Five Golden Rings (Facets of Passion) (7 page)

December 30
Sixth Day of Christmas
Six Geese a’Laying

Miguel, of course, had more meetings with the advent of Monday, so Tilda woke up with him. Not that she could help it, after the shrill ring of his phone jerked them from deep sleep. She felt a little guilty about whoever had to wash their oily sheets, but Miguel told her to leave it. He’d said it in a curt enough tone that she’d dropped the subject immediately.

Her ardent lover of the weekend had already withdrawn behind a moody scowl and he swore at someone on the phone about some faxed documents. Thinking it the better part of valor, she slipped on her black dancing dress and discreetly made her exit, amused to find herself doing the walk of shame in last night’s party clothes. When she passed another woman who looked her over knowingly, she returned the smile.

Oh yes.
I
got laid last night and it was beyond amazing.

She didn’t mind a bit of a reprieve. Being around Miguel and living his resort lifestyle was like drinking expensive vodka—an extraordinary treat, but not something you could do all the time. Her body ached in every joint, her clit and nipples painfully sensitive to the touch, and little red marks and bruises spotted her skin.

Already fatally distracted by the early calls, Miguel hadn’t mentioned arraying her for the day and she’d accepted the out gratefully. After a long, hot shower, she put on a simple sundress and went down to the hotel shops. Since her gold bikini had not reappeared and she wanted to keep as much of her all-over tan going as she could, she bought another bikini. Not as skimpy, but it was white, so she thought Miguel ought to like it. She lingered over the pretty belly-button jewelry, wishing hers was pierced. When she’d been strung up and oiled in Miguel’s bathroom, it had struck her that it would look nice.

She caught her reflection in the body-jewelry mirror and the sensual smile on her face took her by surprise. The memory of the night before had her looking like that gold-draped feral woman, all sex and oil and taunting captivity. She was almost sorry Miguel had unlocked and kept the collar and cuffs. Though they were hardly the kind of thing she could wear around the resort.

Stopping by the sport shop on her way to the beach, she picked up some snorkeling gear, so she could practice her newfound skills. She rented one of the beach cabanas and spent the day with the book she hadn’t touched since Thursday, snorkeling in the lovely shoals around the resort’s bay and sunbathing. If the cabana boy who brought her sparkling water with mint, and the occasional adult beverage, noticed the sex marks on her body, his polite demeanor never hinted at it.

Miguel didn’t put in an appearance all day, so around sunset she went back up to her suite, took another shower—both to get out the salt and because her hair
still
felt oily—and dressed in one of her light sundresses. She ordered a bottle of wine and snacks, ready to sit on her little balcony and enjoy the fading light.

When a knock sounded on her door, it wasn’t room service, but Miguel.

“Hi.” He’d surprised her. “Come on in.”

He looked harried and ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t stay. More meetings. It never ends.”

The room-service guy wheeled up behind him. “Not even for a glass of wine? It’s sunset.” She smiled, thinking of how they’d watched the sunset the night before, the state she’d been in, but he didn’t return it.

“I can’t.” He took her arm and pulled her into the sitting area, out of earshot of room service setting up her little party for one on the balcony. “Can you wait a while for me? I’ll be back later so we can do six geese a’laying.”

“You know, you don’t have to follow the song letter by letter.”

“I’d like to get at least one thing right, okay?” He snapped it out and she gazed back at him blandly, showing him by her lack of reaction how over-the-top he was behaving.

“Miguel. This is a game. It’s a fun game and I like it, but I’m not a case for you to win.”

“I know.” He raked his hair again. “I should apologize.”

“But you won’t.” Amused, she went up on tiptoes to kiss him. “I’ll wait. Go finish your meetings and we’ll work out your mood after.”

He nodded, then, surprising her again, pulled her into his arms for a tight embrace. “You’re a good woman, Roo. Good for me. I do apologize. I was a jerk.”

“You’re allowed. You’re under a lot of pressure, it seems, and I didn’t mind having a bit of a kink-break today.”

Concern cut through his stressed distraction. “Are you sore—did I hurt you?”

She shrugged in his arms. “I’m fine. Good sore. You rocked my world and it’s nice to feel it steady under my feet for a day, okay?”

