She felt lethargic, content to be right where she was. Her entire body was relaxed, sated, well-used.
His lips brushed the back of her neck and she realized he was awake. She made a slight nestling movement, sighing with pleasure. How she enjoyed this, waking in the early morning, held close by the man she loved; there were few things in life more satisfying.
His morning erection prodded her, rising insistently against her bottom. She started to turn over but he stayed her with a murmur, adjusting his position and guiding himself to her opening. She arched her back, giving him a better angle. He put his hand on her stomach, bracing her, and pushed. He went slowly inside her; she was morning soft, morning wet, but their positions made her body yield reluctantly to his intrusion. She breathed through her mouth, trying to stay relaxed. With her legs together there wasn't much room inside her; he felt huge, stretching her to the limit.
The sensation bordered on pain, but was also its own turn-on. She pressed her head back against his shoulder, struggling to contain the feeling and yet take more of him. Another inch pushed into her and she moaned.
He paused. "Are you all right?" His voice was low, smoky with sleep and desire.
She didn't know. Maybe. "Yes," she whispered.
He stroked his right hand up to her breasts, lightly rubbing his fingertips on the lower slope, the way he had learned she liked. The subtle caress lit a gentle glow of pleasure, prepared her nipples for more direct contact. That came from his thumb, slowly moving over them, circling them until they hardened and stabbed into his covering palm. It was scary how fast he had caught on to all the small subtleties of how she liked to be touched, scary that his attention had been so focused on her that he hadn't missed a single hitch in her breath. After just one night, he knew her body as well as she did.
He slipped his left arm under her, curving it around her waist and cupping his hand over her mound. His middle finger slid between her fold, pressing lightly on her clitoris. Not rubbing, just pressing, holding his finger there. Then he began to thrust, using long, slow strokes that moved her body back and forth against his finger.
She cried out, jerking under the lash of pleasure. He whispered something soothing and steadied her, then resumed the motion.
"I wanted you the first time I saw you," he murmured. "God, how I envied Dallas!" His right hand stroked up and down her torso, piling sensation on top of sensation. "I stayed away from you for five long, fucking years. I gave you every chance to settle down with Mr. Right, but you didn't take them and I'm through with waiting. You're mine now, Niema. Mine."
Her thoughts reeled with shock. He wasn't given to a lot of swearing: For him to say what he just had was a measure of the strength of his feelings. "J-John?" she stuttered, reaching back for him. She hadn't had any idea any of that had been going on inside him. How could she? He was too damn good an actor.
His hips recoiled and plunged in a steady, unhurried motion that was completely at odds with the way his heartbeat was hammering against her back. "I talked you into coming on this job because I couldn't let you go." His mouth moved on her neck, finding that exact spot between neck and shoulder where the lightest touch made her go limp with pleasure, and a bite would light her up like a Christmas tree. He licked and kissed, holding her quivering body as she strained against him. She tried to part her legs, to lift her thigh over his, but he anchored her leg and held it down.
Niema squirmed, almost frantic with need. As good as his finger felt between her legs, with her legs held together the contact wasn't quite enough; his strokes inside her weren't quite deep enough, or fast enough. He had brought her to the boiling point, with touch and words, but wouldn't let her go over it.
"You were right," he breathed, the words hot on her skin. "I could have found someone else to plant the bug. Hell, I could've planted it myself. But I wanted you with me. I wanted this chance to have you."
"Let me put my leg over yours," she pleaded, almost mad with frustration. "Move faster. Please. Just do something!"
"Not yet." He kissed her neck again. Her right hand, reaching behind to grab him, clenched hard on his butt. "In Ronsard's office-"
"For God's sake, confess afterward!"
He laughed and moved her hand, dislodging her nails from his ass. "I didn't mean to go that far. I've never lost control like that before." He nuzzled her ear. "I had to taste you, had to kiss you-and then I had to have you. I wanted our first time to be in a bed, with a lot of time to spend loving you, but I couldn't stop. I forgot about the job. All that mattered was having you."
He was saying things any woman in her right mind wanted to hear from the man she loved, Niema thought dimly. But, damn him, he was saying them when she was on the verge of dying. And maybe what he was saying was turning her on even more, because every word seemed to go straight to her very core.
"You seem to think the end of this job is the end of us. Not by a long shot, sweetheart. You're mine and you're going to stay mine."
"John," she gasped. "I love you. But if you don't start moving your ass this very minute-!"
He laughed, a deep-throated sound of pure pleasure, and obeyed her command. He lifted her thigh over his hip and moved hard and fast, going deep. She stiffened, her legs trembling, and erupted in a violent climax. He joined her before her tremors had ceased.
Afterward, she couldn't stop trembling. The pleasure had been too intense, too prolonged, and she still couldn't quite believe all the things he had said. She twisted around to face him. Immediately his expression became guarded.
She managed a smile, though her heart was pounding so violently she could barely speak. "Don't think you can get away with saying things like that only when my back is turned." She touched his face, cradling his cheek in her palm. "Did you mean them?"
