Unfaded Glory Page 6

  He pulled them down her hips, taking her knickers with them.

  And his mouth continued its descent.

  The proper girl who’d been raised as a princess and cut her teeth on propriety wanted her to stop him, to tell him that people didn’t do such things. But the newly awakened woman in her wanted more. And it was the woman who was in charge. Damara trembled when he peeled the last of her clothing down her legs, but she wouldn’t tell him to stop. Not now. Want and need had become indiscernible from one another.

  “No one has ever touched you here? Not even yourself?”

  She bit her lip.

  “Tell me, Princess. I want to know. I want to picture your pretty little fingers right here.” He touched his mouth to her womanhood.

  His taboo words—for they were indeed taboo as no one had ever spoken to her in such a way—stoked her fire so hot she thought she’d erupt with it.

  Once his mouth was on her, his lips, his tongue delving into places she’d never imagined a tongue should go—all rational thought fled. There were no more questions of what she should do, of what a princess would do, of what was proper. Only what she could do to get more of this sensation.

  She arched her back and pushed herself toward the source of her pleasure.

  He was committed to his task, a devotee of ecstasy. He knew exactly what he was doing, what she needed as he pushed her ever higher toward some unknown peak—and then her senses all narrowed to one small pinpoint until it exploded outward, thrusting her into the stratosphere.

  Damara had never felt anything like it.

  He pulled away from her, and she watched in a bliss-shrouded haze as he removed his shirt and fatigues. She’d wanted to do that, unwrap him like a gift she was giving herself.

  “Nightstand drawer. Open it.”

  She didn’t want to look away from him, but she did as he demanded and saw the box of condoms inside. She supposed the hotel concierge had thought of everything. Damara pulled one out and held it up for him.

  “Oh, no, Princess. You’re putting it on me.”

  The idea of touching him so intimately intimidated her, which was completely stupid given what they were about to do.

  “How?” she asked.

  He tore open the package and rose above her. Hawkins took her hand in his and drew it between them down to his erection.

  “Roll it down the shaft, like this.”

  She followed his lead and pushed the condom down the length of him. But he moved her hand back up and back down again, acclimating her to the feel of him.

  Trepidation was dominant as her excitement quelled. She knew this was going to be uncomfortable.

  He braced himself on his elbows and kissed her softly. “It’ll hurt at first, but the pain will pass.”

  She didn’t care if it hurt; she wanted this. Damara locked her legs around his hips. “Just do it.”

  “As you wish, Princess.”

  She steeled herself for pain, but it was his tenderness that was her undoing. He pushed inside her slowly, giving her time to adjust to his girth. He cupped one cheek, and his thumb stroked her face as he filled her.

  When she opened her eyes to look into his, Damara thought that action spoke of something more intimate than the act itself. She knew she’d never forget him, but this had been an act between strangers who had to remain just that. Only this small thing, this tenderness, it bound them together.

  Byron pushed past her veil, and her nose prickled the way it did before she was about to cry. Not because of the pain—it was fleeting—but because it had only taken a second to rid herself of what made her the Jewel of Castallegna. In a single instant, she’d rendered herself worthless.

  She refused to cry. This was what had to be done and it was good.

  Damara shut out the doubts, the fears, everything, and flung herself into the moment. She clung to him with the kind of abandon that could only be felt when an ending loomed above like a storm cloud. This was a memory that would have to last her a lifetime, because, after today, she’d never see Byron Hawkins again.

  She was frantic to feel everything. “More.”

  He increased his speed and drove himself deeper into her, but it still wasn’t enough. She wanted him closer, tried to memorize the way his body felt working in tempo with hers. The scent of him, the way his lips tasted.

  Damara wanted everything.

  Even if she fell in love, even if she married, no one could ever be first, and she was determined to make this a good memory.

  “If we had more time, I’d do this to you for hours. I’d stop and bring you off with my mouth again, my fingers. I’d taste and touch every inch of you, Damara.”

  She shivered and clung tighter, dug her nails into his back as if that could anchor him there and keep the outside world from ever intruding.

  A strange sensation fluttered inside her when she clenched herself around him. He stilled, his muscles tense and taut. With a groan, he started moving again, pushing deep.

  “Is that right?” she asked shyly. She wanted to make him feel as good as he made her feel.

  “It’s more than right.”

  Damara did it again, and he buried his face in her neck, clung to her as she clung to him and rocked them both toward another culmination.

  This one was different; rather than an explosion it was a fluttering that originated deep in her core and radiated outward. Not like fireworks—more like the concentric circles of a stone dropped in a pond.

  Hawkins reached his completion after her, hips jerking and tensing before his whole body stiffened and then he went still. For a moment, she wondered if she’d killed him. He was so still and the look on his face had been so intense she couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or pain.

  Then he rolled off her and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

  She felt as though she should say something, but she didn’t know what. So she lay in silence until the blurry aftermath of pleasure faded. Damara was torn between thanking him and asking if they could do it again.