“Okay,” he said into her hair. “You smell good.”

She laughed. “I thought that oil would never come out.”

“It looked hot though.”

“Yes.”

* * *

When he returned, several hours later, he’d changed out of his suit and wore his charming smile—the fake one meant to cover how he really felt. Which, near as she could tell, was a sour combination of pissed and disappointed.

“How did the meetings go?” she asked, knowing that he wouldn’t say, but unable to keep herself from asking.

“Never mind that. Ready to go?”

“Where are we going—what should I wear?”

He leered at her, but his heart wasn’t in it. “That sundress is fine. You won’t be wearing it for long anyway.”

Simmering with impatience, he held out his arm for her. In his other he carried a basket. He attempted to stroll, but his pace was just a little too quick.

“I know this is your game, but I’m really hoping waterfowl are not involved in what we’re about to do.” She said it teasingly, hoping to lighten the mood.

It worked a little. The smile he gave her was amused. “I thought I’d stick to the ‘a’laying’ part.”

“Works for me.”

“Sometimes I think everything works for you, Roo.”

She turned that over, wondering if it was really as barbed as it felt. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged, taking them down the polished stone steps to the sandy beach. “Just that you’re uncomplicated. I envy that about you, really.”

As her feet sunk into the soft sand, the top layer still warm from the day’s sun, cooler beneath, she considered that he didn’t really know her. Of course, he didn’t need to. Theirs was, by definition and design, a short fling. Full of kinky sex and fun, but nothing else. It hadn’t really bothered her before this moment.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked into her silence. “I meant it as a compliment.”

“Not wrong, exactly.” They’d walked down the beach a ways, deeper into the shadows, out of range of the resort lights. “It’s just that—I’m on vacation, so of course I seem uncomplicated. But that’s not who I always am.”

He stopped and set down the basket on a ridge of dry sand, and pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply. At first his lips were gentle, but they turned fierce quickly and her body thrummed with excitement, liking the edge. Her annoyance transformed into desire and she returned the kiss with equal intensity.

“
This
is who you are.” He muttered the words against the skin of her neck as he licked and bit his way down it, tugging down the straps of her thin sundress. Taking her hand, he put it on his hard cock, straining against the light linen trousers he wore. “And this is who I am. Nothing else is important. Yes?”

“Yes.” She hissed out the word as his hot mouth found her taut nipples, answering more the sweet pleasure than anything else. Letting it swamp her, she gave herself over to it. He stripped her and himself and she let him lead her, naked into the warm water.

They stood knee deep in the gentle surf, skin to skin, clinging to each other as they kissed and touched with hungry caresses. How she could want him so much, after the many, many times he’d already sated her, remained a mystery. But she craved his touch and he seemed to need hers, by the way he growled under his breath as he kissed and bit at her.

Pulling her into deeper water, he lifted her onto his hips and she sank onto his rigid latex-covered cock, with a sigh of delight. The ocean swirled around them like a third lover, caressing every inch of her skin. He pumped into her, staring into her face, the frustrated energy in him rolling into her, stoking her higher. In that position, his cock hit her exactly right and she couldn’t hold back.

“I need to come,” she gasped.

“Then do it. First of six. Do it now.”

As if her body heard his command, she convulsed, climaxing while their slick bodies moved together. Before she’d recovered, he was wading out of the surf, carrying her to the shallows where he set her down and moved her onto all fours. Her body still throbbing from the first climax, she sobbed with pleasure when he entered her from behind, gripping her hips and pounding relentlessly. She came again almost immediately, with that kind of chain orgasm that just built on the previous one.

As soon as he felt her go over, Miguel pulled out, ignoring her cry of protest, and sat, pulling her onto his lap to straddle him. She wrapped her legs around his waist and steadied herself by gripping his shoulders as he worked her up and down on his iron erection. His jaw clenched with the effort not to come and he held her tightly by the waist.

“Again,” he demanded. His mouth clamped on her breast and she whimpered, unable to stave off the orgasm he wrung from her. This one seemed to carve out from deep inside and she screamed when it released.