A shudder wracked him. "Every word."
"So did I."
He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips, then folded them in his hand. For a moment he seemed beyond words.
She kissed his chin. "I don't expect more from you than you can give. I know who you are, remember? You have a job to do, and I won't ask you to give it up. I'll probably go back into fieldwork myself-"
"Why am I not surprised?" he asked in a wry tone.
She couldn't seem to stop touching him. All those long hours in bed with him had only made the yearning worse, instead of sating it. She stroked her hand over his rock hard chest, pressed a kiss to his throat.
"We'll work it out. We don't have to make decisions now, or even tomorrow."
His eyebrows rose and he rolled, tucking her neatly beneath him. Propped over her on his elbows, he said in amusement, "You're being very gentle with me."
"I don't want to frighten you off."
"After waiting five years to have you? Sweetheart, you couldn't frighten me off with an elephant gun. But you're right about one thing: We don't have to make any decisions other than what to eat for breakfast. We can steal a few days just for ourselves before we go back to D.C."
"Can we?" That sounded like heaven-nothing to do but sleep late, make love, lie in the sun. No roles to play, no disks to steal. They could just be themselves. She still couldn't quite take in everything he'd said: How could she not have known, not sensed his attraction to her? But maybe she had; maybe that was what she had picked up on when they were in Iran that made her so uneasy. She hadn't been able to tell what it was, because John was so good at hiding what he was thinking, but she had known there was some tension there. Would she have been ready earlier to hear what he was saying? She didn't know.
They were together now, and that was all that mattered.
Chapter Twenty-Seven.
John made a call on the radio, and a couple of hours later the man with the outboard brought some clothes to the boat: jeans, T-shirts, underwear, socks, and sneakers. "Have you heard anything on Ronsard?" John asked as he took the bundle of clothes.
The man shook his head. He was dressed much as he had been the day before, in cotton pants and a pullover shirt, with dark sunglasses that prevented anyone from seeing his eyes. "Nothing since last night. His men were all over Marseilles. Looks like you lost them there. We'll keep tight surveillance on the yacht, though, just in case."
Niema waited until the Company man left, then went out on the deck. "Clothes," she said with satisfaction, taking the bundle from John's arms. "Thank God. Being naked when you have clothes to put on is one thing, but being naked when you have no choice is nerve-wracking."
He reached out and fingered the thick bathrobe she had tightly belted around her after showering a few moments ago. "You look clothed to me-too damn clothed for my taste."
"That's the point. If you have to work for something, you appreciate it more." She stepped away from that encroaching finger and headed back below deck.
"Then you should consider yourself the most appreciated woman in the civilized world," he growled.
Maybe he hadn't meant for her to hear him, but she did. Her knees went a little weak. Every time she thought of the things he'd said that morning her heart started thumping hard and fast. She was so happy she was afraid she might fly apart.
They would face problems in the future, probably in the near future. She didn't know what form their relationship would take, whether there would be any formal commitment or just an unspoken arrangement as lovers whenever they happened to be together-which might not be very often. But all of that was in the future. For right now, for these couple of stolen days before they caught a military transport back to the States, all they had to do was love each other.
He hadn't said he loved her, but he didn't have to.
She felt it every time he touched her, with a wrenching blend of tenderness and almost savage lust that made his hands tremble, or when he looked at her with his emotions naked in his eyes. John was so controlled that the very fact he let her see what he was feeling told her more than words ever could.
She didn't have to have any promises, any plans. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe losing Dallas had made her afraid to count on the future; all she knew was that she was happy just having John now.
He came below deck and leaned against the door frame, watching as she took all the articles of clothing out of the bag and placed them on the bed, dividing them into his and hers stacks.
"Are you going somewhere?"
"No, I just want to get dressed. I guess I can't believe Ronsard has given up, and if there's trouble I want to be wearing more than a robe."
John strolled forward and hooked a finger in the belt around her waist, pulling her against him. She went willingly, looping her arms around his neck. "We're safe enough here on the boat," he said. "The only way anyone can get to us without being seen is from underwater. We're under constant surveillance, and the boat has electronic countermeasures in place in case anyone tries to eavesdrop."
"So we have to stay on board until we're picked up?"
"I wouldn't mind a couple of days of downtime." A slight smile curved his lips. "On the other hand, I'm not Superman, either, so we might as well get dressed."
He stripped off his tuxedo pants, which was all he was wearing, and was in shorts and jeans by the time she stepped into a pair of underpants. He eyed her feet. "You need Band-Aids on those blisters before you put on socks and shoes. I'll get the first-aid kit."
Niema sat down on the bed and examined her feet. The blisters didn't look bad and weren't bothering her; the antibiotic cream she'd put on them the day before had helped a lot, plus she had been barefoot since coming on board the boat. Still, he was right: They needed protecting. Runners learned to take care of their feet.
He came back with a small white kit in his hand and sat down beside her. "Feet up," he said, patting his lap.
