Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,47
cubes of French bread to perfection. Sloan moaned at the arrival of their main course, delicately seasoned fish, swearing she would never be able to finish the food. She did, however; it was all too delicious to consider leaving a mouthful.
Sloan demurred on dessert, but agreed to join Wes in ordering coffee and Grand Marnier. Twilight was falling as they sipped their cordials, and the muted blendings of gold and crimson added to the mystical romance of the evening. Sloan was marvelously comfortable and at ease. The liquor she had consumed made her feel as if she were truly floating on clouds, her body as light as a feather but superbly attuned to the touch and feel of the man beside her—the man who was now her husband and would soon be claiming all of his matrimonial rights. The thought made her shudder with delicious anticipation, and yet she was willing to savor every minute, to let things follow their dreamlike path slowly so that each step on the way to ultimate fulfillment could be cherished and heighten all that was to come...
She was almost in a trance by the time Wesley reached for her hand and escorted her from the restaurant. He was strangely silent as he guided their rental car out of the center of the city and into the surrounding hills, but Sloan barely noticed. Her head was resting on his shoulder; her hand rested lightly on his thigh, and she was secretly thrilling to its rugged, tense feel beneath her fingers. His breathing, she noted with misty satisfaction, was growing ragged, and a pulse was visibly pounding in the length of his corded neck. A smile of pure feminine pleasure fitted its way seductively into her lips. Wesley had power over her—he could prove that at any time with the slightest touch!—but she also had power over him, and she knew it. She loved him, desperately, but something as old as love and even more primitive held her in its grasp. Tonight she would play the seductress for real; the sensual vixen to the hilt. In the most ancient of feminine games, she would wield her power with subtle mastery until she had driven Wesley to the brink of insanity. Then, of course, they would surrender to love’s sweet fire together. Still, she decided with the wiles of her sex, she would keep the upper hand. It would never do to let Wes know that he could be the eternal victor, while still the game was for them both...two winners.
She almost forgot her game when they arrived at their hotel. As Wes had promised, the place was secluded and enchanting. The old and new were blended together delightfully. Their room, furnished with French provincial pieces—the dominating one being a huge, four-poster bed—was also equipped with ultramodern conveniences. There was nothing outdated about the beautiful marble bath or the plate glass windows which overlooked lush green hills and a blue stream. Flemish tapestries lined the walls, enhancing rather than contrasting with a thick shag rug of creamery-pure beige. Sloan clapped her hands with delight at her surroundings and spun on Wes with the enthusiasm of a child shining her eyes to brilliant sapphire.
“Wes!” she cried happily, lifting her hands inadequately as she sought for words of description. “It’s beautiful—wonderful—marvelous!”
A smile tilted his lips, but he turned from her wordlessly to tip the boy who had brought their luggage in. The two exchanged a few words in French, then the boy left, grinning deftly as he pocketed Wes’s francs. Then the door closed behind him, and Sloan was at long last alone with her new husband.
Wesley came behind her at the window. Darkness was enveloping the land, but a full moon was steadily rising to cast beautiful, luminescent shadows over the rippling water and nearby foliage. As they stared upon the view together, Wesley’s hands spanned her small waist, and he began a series of erotic nibblings on her earlobe which surely found their way down her neck and collarbone. Then he was firmly turning her from the window, and his lips found hers with insistent demand.
Sloan moaned as her lips parted beneath his assault. His tongue plundered the recesses of her mouth mercilessly as his hands began a slow attack of their own. Instinctively Sloan responded, arching her body to his, running her fingers from the crispness of his hair to the strength of his back, luxuriating in the play of muscles beneath her fingertips even as