Love Letters Volume 4: Travel to Temptation Read online

  He shook his head, but he was staring at her mouth. She gave him her widest smile. Of course that was why he’d come.

  He was the answer to a prayer she hadn’t allowed herself to make. He was a distraction from home, from Gran, from the relentless humming.

  She pulled out of his arms and reached around to unzip Mum’s silk dress.

  *

  Steve swallowed, trying to moisten his dry mouth. She was taking off the dress, revealing a strapless bra that might be a size too small and sensible cotton panties. More contradictions, but then those were gone too and she was naked. She reached up to tug out the clips that held her hair up. When it came down, it was a thick, dark tangle. She ran her fingers through the ends, trying to coax it into some sort of order.

  She looked like Eve—primal, enticing and innocent.

  He shouldn’t do this. It was all wrong, it would ruin his chance to interview Bethany. Oh, but he wanted Gemma.

  The hell with his journalistic ethics—assuming he had any after his efforts to find her. If this meant he’d never meet Bethany—well, looking at Gemma, it seemed a reasonable trade. He kicked off his shoes.

  “Let me help.” Her fingers, smooth and tapered with ragged cuticles, started to unbutton his shirt, then continued down to his belt and zipper. When her knuckles brushed his skin, he gasped, a breathy noise loud in the silence.

  Gemma looked up with that sly smile of hers. “You’re very big.” Her hands cupped his shoulders and moved down along his upper arms. His hands were curved around her waist and midriff. He shifted them to hold her breasts, playing with her nipples until they tightened in the circles of crinkled areolas. He leaned down to suck a nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue.

  She moaned. Then she took him in her hands, learning his shape and length with a skittery touch.

  “Do you have condoms?” he asked.

  That lopsided grin mocked him. “Of course I do.” She went over to a small purse he hadn’t noticed before, and returned with a handful of plastic squares.

  He pulled off his trousers and boxers, tossing them on a chair. Gemma had dumped the condoms on a bedside table and was now turning down the sheets. She lay down, scooped her hair out from under her shoulders so it flowed down the back of the pillows, and smiled an invitation to join her.

  “Temptress.” Steve climbed onto the mattress, straddling Gemma’s hips.

  “I promise not to cut your hair while you’re asleep.” Her chuckle was pure sin, causing his balls to tighten even more.

  His cock must have moved because Gemma looked down, then reached out a slender forefinger to trace a line from base to tip.

  Steve grabbed a condom and tore the wrapper.

  “May I?” She took the latex ring, pinched the tip and rolled it on, inch by agonizing inch. Steve flexed his torso instinctively, thrusting his hips as he stared at the cracked ceiling, reveling in Gemma’s stroking, petting, attention. He felt like some pagan god, a cock-centric idol.

  “Fuck me.” Her accent, a softened variation of the Australian twang, made it sound new and exotic.

  He braced his arms outside her shoulders. “Not just yet, Delilah.” He bent over her, kissing her forehead, then her temple, the top of her ear, her neck, jaw, the corner of her mouth. He ignored her puckered lips and the tip of her pink tongue even as the sight of them, the thought of them kissing him or touching his cock, drove chills down his spine. Not yet. Not until she’d gotten off.

  She whimpered when he dragged his mouth across her collarbone, pressing his lips in the hollow made as she curled her shoulder toward him. He shuffled his knees down the bed, lining up to suck on her pretty tits.

  “Uh. Ah,” she gasped. Her hands were pulling on his arms, scrabbling at his back and shoulders before tangling in his hair. He liked the tug of pain, evidence that he was driving her crazy. One of her legs flexed, bumping his ass, then flopped back down.

  He released her left nipple and started in on the right. She squeaked and thrashed around some more. He sucked harder. She screamed in a tiny voice and arched off the bed. Steve smiled. Now for the main event.

  He parted the black curls and ran his tongue up her russet-pink flesh, then pressed at her clit.

  Gemma’s hands left his head and scrabbled for some sheeting to clutch. Her body went rigid and the squeaks and moans strung together in an unending supplication, “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseohpleasedon’tstop…”

  Steve pressed two fingers in and up, reaching for her G-spot. When he hit it, he pushed there and pulled on her clit. Her spasms started, squeezing his fingers, and the supplication shifted to praise.