Smiling at the luxury, she turned around and lay back on the pillows, lifting her feet onto his lap and giving herself up entirely into his hands. These strong hands gently cradled her feet, dabbing cool ointment on the blisters and covering them with adhesive strips. He performed the task with the same fearsome concentration he applied to everything.
Still holding her feet in his hands, he looked up at her: "Did you know the feet are an erogenous zone?"
Alarmed, she said, "I know they're a ticklish zone." She tried to regain custody of her feet but with very little effort he controlled the motion.
"Trust me." His tone was both soothing and cajoling. "I won't do anything to tickle you."
She was trying to jackknife into a sitting position when he pressed his mouth to her right instep. She fell back on the pillows, her breath tangling in her throat, spikes of pleasure shooting all the way to her groin. She sucked in a deep breath. "Do that again."
"My pleasure," he murmured, caressing her instep with his tongue and eyeing with interest her hardening nipples.
Niema closed her eyes. What he was doing was incredible: She didn't have the least inclination to laugh. His touch was firm, almost massaging. His tongue unerringly found the most sensitive spot on her instep, stroking it until she had to choke back moans of pleasure. Then he turned his attention to her left foot, shifting so he was facing her and a foot was in each hand. He divided his attention between them, kissing and licking and sucking until she could no longer hold back those moans. Her body twisted and arched, and her breathing became ragged.
She was scarcely aware of when he deftly slipped her panties down her legs, only that he was cupping her bottom in his hands and lifting her up to his mouth. His hair was cool on the insides of her thighs, his mouth hot as he stabbed his tongue into her. She was so aroused that she began climaxing in moments, the sensation so intense that blood roared in her ears and reality contracted until it existed only in the sensation between her legs.
When she finally managed to open her eyes, he was smiling at her. "See?"
"Wow." She stretched languidly. "Do you have any more tricks?"
He laughed as he stood up. "A few, but we'll work up to those."
He had taken the edge off her interest in getting dressed, but she did it anyway, then joined him on deck. The sun was bright on the water. She looked across at the crowded beach and the city beyond. "I wish we could go into the city," she said as she slipped her sunglasses on her nose.
"Maybe later. Let's see if we pick up anything else on Ronsard before we go into the city." He picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the beach.
"Looking at the topless women?" she asked, pinching his butt. "I thought you were too sophisticated for that."
"A man never gets too sophisticated for that," he murmured and laughed when she pinched him again.
Late that afternoon he got another report from the Company men on shore. Ronsard seemed to have pulled his men; though there was still surveillance in place at the airports, no one was actively beating the bushes for them.
"Looks like we can do a little sightseeing," he said.
She was aware he was indulging her. "You've been to Nice before, haven't you?"
He shrugged. "I've been to most places before."
"What do you do for relaxation?"
He thought about that for a moment. "Hide away on a boat on the Riviera and make love to you," he finally answered.
"You mean . . . you never just get in a car and drive? Rent a cabin somewhere in the mountains, go fishing, look at the scenery?" She was aghast, wondering how anyone could live under such unrelenting stress.
"Like a normal person? No."
Mr. Medina, that's going to change, she thought staring at him. When he had downtime, she would make certain he relaxed some place where he didn't have to constantly watch his back or keep up a cover. That would probably be the only way they could be together, somewhere so isolated they would have to make an effort to see another human being.
John radioed in that they were going ashore.
"Do you want surveillance?"
He thought about it. "How many men do you have?"
"We can keep the yacht covered, or we can cover you, but we'll be stretched thin if we try to do both."
It was a calculated risk, Niema knew. Just because Ronsard's men hadn't been spotted didn't mean they weren't there. But everything in John's life was a calculated risk-and lately, so was everything in hers. This was how it would be, she thought; this was the life she was choosing, the life she wanted.
"Put one man on us," John finally said.
"Will do."
He tucked his pistol into his waistband at the small of his back, then put on a lightweight jacket. Niema had found a straw tote in the cabin and she dropped her pistol into it.
The yacht had its own motorized dinghy, and they went ashore in it. The sun was low in the sky, the light mellowing, the shadows deepening. They walked for a while, strolling along with the other tourists. They stopped for a cup of coffee at a sidewalk cafe; she browsed through some lovely little shops and started to buy a six-foot long, sky blue scarf, only to realize she had no money. "I'm broke," she told John, laughing as she pulled him out of the shop.
He looked back. "I'll get the scarf for you."
"I don't want you to get the scarf. I want you to get some money for me."
"Independent hussy," he remarked, tugging free and going back into the shop.
She waited on the sidewalk, arms crossed and toe tapping, until he rejoined her with the scarf wrapped in tissue paper. He dropped the weightless package in her tote, and a kiss on her nose. "That's from me. As for operating money, I'll have more funds delivered to us tomorrow."
"Thank you." Over his shoulder she caught a glimpse of a man watching them. He quickly turned away and entered a shop. She said thoughtfully, "Do you know what our Company tail looks like?"
"I spotted him when we left the dinghy. Khaki pants, white shirt."
"A man wearing black pants, white shirt, and a tan jacket was watching us. He went in one of the shops when he saw me looking at him."