He stood her up then sank to his knees, tonguing her. She gripped his hair, uttering a wordless protest as he worked her clit with relentless determination. Astonishingly, her body responded with increased heat, her thigh muscles tensing under his clawed fingers, riding up another wave.

Miguel lay back in the sand, pulling her down with him. She moaned when he entered her, but gave in when he draped her legs over his and held her tight to him. With his muscular thighs, he pressed her legs together. The position created unbearable pressure on her slick passage and clit. She thrashed, but he held her compressed and she came apart, splitting at the seams, biting his shoulder as she did.

No surprise, he rolled her onto her back without withdrawing, continuing his motion. She came again. Or continued the same orgasm, she wasn’t sure. But he must have thought so because he took her ankles in a strong grip and levered them up to her shoulders.

She cried out at the deep pressure, digging her nails into the sand, unbearably penetrated, while his dark face stared down at her, the veins in his temples throbbing, his jaw tight.

“Last one, Roo. Give it to me. Now.”

With a wail, she did, holding nothing back, dissolving past her skin and into blackness.

* * *

When she came back from the little death, as the French so accurately call it, Miguel lay beside her on the sand, still breathing hard. She hadn’t been aware of him coming—or of him rolling off her, for that matter. His eyes were open and he stared at the starry sky as if it had offended him somehow.

She touched his hand and he jumped, as if startled to find her there. Quickly, he smiled, and twined his hand with hers.

“I had planned on that being more romantic,” he confessed. “I brought a blanket and everything.”

“That’s all right.” She squeezed his fingers. “Though I may be digging sand out of my bits for days.”

He winced. “Dammit. I’m sorry, Roo.”

“Two apologies in one night? This must be some sort of record.”

“Clearly this is not my day.” He sat up, brushing off the sand. “I should get back. There’s some paperwork I need to look at. I have a plan for tomorrow night, to celebrate.”

“What are we celebrating?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “So nice to be on vacation. It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“Wow—already?” How the time had flown by.

“I made an appointment for you at the hotel spa. My treat. The works. Then tomorrow night we’ll go to a very special place, and we can spend New Year’s Day seeing some ancient ruins, if you like. Something romantic.”

“I like. I take it even Mr. Miramoto doesn’t work on New Year’s Day?”

Miguel shook his head, the worry settling around him again like a cloud. “He flies back to Tokyo tomorrow night.”

“Does that mean you’re winning?”

“No, Roo. I believe it means I’ve probably lost.”

December 31
New Year’s Eve
Seven Swans a’Swimming

Tilda liked a luxurious spa session as much as the next gal, but she’d never treated herself to a place like the Spa at D’Oro.

Everything was in shades of beige and gold, with subtle splashes of copper and dark grey for contrast. The ladies there, all clad in pristine cream coats, dark hair drawn back into sleek ponytails, makeup impeccable, treated her like a princess.

They smiled and led her gently along, a soak in a bath of warm milk and honey. A bone-melting massage, followed by an invigorating eucalyptus rub. When they settled her into the chair for her facial and applied the soothing, pore-tightening masque, another young woman wheeled in a cart with hot wax.

“Have you ever had a Brazilian before?” She beamed her beneficent goddess smile.

“Am I having one now?” Tilda asked, taken by surprise.

Distress marred her sweet complexion. “It’s part of the package. Do you not want it?”

The man was diabolical. Had she noted that to herself before? Why yes, yes she had. He likely predicted she would go along with this rather than cause a fuss. Neatly cornered.

“Go ahead.” She listened to the care instructions—no sexual activity for twenty-four hours? Like that would happen. She’d have to lump it—and laid back and let the waxer do her thing.

It stung, but after Miguel’s games, this paled in comparison. The soothing gel also helped. They finished her facial and threaded her eyebrows, then took her in for a manicure and pedicure. Mr. Control had even picked out the color. The UV light they used to set the polish gave her nails a glassy gleam that made her fingers and toes look like they’d been dipped in gold.

Finally, a woman did her hair and make-up. She pulled her shoulder-length curls into a sleek twist, using lovely pins shaped like golden feathers. Tilda had never had a professional cosmetic job—the department store “makeovers” surely didn’t count—and she looked different than her usual thing. Refined and elegant. Sexy.