  “Oh God so good oh God oh God…”

  Then she relaxed completely, the spasms grew sporadic, and when Steve straightened his back, she looked like a very sexy rag doll, all floppy arms and slack mouth.

  He’d done that.

  *

  So that’s what the fuss was about.

  Gemma could barely move, she was so wrung out. Limp. Satisfied.

  Steve—this miraculous American who’d showed up for no good reason—lay down beside her and pulled her over so she could drape an arm over his chest and tuck her head into his shoulder. He started to play with her hair.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Well…” he drawled.

  No, really. No idea. It wasn’t her first time having sex, but good sex? Orgasmic sex? Sex with someone who knew what he was doing? Sex like she’d always thought it should be? A good-looking American bloke like Steve would have no clue.

  If she’d known blogging about sex would end up this way, she’d have done it years earlier.

  Gemma sighed. Steve had moved from her hair to her hip and thigh. His erection, still sheathed in latex, pressed against the inside of her thigh.

  “Oh Christ.” Gemma lurched up on one arm. “You’ve not—we’ve not yet—” She stared at him in horror.

  He laughed at her alarm before pulling her into his arms and kissing her. “It’s okay. We’ve got tons of time.” Then an odd look crossed his face. “Unless you need to be somewhere? Is anyone waiting for you?”

  Tui would get Gran settled for the night and then go to bed herself. “No, no one.”

  His face didn’t change, but something in Steve’s eyes conveyed that weird sadness again. Then he smiled and it was gone. “Good. We have all night, then.”

  *

  They hadn’t closed the drapes, so Gemma woke suddenly at first light. Steve’s chest pressed against her back, his body enveloping her in a cocoon of warmth. Physically she was replete—they’d made love three times in the night—but mentally she started to panic. She had to get home before Tui went looking for her. Gemma didn’t want to ring the house this early to explain her absence. No choice but to go home now, while it was still early.

  How to extricate herself from Steve’s embrace? She was close to the side of the bed, so if she lifted his arm and slid to her right…then turned and slid some more… It landed her on her hands and knees on the floor, but a quick glance reassured her that Steve hadn’t woken up. Poor guy, he had to be exhausted and jetlagged from his flight.

  Gemma wanted to smooth his hair or tuck the covers around his shoulders, but she squelched the urge. She looked at his jaw, scruffy now with golden stubble. Sad to be leaving. He’d been magnificent.

  She dressed in the bathroom, then scribbled him a note on the motel’s notepad. Thanks for a fabulous evening. Enjoy New Zealand! Your Naughty Blogger.

  She had to walk back to the restaurant to get her car, but no one seemed to care that she was dressed in a vintage cocktail dress and high heels. Back home, she pulled her car into the garage, then snuck upstairs to shower and dress in her usual khaki shorts and T-shirt. Two mugs of tea after that, Gemma was feeling a bit more like her normal self.

  “I gather it was a nice date,” Tui said as she walked into the kitchen.

  Gemma smiled. “Very nice, thanks.”
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  “About time too.” Tui’s eyebrows waggled.

  No way Gemma was going to talk about Steve with Tui. “How’s Gran?”

  “Same.”

  Gemma stood up. “Okay, well, I should get to work, I guess.” Pay the bills, correspond with the lawyer, work on the blog. Check her email…

  At the thought of getting email from Steve, Gemma quivered. Not a certainty, of course. He could leave as suddenly as he arrived.

  Nope. There were two emails from him and it was barely nine.

  Hey, Naughty—

  You snuck out on me. You sure you’re not married or living with someone? Kidding.

  I want to see you again. Tonight? Or sooner? I barely got started last night.

  S.

  The second one had been sent just a few minutes ago.

  Okay, so I was thinking. You’re right, I should see something of New Zealand while I’m here. Come with?

  I need a native to show me the best bits.

  You up for a road trip?

  S.

