Tempestuous Eden by Heather Graham Page B

memories of beauty were blotted by tragedy. “Talk to me about it,” he whispered gently.
    She shook her head, and he saw that she held back tears. “Just love me, Craig. Please, love me.”
    She was lost to the initiative, needing guidance. His fingers moved to the buttons of her blouse and he willed them to be steady, sensing she also needed absolute confidence on his part.
    Difficult when you were shaking inside like a green boy.
    His fingers were reverent as he undressed her, but confident or not, he couldn’t control the indrawn gasps of air that came as he revealed all to his touch and sight that had only mesmerized him by distance before.
    He wasn’t particularly fastidious. Her shirt, the first to go, landed on the dirt floor. Her bra—a lacy concession to femininity in the jungle—shortly came to rest on top of it. He resisted the temptation to immediately set his lips to taste the rose-colored peaks upon the firm crests of her high, creamy breasts until he had slipped her khaki jeans off and the lace panties down the length of shapely, supple legs. She swallowed convulsively several times, but now her eyes never left his, and her graceful movements were all to his assistance.
    Still she quivered, but still longing shimmered in the eyes that held him captive, eyes that were innately sensuous as well as tremulous.
    He reached out fingers that were gentle as feather tips, controlled, tender, and slowly traced the high line of her cheekbones, down the white column of her throat, over breasts that rose and fell temptingly with the increase of her breathing. His fingers hovered over her navel, then plunged downward again, grazing her abdomen, her hips, her thighs. He felt her quivering increase, her senses beginning to rage as his lightness teased flesh so close to the core of her feminine sexuality.
    But it had to be right, perfectly right between them. He drew her into his arms, savoring the feel of her breasts crushed to the hair-rough flesh of his chest, her long legs tangling with his, but still determined to hold back until understanding could intensify the pleasure for them both. He brushed against her, and he heard her moan, but although he did nothing to hide the near fever pitch of his need, neither did he yet let that need force him to impervious abandon.
    “You came here to me,” he murmured, his eyes locking with hers, “but you’re afraid of me.”
    “Yes.” Wide, honest eyes made no denial.
    “Why?”
    Her lashes wavered slightly, but she met his eyes again. “Because you’re real. You affect me in a way …” she murmured. “I couldn’t keep from coming to you, and …”
    Her voice trailed away, but he could supply the ending himself. He did, aloud. “And there’s been no one else since your husband died. Is that right, Blair?”
    She nodded weakly, her lids once more lowered.
    “Don’t be afraid, Blair.” He assuaged her fears, fingers threading through her hair and seducing as they comforted, massaging gently against the nape of her neck. “I’m frightened too. Can’t you feel me tremble? I want to please you as you please me, as everything about you pleases me.” So many times he had watched her, wanting her so badly. And now she was here. Nothing on earth or the earth itself could take her away from him now. Her eyes, steady on his with tremulous pride, were also filled with a guileless innocence. More beautiful, more touching than anything he had ever seen. He still held back. “You should talk to me, Blair.”
    She shook her head. “Not now, please, not now. If you want me, please, just love me.” She buried her head in his neck.
    Craig didn’t need a second invitation; he couldn’t have held back any longer anyway.
    He pushed her down to the pillow as his eyes caressed her. Commanding, but so gentle, so tender.
    “I want you, Blair,” he said huskily. “I want you more than I have wanted anything or anyone.”
    She smiled and her eyes closed briefly with