Back in her room, she discovered a gown had been delivered, a full-length sheath of the palest champagne, covered in tiny gold beads in feather patterns. They were so small, that the thin silk drifted over her like down. Earrings were included, elegant white feathers suspended from gold wire, so long they nearly brushed her shoulders. The heels were high and made of transparent straps. From a distance it looked like she wore nothing at all.

No underwear was included. Of course.

Outside, the revelries were ramping up. People were partying on the sand as the sun lowered and music from several sources wafted up and down the beach, with hoots and various delighted screams. It promised a wild night ahead. Tilda sat on her balcony, drinking the champagne Miguel had sent up, along with a note promising to be there soon. She wondered what she might have been doing tonight if she hadn’t met him.

She couldn’t really imagine it, which showed how much her world had changed in such a short time.

He was an interesting man, to be sure—one who bottled far too much inside. Whatever was going on with him was eating at him, emerging when he let down his guard. She didn’t mind that he was rough with her. Not a bit. And she didn’t need the romance he seemed to have suddenly decided was missing. No—that wasn’t about her. He’d grabbed onto that because he felt like he wasn’t delivering something else.

She would talk to him about it, if he’d let her. Which he likely wouldn’t.

Only fun. Nothing serious.

At the knock on her door, she smiled, feeling giddily excited to see him, despite her ruminations. Bubbly like the champagne. She opened the door to a polished, urbane Miguel. He wore a tailored cream tuxedo with a pale gold bow tie. Cleanly shaven and with his hair newly trimmed, he could have stepped out of a James Bond movie. With that charming grin, he bowed and presented her with a lavish bouquet of white roses.

Okay, maybe more romance wasn’t so bad after all.

“You look ravishing,
mi amor.
”

“You’re not too shabby yourself.” She took the bouquet, allowing herself a little coo of delight, and set the vase on her bedside table. When she turned back to him, he held the jewelry box with the collar and cuffs, and a wicked smile.

“Lift your skirt, so I can put these on you.” He knelt down and looked up expectantly. She raised her hem for him. “Higher.”

She pulled it up to her knees.

“All the way, Roo. I want to see all of you.” His voice took on that demanding tone and his dark eyes glittered. “Spread your thighs for me, while you’re at it.”

Feeling unaccountably shy, and ridiculously naked without her pubic hair, she raised the hem to her waist, staring steadfastly ahead.

“I love that you can blush,” he traced a light finger along her inner thigh, “and that you did this for me. All exposed for my pleasure.”

“The waxer said—”

“I know the rules. Besides, after the sanding last night, I figured you could use a rest.” He placed a gentle kiss on the baby soft skin just where her labia parted, his tongue lightly darting between. Her pussy pulsed in response, moisture flooding for him. She gasped. “So responsive,” he murmured, then set to locking the cuffs around her ankles.

He made her stay that way, holding up her skirt above her waist, while he fastened the wrist cuffs and collar, then turned her to face the mirror. “See how beautiful you look?” He kissed her temple, his darker skin a foil behind her. This was another iteration of her, exotic with the cuffs and collar, gleaming gold against her slightly darker tan, her legs tapering to the elegant vee between her thighs.

“Ready? I think you’ll like what I have to show you. It’s someplace special to me.” Nothing about his behavior seemed less than a sexy man taking a woman out for a date, but she knew him well enough now to sense the dark emotions seething beneath the surface.

His driver took them to the seaplane harbor. To her surprise, Miguel settled in the pilot’s seat and winked at her.

“You know how to fly?”

“I’m an excellent pilot—do you trust me?”

Implicitly. It rocked her to realize how much. She’d met him a week ago, nearly exactly at this same time, barely knew anything about him beyond his sexual proclivities—only because he refused to share anything else—and yet she felt like she trusted him more than anyone she’d known. It made no sense. After all the men she’d gotten to know in the right ways—the lovely meals, the galas, long conversations about careers and politics—with this one she’d somehow let down her guard in a different way. Possibly because he didn’t know Matilda Campbell, CEO. He knew only Tilda, drunken dumpee, and Roo, who was spontaneous and sexual and, what had he said? Oh yes—
uncomplicated
.