  She didn’t know what she expected from him, but it was as if he’d never touched her. Never kissed her.

  Never made love to her.

  She didn’t care what he said. What they’d done together wasn’t fucking. He’d been so gentle, so reverent. Damara didn’t think all men were that way with every partner. It meant something to him. Not love, they barely knew each other, but there was a connection.

  “You can have the shower first.”

  So it wasn’t at all like the novels she’d read. They wouldn’t lie together, holding each other. She’d go shower as if it was just another day, another thing that had happened.

  Okay. She could do this.

  When she got out of the bed, she saw the tiny stain of blood on the sheets. Wars had been fought over something so insignificant. It seemed incredibly stupid. Not that the experience wasn’t magnificent—it was. But a little splash of blood for king and countries?

  Damara walked gingerly toward the door and was reminded of her activities with every step. She was incredibly sore, but each twinge of discomfort brought back a memory of a touch, a caress. It made her sigh. She wished she could linger and they could do it again.

  But her father had a saying about wishing in one hand and holding goat crap in the other. The wishing hand was always empty.

  She stepped under the spray of the hot water, and, just like she’d wanted it to wash away the guilt, she let it wash away any possible regret. This was what she’d wanted, and she’d gotten it. Damara wouldn’t complain now.

  She’d focus on the next step of their journey. He’d done everything she’d asked of him and more.

  Damara relaxed into the water, letting it pour over her. An array of little bottles were lined up for her to try, and she snif
fed each one until she found one that smelled vaguely of home. Jasmine.

  When she was done, she bundled herself up in a fluffy towel and wondered what she should put on. She didn’t have any other clothes. The thought of putting her dirty fatigues back on was less than appealing.

  She should’ve known Byron would take care of it.

  A brand-new T-shirt lay folded on her side of the bed. The sheets had been changed as well, and he lay sprawled on one of the chaise couches at the end of the bed, eyes closed.

  She couldn’t tell if he was sleeping, but she knew he hadn’t slept at all in the past twenty-four hours. If he was, she didn’t want to disturb him.

  Their food had arrived, too.

  Damara shimmied into the T-shirt and panties that were folded discreetly beneath it and attacked her food with gusto.

  She didn’t know if it was because of the adrenaline or everything else that had happened to her, but the lamb was the best she’d ever tasted. It melted on her tongue. She didn’t realize how decadent it really was until Byron spoke. His eyes were still closed.

  “Woman, if you keep making those sounds, I’m going to have you flat on your back again in about five seconds.”

  Damara shivered, delighted at the thought. “With lamb breath and all?”

  “Lamb breath, dog breath, I don’t care.” He’d flung an arm over his head; his eyes were still closed.

  “You don’t look like you’ll be doing much of anything to me,” she teased.

  “I’ve been up for thirty-six hours.”

  Of course he hadn’t said anything. As if it was unmanly to sleep or something. “So go to sleep.”

  “I’m trying, but you’re having mouthgasms with your lamb,” he said drily.

  “I’m sorry.” Her apology was sincere.

  “It’s all right—I was only teasing. I never sleep well anyway. Insomnia.”

  “After thirty-six hours, I imagine you’d have to pass out sometime.” She thought about the pain she’d seen in his eyes. Damara would bet anything he had nightmares and that was why he didn’t want to sleep. She thought about the way he’d watched over her while she’d slept on the Circe’s Storm. He’d stayed awake to make sure she was safe. She could do the same for him.

  “Now that I’m full, I’m tired, too.” She got up from the table and made sure the door was locked, all the shades were closed and the lights were off. “Come to bed with me, Hawkins.”

  She made sure to use his last name so it wasn’t too intimate. So he didn’t think she expected or was trying to give anything more than what he wanted.

  “I’ll feel safer knowing you’re in bed with me,” she prodded.

  “I’m dirty.”

  “And I have lamb breath.” She grabbed his hand, and he hauled himself up from the chaise and followed her the short distance to the bed.

  He flopped down on the bed, shirtless, his fatigues half-unbuttoned and his feet hanging off the side. A gun had somehow managed to make its way to the nightstand.

  She studied him in the dimly lit room. His chiseled body, his scarred hands, the enticing way his fatigues looked like a half-wrapped present. Then back up to his face.

  “Are you going to stare or get in bed? Thought you were tired,” he grumbled.

  “You really don’t ever sleep, do you?”

  “Certainly not when I’m being stared at. I feel like a hare being stalked by a wolf.”

  She blushed. Her comportment tutor would probably have apoplexy if she could see her now. Damara wondered if there was even protocol for this. “You’re pretty to look at. What do you want from me?”

  “Pretty?” He cracked an eye open. “How’s that?”

  “Never mind. Go to sleep. I am.” She slipped under the covers and curled against him and pretended to sleep.

  “No, you’re not, but I’ll let you get away with it this time.” He wrapped an arm around her and held her close.

