Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [57]
“What did you do?” she asked curiously.
“I borrowed enough money to get me to Cannes, and entered it in the festival,” he said simply. “It won best picture. Then I brought it home, and sent the actors around to every talk show on the circuit. The picture didn't win the Academy Award that year, but it was nominated.” He grinned lightly. “And I made a small fortune on it.”
“Tribute,” Brenna said thoughtfully.
“Tribute,” he agreed quietly.
They were silent in a perfect accord that lasted for a few golden moments.
“Come on, lazybones,” Donovan said briskly, rising to his feet. “I'll race you to the end of the pool.”
She shook her head. “I've just been in. I'll wait for you here.”
She watched as he dived cleanly from the side and did three laps in the pool, his arms cleaving the water with power and precision. When he hoisted himself out of the water at the edge of the pool, he wasn't even breathing heavily, she noticed ruefully. She threw him a towel which he caught deftly and proceeded to dry the thick mahogany hair, then his body, before wrapping the towel around his middle, and sauntering back to the chair where she was sitting.
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as she watched him approach.
“You look like a gladiator at the Roman Games,” she commented, her lips quirking.
“And you would have been a scandalous vestal virgin,” he returned lightly, his eyes surveying her bikini-clad figure with frank enjoyment. “Did you know that the vestals were not released from their bonds of chastity until they had served for thirty years?” He sat down beside her on the lounge, his eyes suddenly intent and still. “I'm beginning to feel a definite kinship with them,” he said huskily.
She looked down, her eyes shy. The air about them was crackling with the the intensity of his feelings. Brenna was vividly conscious of her near nudity, the softness and curves and the satin smoothness of her skin that seemed erotically fashioned to be pleasing to the hard, muscular form of this man.
She didn't pretend to misunderstand him. “It's only been two weeks,” she said with forced lightness.
He reached out to stroke the silky curve of her shoulder. “It seemed like two years. Why do you think I've been working so hard? I'm not used to celibacy, Brenna.”
Her eyes flew to his face, and a blush dyed her cheeks at what she saw there.
“God knows, I've tried to be patient,” he went on roughly. “I wanted you to come to me. I didn't want to take you. Every night when I finally did get to bed, I'd lie there aching, knowing that you were just across the hall. I've been going through hell. I can't take it anymore.”
He lifted her effortlessly so that she was sitting on his knees. His mouth covered hers with an aching sweetness, and then with a groan, his lips parted hers and his tongue invaded her with a savage need. With a swift movement he rolled her over so that they were lying side by side on the recliner, his mouth open and working erotically on hers, demanding her responses. His leg urgently parted her thighs. His thighs felt rough and masculine, she thought feverishly, the fine hair caressing the smoothness of her limbs with a sensual abrasiveness.
“God, you feel so good,” Donovan groaned breathlessly, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder. With shaking hands he worked at the back fastening of her bikini top, and in seconds the flimsy strip of material was removed from between their bodies. His hands reached around to curve over her swollen breasts, kneading the sensitive mounds with a rhythmic urgency that caused her to cry out with the sudden heat that shot through her body. She arched against him convulsively, her hips moving blindly in an attempt to fit herself to his loins.
He shuddered, and tore the towel from around his hips in a frantic attempt for a closer unity, and Brenna drew her breath in sharply, as she felt the taut flesh burning through the cool dampness of his trunks. His mouth was on one taut nipple, his tongue teasing it maddeningly while his thumb flicked its sensitive mate,