiss on her forehead. “Rest, sweetheart—” he interrupted himself with a jaw-popping yawn. “—’cause pretty soon you’re gonna need all your strength again.”
She blew on his eyelids. “Go to sleep.”
“Right,” he mumbled.
Her voice caressed him as he slid into sleep. “Sweet dreams… Prince Charming.”
Shay woke just before dawn. Arms aching and empty, he reached for her, just as he’d reached for her a few hours before to make love with her again. This time the bed beside him was empty. There was no trace of the woman with no memory. No trace except for his inevitable erection, her evocative scent on the pillow next to him, and her memory burned into his mind.
AT FOUR IN THE MORNING, Juliette had been lucky to find an empty taxi still cruising the streets looking for Mardi Gras stragglers. Agreeing to let her send him his fee and a big tip for the inconvenience of bringing her home, which was much farther from town than he usually ventured, the cab driver dropped her off at the wrought-iron gates that spanned the entrance to La Belle Rivière des Fleurs. Juliette walked up the magnolia-lined driveway that led to her family home, taking care to stay in the shadows so as not to be observed.
The plantation had been in their family for a very long time, passed from father to son. Heritage, tradition—this was the way of life revered by her ancestors since the beginning. Her privileged family heritage went all the way back to 1807, when her titled Spanish great-great-great-great-grandmother married a bastard French prince who’d been awarded land in New Orleans in addition to his French estates. Each generation sacrificed and struggled to add to the family fortunes, to the family luster. It was just unfortunate, Juliette thought, that she could be the latest sacrifice.
She stopped in the shadow of a weeping willow tree and stared at her home, taking in the classic columns that accented the mansion, supporting the second-story gallery and creating the wide veranda that wrapped around the perfect example of Greek Revival plantation architecture. Or so the guidebooks said. She wondered what Shay would make of it. Would he be impressed? He hadn’t seemed the type of man to be overly impressed with things. People either, for that matter. He took them as he found them, Juliette believed. How did he find her? Would he care that she’d left? Or would he be convinced that she’d made a fool of him, and write her off?
Of course that’s what he’d do.
Her romantic stranger wasn’t really a warrior prince. He was just a normal man who’d had a brief affair that would fade from his memory in a week, while it would last forever in hers. Juliette glanced up at her home again. Much as she’d