Offering her with patience, tenderness and untiring, unhurried grace, a glimpse of an unknown, undreamed-of world of pleasure.
Time was suspended. There was only this endless—exquisite—torment. This intolerable, unceasing delight. She was consumed by sensation, conscious of it building inside her with all the irresistible force of a giant wave. Aware that each lingering, sensual stroke of his tongue was carrying her away, sweeping her inexorably, helplessly, towards some trembling, anguished pinnacle.
And when the wave broke, and she was flung out into some shimmering, shattering void, she heard herself cry out in sobbing triumph at the glory of her first sexual release.
Diaz wrapped her in his arms, his hand cradling her head, until she stopped shaking and her body began to relax into peace.
When she could speak, she said, ‘Is—is it always like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ he returned softly. ‘I’m not a woman. But I hope so.’
She remained still, her lips against the column of his throat, her hand pressed to the wall of his chest, feeling the thud of his heartbeat through his shirt, thinking dreamily she’d be content to stay where she was for ever.
Yet at the same time it occurred to her that there was an incongruity about being naked in his arms when he was still fully dressed that made her feel almost shy. And how ridiculous was that, considering what had just taken place?
She reached up and began to unfasten his shirt, but he halted her.
‘Not now, my sweet.’
‘But don’t you want…?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But later. When we have all the time we need.’ He kissed her eyes and, gently, her lips. ‘Get some sleep now, and I’ll wake you when it’s time to go ashore.’
He lifted himself off the bed and covered her with the sheet, stroking her damp hair back from her forehead.
He said again, ‘Later,’ the promise repeated in his smile, and went.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE first thing Rhianna noticed when she opened her eyes was that the light was different. The next that the room wasn’t moving. The third that she was in a much bigger bed than the one on Windhover.
She was also alone, although the crumpled pillow beside her and the thrown-back covers demonstrated that this had not always been so.
She sat up, yawning, and considered her new environment.
Her actual arrival in Spain remained something of a blur. She could recall there’d been certain formalities to undergo before they’d been free to make their way to the car waiting on the quayside. The driver, an undeniably handsome lad, called Felipe with smouldering eyes and a sulky mouth, had stared at Rhianna with undisguised admiration until a quiet word from Diaz had recalled him to his duties.
It had been too dark to form any impression of the countryside they’d travelled through, and eventually, supported by the comfort of Diaz’s shoulder, she’d dozed again.
She hadn’t absorbed much about the house either, apart from being greeted by a stout woman with greying hair, who’d watched with an expression of faint disapproval when Diaz had swung her off her feet and carried her upstairs to this room.
She had a dim memory of him sliding into bed beside her at some point, and of turning into his arms with a murmur of pleasure. But after that—nothing.
And now here she was, all by herself.
For a moment a cold hand seemed to brush her skin, but she shook the feeling away. It was too late for regrets—for wishing that last night had not happened. No point in telling herself it had been a matter of male pride to show her that after pain there could be pleasure. Or that he’d tricked her.
She was out of her depth and drowning with all she felt for him, and she’d change nothing—apart from wishing he’d been with her when she woke.
She lay back against the pillows again, and looked around her with growing pleasure. It was a large room, its pale walls the colour of aquamarine, which appeared even more spacious because of the few items of furniture it contained. Apart from the bed there was only a large wardrobe and a tall chest of drawers, elaborately carved in some dark wood, and two smaller matching tables flanking the bed.
The shutters at the long windows were slightly open, and a bright shaft of sunlight was spilling across the tiled floor, while the drapes of unbleached linen stirred in the faint breeze.
Opposite the bed was a door leading to a bathroom, judging by the glimpse of azure tiles and creamy marble beyond.
What she couldn’t see anywhere was her luggage. Even the things she’d been wearing last night had disappeared.
But perhaps they were in that enormous wardrobe.
She got out of bed and, for want of anything better, took the sheet with her, winding it round her body in case the woman with pursed lips, whose name she recalled was Pilar, should suddenly reappear.