All or Nothing

They’d made love on his yacht that night. They’d eloped four weeks later.

Memories of the optimism of that day and the heartbreak that followed threatened to chill her passion. She refused to let that happen, damn it.

Turning toward the shower, she called over her shoulder, “Someone’s way overdressed for this party.”

His eyes took on a predatory gleam, and he walked toward her, taking off his jeans and boxers with a speed and efficiency that sent a thrill of anticipation through her.

He stalked toward her, his erection straining hard and thick up his stomach. She reached behind her, her fingers grazing along the teak cubicle until she found the latch. She pulled the door open.

The slate tile floor cooled her feet after the scorched earth outside. She turned on the shower just as Conrad filled the entrance with his big, bold presence. The spray hit her in a cold blast, and she squealed, jumping back.

Laughing, Conrad stepped deeper inside, hooking an arm around her waist and hauling her against the delicious heat of his body until the spray warmed. She arched up on her toes to meet his kiss, water slicking over her skin in thousands of liquid caresses. She knew they couldn’t continue like this forever. They were merely delaying the inevitable decision on where to take their relationship next.

That only made her all the more determined to indulge in every moment now. She scored her nails lightly down his back, down to his hips, her fingers digging into his flanks to urge him closer. The rigid press of his arousal against her stomach brought an ache and moisture between her thighs that had nothing to do with the sheeting water.

He caressed her back, her breasts, even her arms, the rasp of his callused fingertips turning every patch of her skin into an erogenous zone. One of his hands fell away, and she moaned against his mouth.

“Patience,” he answered, his hand coming back into sight cupping a bottle of shampoo.

He raised his arm and poured a stream onto her head before setting aside the bottle. Suds bubbled, dripping, and she squeezed her eyes shut a second before he gathered her hair and worked up a lather. Pure bliss.

The firm pressure of his fingers along her scalp was bone melting. She slumped against the sleekly varnished walls. With her eyes closed, her world narrowed to the sound of the shower, the wind, the distant cackle of monkeys, a natural symphony as magnificent as any opera.

Certainly Conrad played her body well, with nuances from his massage along her temples to the outlining of her ears. Bubbles rolled down her body, slithering over her breasts and between her legs. She rubbed her foot along the back of his calf, opening her legs wider for the press of his erection against the tight bud of nerves already flaming to life. Each roll of her hips, each thrust of his fingers into her hair took her higher, faster.

The pleasures of the whole incredible day gathered, fueling the tingling inside her. He’d always been a generous lover and their chemistry had been explosive from their first time together. She opened her eyes and found him watching her every reaction.

Time for her to take him.

She scooped the bar of soap from the dish and worked up a lather. He lifted an eyebrow a second before she used her hands as the washcloth over his chest, down his sculpted arms and down to stroke his erection, cupping the weight of him in her hands. He twitched in her clasp, bracing a hand against the shower wall.

He clamped her hand to stop her.

“Jayne—” his voice came out choked and hoarse “—you’re killing me.”

“As I recall...” She sipped water from his chest, her tongue flicking around the flat circle of his nipple. “You never complained in the past when I took the initiative.”

“True enough.” He skimmed his hand over her hair, palming the back of her head.

“Then why won’t you let me...”

He stepped back, the shower spraying between them. “Because you’ve called the shots for the past three years.”

That was debatable, given how many times he’d sent her papers back unsigned. “Then this is a punishment? I’m not sure I like the context of that mixed with what’s happening between us.”

“Do you want to stop?” His question was simple enough, but the somber tone of his voice added weight and layers.

They were talking about the future. She wasn’t ready to have this discussion with him.

“You know I don’t want to stop. I never have. How about my turn now, yours later?” Clamping hands on his shoulders, she nudged him down to the shower seat. “Any objections to that?”

“None that come to mind.” He spread his arms wide. “I’m all yours.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Anticipation curled through her. Kneeling in front of him, she took him in her mouth, the shower sheeting along her back. She gripped his thighs. The flex of muscles thrilled her as she took in every sign of his arousal increasing. His head thudded back against the cubicle wall, and yes, she delighted in tormenting him as much as he’d teased her last night, drawing out the pleasure.

She knew his body as well as he knew hers, thanks to years of great sex and exploring what drove the other crazy. And she drew on every bit of that stored knowledge now until his fist clenched in her hair, gently guiding her off him. She smiled, reveling in the powerful attraction, the connection that couldn’t be denied even after three years apart.

His hands slid under her arms, and he lifted her onto his lap. She straddled him, the tip of him nudging between her legs, and she almost said to hell with birth control. Never had she been more tempted, her womb aching to be filled with his child. Aching to have a whole damn soccer team with this man. But after what her parents had put her through, she wouldn’t risk bringing a child into an unstable relationship.

And, damn it, even thinking about those lost dreams threatened to wreck the mood. She grabbed the condom from the soap dish and passed it to him. Her hands were shaking too much to be of any help.

Her hands braced on his shoulders, and she raised up on her knees, taking him deep, deeper still inside her, lifting again. She slid her breasts up and down his chest. Every brush of flesh against flesh launched a fresh wash of goose bumps over her. Faster and faster they moved, his hands on her hips, guiding her as he thrust in synch with her.

Moans rolled up her throat, wrung from her, each breathy groan answered by him. And yes, she took added pleasure in controlling this much of her life, bringing him to the edge, knowing that his feelings for her were as all-consuming as her own were for him.

His hands slid under her bottom and he stood, never losing contact, their bodies still linked. He pressed her back to the wall, driving into her, sending her the rest of the way into a shattering orgasm. Her arms locked around him, her head on his shoulder as her cries of completion rippled through her.

Thank goodness he held her because she couldn’t have stood. Even now, her legs melted down him, her toes touching the slate floor. His hot breath drifted through her hair as he held her in the aftermath of their release.

They’d made love in a shower numerous times and the tub, too, but never in an outdoor shower. His adventurous nature had always appealed to her. She’d always been such a cautious, practical soul—her mother had always been so stressed, Jayne had worked overtime to be the perfect daughter and that regimen eventually became habit. Rigid attention to detail was a great trait for a nurse, but not in her personal life. Then Conrad had burst into her world.

Or rather he’d hobbled into the E.R. on that broken foot, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge just how badly he’d been hurt. Even in a cast, he’d been more active than any human she’d met. He’d swept her off her feet, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, she’d done something impulsive.

She’d married Conrad after only knowing him for three months.

If they’d dated longer might they have worked through more of these issues ahead of time? Had a stronger start to their marriage, a better foundation?

Or would she have talked herself out of marrying him?

The thought of having never been his wife cut through her. She wanted a future with him. She couldn’t deny that, but she also couldn’t ignore what a tenuous peace they’d found here.

And the least bump in the road could shatter everything.

* * *

Conrad lounged on the shower bench with the door open, watching his wife tug her clothes back onto her damp body. Damn shame they couldn’t just stay naked, making love until the world righted itself again. “I read once that ‘The finest clothing made is a person’s skin, but, of course, society demands something more than this.’”

She tugged her T-shirt over her head, white cotton sticking to her wet skin and turning translucent in spotty places. “Where did you read that?”

“Believe it or not, Mark Twain.”

“I always think of you as a numbers man.” She pulled her hair free of the neckline, stirring memories of washing her, feeling her, breathing in the scent of her.

Her legs glowed with a golden haze, backlit by the sunset. There was still time left in this day.