Silence washed over them. The air was cool on their sweat-dampened skin. He held her close, clinging on as if he wanted to stay that way forever. She didn't move in case he let go.
He could officially die a happy man. The gentle weight of her comforted him. One of her legs had wound around his; her foot was tucked against his calf. As her breathing slowed he stroked her hair, breathing in the heady scent of her perfume mingled with perspiration and sex.
Beside his head her hands were still clutching the pillow. Outside, Saturday-night parties raged on, contrasting with inside, where a hazy silence had settled over them.
'That was okay, I guess,' she mumbled against his neck, chuckling when he turned to look her in the eye. 'If you like that kind of thing.'
Glossy dark strands of hair covered half her face and he pushed them aside, drinking in her drugged gaze with satisfaction. Her lips were swollen and parted, her cheeks bright pink. Tracing her lower lip with his thumb, he brought her head down for a slow, teasing kiss.
'And do you like that sort of thing?'
'Nah-orgasms are overrated.' She grinned, pushing herself up so she straddled his hips.
The view was pretty damn good from this angle.
'Blasphemy.'
'Total blasphemy.' She planted a kiss on the tip of his nose and traced the lines of his latest tattoo. 'This is new.'
'It's twelve months old.'
'"In the waves of change we find our true direction".' She read the words that had been etched onto him forever. 'That's beautiful. Why that quote?'
'I thought it made me sound intelligent,' he joked, hiding his sudden vulnerability with a wink.
How did she do that? She had a homing beacon aimed straight for his most sensitive areas … and not the good kind!
She smirked. 'What's the real reason?'
'I felt like I needed a reminder that change is necessary … healthy.' He sighed, and rolled so that she came down and landed on the bed next to him.
He'd meant to move away, but her body immediately curled into his, finding the groove between his arm and his chest. It felt so damn good to have her by his side, to finally be able to wrap his arms around her without the guilt of the past. He only had one night-he might as well let himself enjoy it.
What if one night wasn't enough?
Bookings were piling up. He'd be sailing back to Queensland soon enough to bury himself in work and his family. Even if they did stretch this fiasco on for more than a night his time here had a solid end date. Normally that was what he liked. But he wasn't experiencing his usual sense of relief at their ring-fenced sleeping arrangements.
'Do you think you need to change?'
'Everyone needs to change,' he replied, running a fingertip up and down her arm.
'What do you want to change?'
He laughed, shaking his head. 'What's with the twenty questions? I thought I'd signed on for a night of steamy sex-not the Spanish Inquisition.'
'Is that so?' She reached for him, the brush of her fingertips hardening him. 'What if I'm done?'
'I'll say when you're done.'
Rolling on top of her, he mentally thanked the king-size bed for its endless space.
Pinned, she tilted her face up at him, a defiant glint in her eye. 'You're not the boss of me,' she said.
Yeah, right. He had her exactly where he wanted her. Kissing his way down her neck, he sucked on her skin, only stopping to draw a still-hard nipple into his mouth. Her breasts were perfect: smallish, but firm, topped with bronzed peaks that were oh-so-responsive to his touch. She arched, stifling a groan. He licked, nipped, tugged until she let out the heavenly sounds of pleasure.
'That's it,' he murmured against her breast. 'Don't keep that wonderful sound from me. I want to hear you.'
'Bossy boots.' Her head lolled back against the pillow. Her eyes were closed, but a wicked smile curved her lips.
'Damn straight.'
'We were talking.' Strong fingers gripped his hair, pulling his head up so she could look down her body at him.
'And now we're not.'
'Why are you so averse to talking?'
'I'm not averse, but I prefer touching you.' To illustrate his point he kissed a trail down to her hip, swirling his tongue over the slightly protruding bone.
'You're such a guy.'
With her hands still in his hair he made his way to the juncture of her thighs, blowing cool air on her heated skin. 'Want me to stop?'
'What if I say yes?'
Her voice wavered. Victory.
'I'll call your bluff.'
Delicate licks drew an anguished moan from her.
'Stop.'
'Okay.' He pulled his head away but she pushed him back into place.
'Damn you.'
He laughed against the inside of her thigh, nipping at the sensitive flesh before moving back to her sex. The honeyed scent of her made his head swim, made him want to ravish her. It wouldn't be right to push her over the edge too quickly. She would have to wait while he had his fill.
He drew the sensitive bud of her clitoris into his mouth, working her, teasing her, tasting her. Smooth legs draped over his shoulders; demanding hands pushed and pulled him into place. Chantal was clear about what she wanted, and that was exactly the way he liked it.
'Brodie … ' she gasped. 'For the love of … '
'Want me to stop again?'
'No!' The tension built within her, tremors rippling through her legs. 'Please.'
He bore down, giving her what she wanted until orgasm ripped through her. This time there was no holding back. She cried out so loudly that the neighbouring boats were sure to hear.
He clutched at his drawer, grabbing another condom and burying himself in her, riding the final waves of her release as he lost himself in her pleasure.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHANTAL AWOKE WRAPPED in Brodie arms. Her face was pushed against his bicep, which was far cosier than it should have been, considering the guy was a rock-hard tower of muscle. His even breathing soothed the thumping of her heart.
From her days at Weeping Reef she knew Brodie was a heavy sleeper. She'd tested it on more than one occasion by sneaking into his room with Scott so they could play pranks on him. Like the time they'd switched the clothes in his drawers for frilly girls' nightclothes, so that he had to wander down to Chantal's room in a pink leopard-print negligee.
Not that he'd been too upset. He'd strutted his stuff as he did every day and the girls had fallen at his feet anyway.
Biting down on her lower lip, Chantal watched his peaceful face. Full lips were curved into a slight smile; thick lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. His shaggy blond hair managed to look magazine perfect. Damn him.
Flashes of last night came back in a rush of needy, achy feeling. Every part of her body throbbed in a totally satisfied, pleasure-overload kind of way. Brodie was as good in bed as she'd suspected, but there was a tenderness to him that had been a complete surprise. The way he'd stroked her hair, the comforting embrace in the middle of the night, the gentle sweep of his hand along her arm-she hadn't been prepared for that at all. If anything it would have been easier if he was cold and impersonal afterwards.
She couldn't do this with him. It had been so much more than scratching an itch. He'd pushed her limits, bringing her to sensual heights she'd never known existed. He'd stirred her curiosity. The words inked on him revealed that he was so much more than the shallow charmer she'd labelled him. How could she look into those beautiful green eyes again without wanting to learn more? To dig deeper?
It was supposed to be about sex.
It is about sex. You don't owe him anything. You got what you wanted-now move on and focus on your career. Playtime is over.
Careful not to wake him, Chantal extracted herself from his muscular hold. She slipped out of the bed, holding her breath as her feet touched the polished boards. It was like playing a game of Sleeping Giant-except that the giant was a hunky guy with whom she didn't want to have awkward after-sex conversation.
How was she going to get back to Newcastle for her shift at the job from hell? Cringing, she tiptoed around the room. More importantly, where the hell was her dress? She'd managed to find every single one of Brodie's clothing items from their stripping frenzy, but the little blue dress was nowhere to be seen. Normally she was a leave-nothing-behind kind of girl when it came to her clothes, but the blue dress would have to be sacrificed.
Changing slowly, and as silently as possible, Chantal pulled on the clothes she'd arrived in on the first night, grabbed her phone and slung her overnight bag over one shoulder.
Now she had to make her way to Newcastle without the aid of Brodie's boat or her car-which was still parked at the bar. Simple … not. A cab was out of the question, since her wallet was frighteningly lean. Perhaps she could ring one of the girls and beg for a lift?