She stood, gently disentangling their hands, and came around the table to stand before him. He moved his chair so that he faced her.
"You are different." She lifted a hand to delicately trace his hairline.
He closed his eyes, feeling her fingers tremble against his skin.
"For whatever reason," she said softly, "when you are with me, you are simply Isaac and I am Coral."
And he felt her lips against his. Lightly, no more than the brush of a moth's wings. Her breath fanned against his mouth, hesitant and sweet. He curled his hands about the chair's seat, fearful of grabbing her. Fearful of breaking this fragile bond. She grew bolder, pressing her lips, still close-mouthed to his. He opened his lips slowly, savoring her, not wanting to frighten her. He licked across her mouth and tasted wine and woman. His pulse beat heavy in his body. He wanted to take her into his lap, to open her dress and feel all that smooth, pale skin.
But when she drew back he made no move to stop her.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, Coral Smythe, this mysterious woman he seemed to know so well now, and asked the only thing he could.
"What now?"
Chapter 7
So the soldier set off for the home of the Ice Princess. He journeyed through forests and mountains, tundra and bare ice, tramping along with a bag over his shoulder and worn boots upon his feet. He was attacked by lions, chased by bandits, and spent the night with more than one wise hermit. And as he neared the Ice Princess' palace he began to hear her song, high and sweet, and so very, very lonely. . . .
--from The Ice Princess
Coral glanced into the mirror and smoothed her already perfect coiffure. She'd waited on innumerable men in her career, but for some reason, the wait tonight for Isaac was making her as nervous as a cat strolling through a pack of dogs.
She let her hands fall on a sigh of frustration. Oh, why not admit the truth? Isaac wasn't like all the other men she'd lured and ensnared over the years. Isaac was important.
Which was perhaps why she'd cut short their tête-à-tête last night in an uncharacteristic fluster. She just didn't know what to make of the man. How to act, how to present herself. He seemed to see right through her usual wiles—damn him. He made her feel wretchedly gauche, and at the same time the mere sight of him caused her heart to jump and skitter, made her lips curve in a silly smile.
Good Lord, she was turning into a ninny.
A discreet knock came at her door and she whirled, that idiot smile attacking her face. She fought it back fiercely, took a deep breath, and glided across the room to open the door. The sight of Isaac's grave, handsome face was like a physical blow. He wore his naval uniform—crisp white, dark blue, black, and gold—and his black hair was pulled back into a severe queue. Her heart started skittering, whether she willed it or no, a tempo that increased, keeping time with her mounting excitement. She wanted to muss his uniform, take apart that tight queue and run her fingers through his hair. And why not? Wasn't that the inevitable conclusion to this game they played? Why not simply accept fate?
The only problem would be to keep herself intact as she gave into her urges. She knew she trembled on the edge of an abyss, and if she fell . . . well, there would be no climbing out of that particular pit. But she pushed that thought aside as she stood back to let him in. She'd bedded many men in her lifetime. He was just one more.
Now, if only she could convince her heart of that.
He threw his cloak over a chair and started to speak, but she was done with their dancing. She stepped close to him and, standing on tiptoe, reached up to bring his face down to her level.
She kissed him.
Ah, this was better. A part of her calmed at the touch of her lips on his, even as her belly clenched in need. His lips were firm yet supple, yielding to her pressure without surrendering. She was surprised—and a little embarrassed—by her own moan. It was the man who was supposed to yearn and lose control. She was the Aphrodite. She was immune to sexual heat.
Except that with him she was not.
She pulled back at the thought, suddenly frightened. Isaac looked down at her, his lips a little reddened by their kiss, but his eyes still alert and watchful. As if he merely waited for her next move. The sight piqued her. He should not be more calm than she. She'd make him feel, damn him, she'd make him lose control.
She reached up and pulled his queue forward across his shoulder. Then she unwound the inky black strands, spreading them, sifting them with her fingers, playing like a cat with string. All during this he stood silent and still and let her tease. When she was done she fanned his unbound hair over his shoulders and examined him. He looked like a pirate—in a naval officer's uniform. She frowned at his clothes and untied his black neckcloth, pulling it free. She threw it to the floor, prompting a frown from him.
That hint of disapproval delighted her.
She attacked his coat and waistcoat next, throwing the one on the bed and the other perilously near the fire, but he was stubbornly impassive. He began to crack, though, when she pulled his shirt off.
Unfortunately, so did she.
He was so finely built. She ran her palms over him slowly, unable to suppress the desire to touch him. His shoulders were broad—so broad—and muscled from years of living at sea. She was used to rich men, men who would rather cut off their hand than do physical labor. Their flesh was soft, white, almost feminine. Isaac could never be mistaken for a female. His body was hard, the planes of his chest scattered with black curls of hair, and tanned as if he doffed his shirt to work when at sea. She flexed her fingers, digging her fingernails just a bit into his muscled chest.
"Careful," he murmured.
She looked at him under her eyelashes. "Do you really want me to be careful?"
A corner of his mouth twitched. "Maybe not."
She gently pushed him, shoving him backward toward the bed. She was under no illusion that she physically overpowered him--that was impossible—but he let her play at dominance. He sat on the edge of the bed and she crawled up into his lap, curling there like a cat seeking his warmth. She laid one arm across the back of his shoulders and used the palm of her other hand to tilt his face toward her. Her heart skipped at his look. With his hair sliding about his bare shoulders, and his black eyes glittering under lowered brows, he looked a barbarian—a man who could seize her and carry her away to some waiting ship. He was powerful and male and her chest ached suddenly. She wanted him. Wanted him forever.
But that was folly.
So she smiled slowly—a seductive smile she'd first practiced at the age of fifteen—and laid her mouth against his. Her lips were trembling just a bit, but he made no comment, only sat and let her play her tongue in his mouth. She could become drunk on his taste. Forget time and place and simply live in the moment—if she dared. She bit his bottom lip and at the same time drew her nails across his chest.