  With his arm around her, Damara felt as if she’d been hidden away from the world at large. Nothing could find her and nothing bad could touch her.

  * * *

  BYRON HAWKINS HAD fallen asleep breathing in the scent of jasmine with a soft woman in his arms.

  He awoke with a strangled scream in his throat and a cacophony of suffering in his head.

  His team.

  His whole team.

  Christ, the way they screamed.

  And it was his fault. His fault they screamed. His fault they never came home. Barnes with his easy smile and the dog-eared picture of his three-year-old daughter. Foxworth and his dreams for a life after his service.

  “There’s more to life than this, hoss.” Foxworth’s Texas twang thudded behind the noise of death.

  But there wasn’t. If Hawkins could go back and exchange himself for them, he’d do it. He never wondered what it would be like if he’d never given the order, because if it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else. He knew that.

  No matter what Renner told him. All his talk about PTSD, and therapy... He didn’t have PTSD. He was just born bad, and he knew it.

  Gentle fingers cupped his cheek. “Are you okay?” she murmured.

  He looked down at her, eyes half-lidded and sleepy but concern plain on her face. “Fine. Go back to sleep.”

  Somehow it was more horrible because she was awake. She’d become a witness to his shame. He had to get away from her, away from the forgiveness on her face, especially when it wasn’t hers to give.

  He untangled himself as quickly and gently as he could and went outside to stand on the giant balcony.

  They’d slept for the remainder of the day, and dusk had fallen. The city lights of Barcelona lit up the landscape like thousands of twinkling stars, and he thought of their conversation about starlight and stories to soothe children.

  That’s what she’d give him if he let her—a story to soothe everything that ached in him. But he deserved to suffer, deserved his pain.

  He scrubbed his hand over his face, sat down and dipped his feet into the Jacuzzi tub that was on the balcony. The hot water gurgled around his ankles and over his toes, giving him another sensation to concentrate on besides the buzzing in his head.

  The princess sat down next to him and dipped her feet in, as well. He didn’t want to look at her, talk to her, but his eyes were drawn to her dainty ankles.

  They were a gateway drug, because from there, he appraised her slim legs up to where the T-shirt brushed the tops of her thighs. Her nutmeg skin looked warm and smooth, so perfect. He remembered what it was like, running his hands all over her. The soft cries from her full lips.

  Fucking and killing—all he was good for.

  “Did you have a nightmare?” she asked.

  “Don’t want to talk about it.”

  He thought she’d pick at the scab, but she didn’t. “I didn’t even know this was out here. I’ve always wanted to try a Jacuzzi tub.”

  He arched a brow. “Seriously? You’re a princess. You didn’t have six or seven of these?”

  She laughed, the sound light. “No, my brother thought they were immodest and invited sin.”

  “They do.” Yes, they most certainly did, he thought, as his eyes raked over her.

  “You seem to be doing fine. I’m sitting here with my legs exposed all harlotlike, and yet you’re controlling yourself,” she teased.

  “It wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge.” He kept his tone light.

  “Oh, really? What do you define as ‘much’?” She slid one leg deeper into the water, watching him as she did so.

  Now she taunted him, dared him.

  He liked it.

  “You’re just about there.” He gave her a half grin.

  She slid all the way into the water, heedl
ess of her T-shirt and panties, and moved to stand between his legs. Damara braced her hands on his thighs and leaned in close to his mouth. “Am I there yet?”

  He laughed, not because he thought she was funny but because she delighted him.

  In that moment, with his hands on her hips and her mouth only a breath away from his, she wasn’t a princess and he wasn’t a fuckup extraordinaire. They were just Byron and Damara.

  “Do you wanna be?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Aren’t you sore?”

  “Sure, but I can be sore later, too. You and I won’t get later.” She brushed her lips against his carefully. “I don’t get to explore any of the new places I’ve been, the things I’ve seen. But I can explore you.”

  It was official. She was killing him.

  And it was a glorious death. He’d drown in her, be lost in her, anything she wanted from him so long as she kept touching him. He forgot everything when he wrapped himself in her.

  Damara ran her hands up his thighs and hooked her thumbs around the belt loops in his fatigues.

  “You don’t need these.”

  He obliged her and let her peel them off him. Then he sank down into the Jacuzzi tub and pulled her into his lap so she was astride him.

  The wet T-shirt was even sexier than if she was naked. Her dark skin was a contrast beneath the white of the shirt and her nipples were hard dusky peaks that begged for his attention.

  Byron loved the way she felt against him in the water, soft, wet and slick. She braced her palms on his shoulders and bit her lip as she rolled her hips experimentally against him.

  The moonlight was a slash of light that knifed through the darkness and fell like a fey ribbon on her hair. Just like it would on the open dark sea. He wanted to bury himself in it, and her. It would be so easy to push her panties aside and drive home deep into her heat.

  Byron liked teasing them both a bit, too, dragging it out, making the sensation last. It had been a while since he’d been with a woman, and he’d never been with a woman like Damara Petrakis.