Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [81]
With a dreamy sigh she shed her robe, the black silk pooling about her feet on the pure white sand. She paused there and permitted the damp morning air to caress her naked form. At ease with this state, she leaned her head back and shook her long hair, setting the thick mass to swing against her hips. She closed her eyes savoring the feel—sensual, liberating. But then, she didn’t need anything to awaken that side of her nature. Her traitorous body had throbbed a plaint all night long, yearning to be with Jago.
Preparing herself for the biting nip, she stepped into the bracing waters and walked out to the middle where it was chest deep. She inhaled sharp breaths until growing accustomed to the pool. Shivering, she had a hard time holding on to the slippery bar of Ivory; it popped out of her hand and tried to float away. She playfully snatched it back, then headed toward the water coming over the top of the high cliffs. The quivers in her body grew stronger as she pushed under the brisk, stinging spray, yet she relished the invigorating flow.
It wasn’t really a waterfall. The lodge sat on a small inlet, a finger that jutted out into the river, and when it rained, the runoff at the top of the cliffs spilled over to form a small cascade. After ages of this, a deep pool had been hammered out under its base. Thick ferns on each side shielded the spot from view, lending the spot a secluded feel of paradise found.
Allowing the buffeting water to rain down upon her, Asha embraced its icy slap. Her teeth chattering, she worked the white bar into thick foam, lathered her skin, and then allowed the suds to wash away as quickly as she soaped up. The coolness of the spray muted the heat in her body. Her breasts tightened painfully due to the cold, but that little compared to the ache within her, continued wanting of Jago all night.
Wanting him still.
Closing her eyes, she imagined Jago’s strong hands upon her body. She envisioned him touching her, stroking her, caressing her, slicking soapsuds over her breasts . . . and lower. She sighed wistfully. Much lower. Such thoughts provided no ease, merely increased her yearning for him, churning the hunger ’til the force devoured her mind.
Exhaling frustration, she was still disappointed that plans hadn’t gone as she’d hoped when she invited him to the river house. She’d pictured a relaxed, cozy meal; just the two of them—well, three, she chuckled, thinking of the kitty and how he had inserted his fat self into their lives. Maybe they would’ve built a small fire, sat before the fireplace and just talked, really seized the chance to get to know each other better. They were lovers now, yet there was so much of his life she knew nothing about. There were a thousand things she wanted to ask, so many little secrets to discover about this beautiful man with whom she was falling in love.
No, that wasn’t right. She wasn’t falling for Jago. It was much too late for that. Despite everything moving too bloody fast, she was in love with him. Loved him. She sucked in a breath and tried to contain the panic those words caused to surge within her. Yet, terrifying a thought as love was, she knew she couldn’t hide from the fact. Men like Jago Fitzgerald didn’t grow on trees. A woman would have to be batty not to risk all, hoping to come away with the gold ring. Literally. Well, she was no coward. She was a prideful woman, true. All Montgomerie women were. But Jago was special. She would do what it took to make him want to stay with her in this perfect little pocket of the world she was creating.
“First, I have to get rid of a pesky brother. He ruined the beautiful evening I planned. I’m lucky he didn’t have a bloody chastity belt with him,” she grumbled, the words nearly drowned by the gentle falls.
Stepping from the hard spray of the spate, prickles of awareness skittered up her