Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

He let out a hiss of air.

Shaking his head, he swore in Spanish. And then his hands closed around her wrists and he pulled them behind her back. Bending his head, he took her mouth again. Her insides felt hot and tight and she squirmed closer, raising her hips, seeking to ease the pulsing ache between her thighs. But he was holding her still, keeping himself just out of reach.

Her stomach tensed and she moaned in frustration as he wrenched his mouth away. His eyes were trained on her face. For a moment he just stared at her, and then, holding both of her wrists in one hand, he pulled her forward so that the warm spray trickled over her bare skin.

Her heart began to thump as he leaned forward and ran his fingers slowly over her breasts and belly, then lower to the triangle of her panties. As he slid his hand beneath the fabric her stomach flipped over and inside out with need and frustration, and she arched her aching body up towards his, wanting more, needing more.

‘Please...’ she whispered.

He dropped to his knees and she felt an arrow of heat, sharp and low, as he hooked a finger into one side of her panties and tugged gently, drawing them down her legs and tossing them away.

Her nipples tightened painfully. She felt as though she was teetering on the edge of a bottomless drop. A pulse was beating relentlessly between her thighs—and then his tongue pushed between the damp curls and she gasped.

The rain was pounding down now, fat droplets exploding on the rocks behind them, blotting out her heartbeat and his ragged breathing.

Her body was opening out with longing and she was shaking with need, her whole body trembling. A fluttering heat was spreading out from his tongue, growing stronger, more urgent, impossible to ignore. She could feel herself slipping away, the beat of her desire out of sync with her throbbing heartbeat.

Oh, she had never felt like this before. This need was raw and imperative. It felt like water, or air, or sunlight and she could think of nothing other than the tip of his tongue...steady, precise, teasing, merciless.

Her body was screaming now and, tugging her hands free, she grabbed his hair, her fingers biting into his scalp, pulling him closer, opening herself to him as heat exploded in her pelvis.

She breathed out unsteadily as César kissed his way up her body, chasing the aftershocks quivering over her skin. Her hands were still grabbing his skin, clutching and tensing—and then her fingers found the zip of his trousers.

He groaned as she freed him, and she watched his face tighten with concentration as he held himself back from his own release. Curving his fingers under her bottom, he lifted her up so that he could ease her on to his body.

She began to rock against him, her head spinning, and he wrapped his hands around her hips and pulled her closer, his hunger accelerating. Reaching up, he brought her face down and kissed her fiercely and then, gripping her waist, he pushed up inside her. Instantly, she began to move more urgently, breath quickening. His hips were meeting hers...

‘Yes.’ Her lips parted against his mouth. ‘Yes... Yes...’ she whispered.

He breathed in sharply, jerking his mouth away from hers. Muscles clenching, blood hardening to iron, he thrust into her, burying his face against her neck to stop himself crying out. He held her close, and then, easing himself free, he backed her gently against the wall of rock, leaning forward to shield her body with his.

Kitty was still trying to catch her breath. He was calm and solid beside her, his muscles relaxed, his arms holding her against him, supporting her flushed, shaken body.

Had they really just done that? Had she really just done that? Was it her hormones? Or was it this place?

She glanced over his shoulder at the lush greenery and brightly coloured butterflies. It was all so wild and vibrant—like stepping into some primitive landscape. Was that why she’d lost all sense of who she was? All her inhibitions?

But she knew that it was none of those things. It was him. And her. The two of them together.

Burying her face against his burning damp skin, she felt the reality of what had just happened overwhelm her. It had been so fierce, so urgent, so quick. One spark was all it had taken: her body the flint to his steel.

For a moment she couldn’t bring herself to move or speak, and perhaps he felt the same way—because he kept his cheek against her face, his breath, still rapid and unsteady, in her hair.

She leaned into him, enjoying the sensation of his skin against hers, the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart. She felt fearless: he had made her feel fearless. Even her nakedness felt natural. His body fitted hers with a symmetry that felt predetermined, as though once upon a time they had been joined and then separated, and she wondered why she had fought against this moment.

But it couldn’t last for ever.

She pushed at him gently and their eyes met. Scared of what she might see, she looked down to where her fingers were splayed against his chest. She blinked. In the heat of passion she’d barely registered the scars, but now she stared at them intently. They were of differing lengths, some thin and white, one darker and ridged.

‘Did you get that one riding your bike?’ She ran her fingertip over the puckered skin.

He nodded. ‘I hit a bump in the road, came off, and the bike caught me in the chest.’

‘And this?’ She touched his side.

His eyes we

re opaque in the sunlight. ‘I was climbing and I missed a foothold. I dropped about a hundred feet before the rope caught me, and I got scraped against the rock.’