  Gemma stared at this invitation for a long time. Where would she take him? Up to Auckland? Not her favorite place. Ditto Wellington. Besides, he had bigger and better cities in America. No, she wanted to show him something uniquely New Zealand.

  Black sand.

  Gemma made a couple of phone calls, then found her suitcase, leaving it open on her bed to air out.

  She pulled the laptop onto her crossed legs.

  Hi.

  Well, if you want to, I can show you a little of the North Island. When can you be ready? I’ll pick you up.

  NiNZ

  She hit Send then went to tell Tui that Ralph would be staying at the house for a few days.

  *

  Steve waited on the sidewalk in front of the motel, trying to distract himself from the anxiety he’d felt waking to find Gemma gone. His first thought had been that she’d figured it out, knew who he was and why he was there. His guilt consumed him, making him miserable. He shouldn’t have slept with her, shouldn’t have flown here, shouldn’t have encouraged her to think he was a straight-up kind of guy. He shouldn’t have gotten obsessed with Bethany Jarvis-Robison.

  That stopped him. Sins for Breakfast had saved him, comforted him, encouraged him to keep going even when every single other thing in his life had screamed failure and heartache. He could feel sorry for a lot of things, but not the desire to meet the woman who’d saved his life.

  He paced the sidewalk slowly, never walking too far from his duffle bag.

  The day had clouded over, so the lake was a dull, metallic shade. Used to New York Harbor—all bustle and skyline—Lake Taupo seemed too large for the small city, but not big enough to be called a “great lake.” Then again, all of New Zealand could fit into California with room left over, so what did he know?

  A sporty little car pulled up to the curb. Steve leaned down to check. Gemma’s cheeky grin greeted him from the driver’s side.

  “Throw your bag in the back and let’s get going.”

  It felt weird to sit in the left-hand seat and not be the driver. Steve kept checking the rear-view mirror only to find it was angled toward Gemma. Within a few miles—okay, kilometers—he relaxed, leaned back and admired her bare legs moving smoothly as she operated the stick shift.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

  She laughed, her hair whipping in the breeze from her open window. “You’ll see. Did you pack a bathing suit?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did, simply because I knew it was summer here. Back home, it’s barely above freezing and there’s a snowstorm bearing down on New York.” Even a world away, Steve read the New York Times online, a connection to home that seemed surreal in the middle of New Zealand’s North Island.

  “When do you fly back?” Her tone was casual, but her hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  “A week from tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” She drove in silence for a while. “You’ll barely have a chance to see the North Island. And don’t tell anyone I said this, but all the really exciting stuff is on the South Island.”

  “Like Middle Earth?” Steve threw in a reference to the Lord of the Rings film franchise, just to watch Gemma’s reaction.

  “Mixed blessing,” she admitted. “We’re happy to have the tourism in a tough economy, but it’s disconcerting when visitors look for our hairy feet.”

  “They do not,” Steve protested.

  She laughed. “Okay, maybe not. And anyway, as I say, very little of that’s up here.”

  They stopped for tea in Piopio, a town so tiny that Steve marveled at Gemma’s knowledge of where the cafe was.

  “My mum lived in Hawera, south of Taranaki, and we have cousins near Taupo with a sheep farm. I’ve made this trip a lot.”

  “Taranaki. Is that where we’re heading?”

  “It’s a volcano. It looks a lot like Mount Fuji in Japan,” she said. “It’s in the middle of a pretty flat part of the North Island, so Taranaki dominates the area. The English call it Mount Egmont, so you’ll see both names on the map.”

  “Like Denali.”

  “What?”

  “The tallest peak in America. It was named Mount McKinley by the white people, but the native name is Denali. Once you’ve seen it in person, you can’t call it McKinley anymore.”

  She nodded vigorously. “Exactly. Plus, there’s a lovely story about Taranaki. The Maori believe that it used to be in the middle of the North Island, closer to the other volcanoes. You know, like the ones you can see across Lake Taupo?”

  “Those are volcanoes? I thought they were just mountains.”

  “Nope, volcanoes. In fact, Tongariro gave us a thrill a couple months ago when he erupted. The other two you can see from town are Ngauruhoe and Ruapehu, which always has some snow even when it’s hot like now.”