So, it didn’t matter what she felt because this fling would go nowhere. He didn’t want to know that side of her and, really, he didn’t need to, for what they had. This would be enough. She’d make sure of it.

“All part of the vacation-dare package, right?” she replied lightly.

“That’s right.” He gave her a funny look, however, as if he’d expected her to say something else, then put on his headphones, adjusted the mike and fired up the engine.

Taking off from the water felt entirely different than from a concrete runway. At first the plane trudged through the water, more like a boat. But, as it gained speed, the water seemed to part, giving way to air without the least hesitation. They soared up into the sunset sky with ease and grace.
This must be how the seabirds feel.

They flew fairly low, over the gilded water, to a nearby island. The plane skidded into the bay like a water skier, coming to an easy glide of a stop near a pier. She forgot her darker thoughts in the loveliness of the moment.

“Easy, yes?” Miguel looked pleased at her grin of delight. He was determined to enjoy himself, clearly, so she needed to get on board with that.

He helped her out of the plane and held her hand as they walked along the short pier to a boardwalk that led into the jungle, lined with glowing lights fed by small solar panels.

“What island is this?” she asked.

He gave her a sideways glance and shrugged. “We never named it.”

“Ohhh.” She shook her head. “Your private island. I had one, too, but they get so expensive to maintain, you know? All that landscaping.”

His lips twisted in wry appreciation. “In truth, it belongs—has belonged, always—to the family holdings. I’m basically a tax-paying citizen who gets to enjoy a national park.”

“In a country of, what, 30 people?”

“No, more like 150, with all the extended family.” He looked up, counting in his head. “Actually 154, by the latest accounts.”

“Wow. There are nine of us, including spouses.”

“The Campbells were a large clan—you just stopped counting all the cousins along the way.”

“That’s true.”

“When there are fortunes involved, the cousins tend to stay closer. Whether you want them to or not.” That impatient anger tinged his voice, now underpinned with regret.
It means I’ve likely lost
.

“You know, maybe we should talk about it.” She tried to make the offer sound casual. “Get it off your chest.”

“No.” He shook his head brusquely. “I want to enjoy this evening—and to show you this.”

She was about to reply to that, to press him, but they rounded a bend, the foliage parted and Miguel swept a hand at the scene before them, as if he’d created it himself. A misty waterfall poured down a mossy cliffside, pounding into a deep pool that churned with fine bubbles like champagne. The emerald shadows were lit with solar lights, soft and subtle, like fairy glow. A candlelit table for two perched on the moss beside the water, the crystal sparkling with mist from the waterfall.

“Thank you,
mi amor.
” Miguel squeezed her hand and kissed her cheek.

“For what?”

“The look on your face. This is my favorite place in the world and it means so much to share it with you now.”

It was tempting to pursue the significance of the darkness in his voice, but he’d made it clear that she was there to enjoy and be enjoyed, not for serious conversation. She really needed to let go of this.
You’re on vacation
,
dammit.
Just enjoy
.

“Swim before or after we eat?”

“Why not both? We’ll need to get in seven swims, if we want to keep to the rules.”

He flicked her a sharp glance, catching a hint of what she hadn’t said. She gave him an airy, vacation smile, as if she didn’t notice his seething mood beneath the charm. A piece of work, the pair of them.

And he did have the charm going full-bore. He made the evening beyond romantic. They swam in the water, which did feel like swimming in the finest champagne, and ate an amazing cold dinner of oysters, shrimp, lobster and other delicacies. They fed each other bits of chocolate, grew quite drunk on champagne, and at midnight, Miguel kissed her with such tender feeling, she thought she might melt away like sugar in the rain.

But, true to his assurances, they did not have sex, making her wonder if he somehow thought sex and romance couldn’t go together. She thought about telling him she’d rather have the former and go without the latter, if he insisted on an either/or. After all, pretty much any man could fake the flowers and fancy dinner thing for a while. None of them had ever produced the sexual scenarios Miguel thought up.

She didn’t, however, and they slept in a mosquito-netting-draped bed, set in a clearing a few steps away, falling asleep to the sound of the waterfall.

It should have been idyllic.