  “Impressive. I think I’d have to go to Hawaii to see active volcanoes in the U.S.”

  “Anyway, Taranaki, who’s male, was in love with a female volcano, Pihanga. She was very beautiful, so all the male volcanoes wanted her. Tongariro won and Taranaki had to move west to be all by himself.”

  “I’m still wrapping my mind around the idea that volcanoes can be male. Makes a certain sense, I guess.” He loaded as much double entendre into his tone as he dared.

  Gemma just laughed.

  An hour later, he had his first glimpse of Taranaki, a perfectly symmetrical cone, its top wreathed in clouds. “I see what you mean about its looking like Mount Fuji.”

  She turned off the highway before speaking. “They filmed The Last Samurai here because of that.”

  “I’ll have to rent that movie when I get home.” Not a happy thought, leaving this magical place and this intriguing woman.

  She must have guessed his thoughts. “For as long as you’re here, you’re here. Enjoy.” Her voice was mild, but Steve felt there was a real warning there.

  He hadn’t forgotten about Bethany. He pictured her kissing her granddaughter goodbye that morning. Gemma was right. He’d made his choice to be with her, so all that—meeting Bethany, an interview, everything—had to be as distant as the snow currently falling on the fire escape outside his bedroom window.

  *

  The cabin, right on Wai-iti Beach, belonged to Gemma’s cousin Robbie. She’d always thought it tiny but perfect for a getaway. It had a single bedroom. His parents slept there while they were alive and the kids had pitched tents on the grass. No hardship to fall asleep to the rumble of the surf, which Gemma thought she could hear as much through the ground as through the air. Mum, and later Gran, had stayed at a motel. They’d drive out to the beach for the day, but after the sun set over the Tasman Sea, they drove away and her aunt and uncle went to sleep in their bed. That left Gemma and the boys free to run around on the beach, shining torches at each other, or kicking at the white foam left by the waves. Carefree.

  She hadn’t been here since Gran got sick.

  They carried the chilly-bin to the ti
ny kitchen and unloaded milk, eggs and butter. She’d also picked up fresh bread from her favorite bakery. All they needed was to stop at the nearest roadside stall for veg and they’d be all set.

  “Enough,” Steve said, tugging at her elbow as she inspected the contents of the fridge-freezer. “There’s a beach right there.” He pointed out the open cabin door. “And I want to get my feet wet.”

  Then he hauled her into his arms and started to kiss her.

  “Or we could stay here for a little bit?” she suggested with a saucy look.

  “No way, Delilah. I deserve a romantic walk on the beach.” He poked his chest with his thumb. “Designated tourist, right? So show me this famous black sand.”

  Gemma tried to see the beach the way his American eyes must. Dark gray sand, pale gray cliffs—more romantic to call the sand black and the cliffs white—and always the waves breaking inexorably on the beach.

  “It’s spectacular.” Steve turned in a full circle, his mouth open as he took it in. Finally, he pointed to one of the cliffs. “What’s up there?”

  “Wilkinson’s Castle. It was built in the 1920s for a member of parliament as a holiday home. It used to have a view in all directions, including of Taranaki, but the local shrubbery has grown up so much the house is disappearing.”

  He looped an arm around her shoulders. “I like it down here, on the beach.” With you, his eyes said. “C’mon, let’s get our feet wet. That water’s not going to get any warmer.”

  He was right. The weather had cooled quite a bit from in town. If they were lucky, it would be sunny in a day or so and they could go swimming. She’d brought what was for her a fairly racy swimsuit and she wanted to wear it for Steve.

  Holding hands, they dashed into the surf, squealed like little kids, then ran back to the cabin.

  “Holy cow, that’s cold.” Steve rubbed at his feet, white and smooth. Prison pallor, as Gran would have called it.

  Gemma brushed the sand off, then led him into the bedroom. “I’ll warm you up,” she offered, her hand already undoing the button at the waist of his shorts. She tugged the zipper down and tucked her hand in to find his cock.

  “Ah, Delilah, you’re tempting me again.”