CHAPTER EIGHT
UTTERLYSPENT, HISMIND blown and his body boneless, Duarte flopped back, taking Orla, sweat-slicked and limp, with him. He was breathing hard and reeling, scarcely able to believe what had just happened. When he’d suggested she take the initiative and run with it, he’d expected she would need a lot more persuasion. He’d anticipated something resembling a slow burn. Instead, he’d encountered a wildfire.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come across such enthusiasm. Or experienced such exquisite agony. He’d never had any trouble relinquishing control when it came to sex, but how he’d managed not to touch her at first he had no idea. The thoroughness with which she’d explored him... The torture she’d subjected him to... When her mouth had closed over him he’d nearly jumped out of his skin. When his orgasm had hit, he’d almost passed out.
Orla carefully lifted herself off him, making him wince slightly as she did so, and immediately he missed the soft, warm weight of her body. He was filled with the urge to pull her back into his arms and relight the fire that burned between them, because, despite the fact that he hadn’t yet got his breath back from the last quarter of an hour, he wanted more. A lot more.
Which, he thought with a disconcerting jolt as he turned away to deal with the condom with surprisingly shaky hands, was...unexpected.
He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Orla that in his pre-marriage experience, one night had generally been enough to satisfy any desire he’d felt. He’d been easily bored and had enjoyed variety, constantly seeking the attention he’d craved in new people. But apparently he’d changed in more ways than one in the last few years, because not only could he take or leave attention these days, he was far from bored with Orla and the thought of variety made him want to recoil in disgust.
Which meant what? What did he want from her? More of this, absolutely, but nothing permanent, that was for sure. So something temporary, then. Sex for as long as she was here, perhaps. That could work. In fact, that would be ideal, because it would both assuage his rampant desire for her until it burned out altogether and provide a much-needed distraction. The anniversary of his wife’s death, which never failed to challenge his ability to keep the crushing pain of betrayal and the overwhelming guilt under control, was rapidly approaching. An affair with Orla would be infinitely preferable to seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle, which was how he’d handled both the immediate aftermath of the tragedy and the anniversaries of the last two years.
Wanting more with her was no cause for concern, he assured himself as he rolled back to face her and propped himself up on his elbow while the plan in his head solidified. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t be able to send her on her way when it was over.
What was, potentially, a worry was whether she’d be on board with the idea. She’d agreed to a one-time thing. That might have been enough for her, a tick in a box, a failure overcome. The control was still in her hands—she could easily turn him down—and that put him faintly on edge, but he’d just have to persuade her to see things his way because this felt like a win-win opportunity to him and he was not going to pass it up.
‘So you were right,’ she said huskily, still sounding a little breathless.
‘About what?’
‘I’m not frigid.’
She certainly wasn’t. She was the opposite. She was as hot as hell. Volcanic, in fact, just as he’d imagined. So why on earth, when she pursued excellence on all fronts, had she’d chosen to marry a man who’d never been able to tap that? ‘There really isn’t anything you don’t excel at, is there?’
She stretched languidly, tousled and flushed, half naked and stunning, and gave him a wide, satisfied grin. ‘Not a lot, no. And anyway, back at you.’
She was wrong. He did not excel at everything. Far from it. He let his emotions cloud his judgement. He had a tendency towards self-absorption. He failed to protect those for whom he was responsible, and the consequences of these weaknesses of his were devastating and irreversible.
But that wasn’t what this afternoon was about, so he shoved to one side the memories and the guilt, focusing instead on the gorgeous, pliant woman beside him, and said, ‘Just imagine what we could do with more practice.’
***
‘More practice?’ Orla echoed softly, staring at him wide-eyed as surprise and delight mingled with the lingering traces of pleasure. ‘I thought that once was generally enough.’
‘So did I,’ Duarte murmured, his gaze dark and hot as it slowly and thoroughly roamed over her. ‘But I was wrong.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘An affair. For the next three weeks, until the conference is over and we both leave. I’m not after a relationship, Orla. I have neither the time nor the inclination. But I do want you and I want more of this. So what do you think?’
Quite frankly, Orla thought that she’d never been so relieved to hear anything in her life. Even Isabelle Baudelaire’s ‘Oui, bien sûr’ in response to her request for the wine paled in comparison.
Because what had just happened had been the most intense experience of her existence, and she knew with absolute certainty that once wasn’t going to be nearly enough. How could it be when it had been so unbelievably good? She wanted him again, right now, and how that was possible when she could still barely feel her toes she had no idea.
That he didn’t want a relationship was fine with her. Why would he? He’d had the perfect marriage, which had been tragically cut short. His wife was irreplaceable. Peerless, even. Who could ever compete with a ghost like that?
But she didn’t want a relationship either. One was quite enough, and the thought of another, which would inevitably end in deep disappointment and endless self-recrimination, was enough to bring her out in hives, and she too didn’t have the time.
But she did want more sex with him, and whether or not itches were scratched or multiplied she didn’t care. She ought to do more research. What did once prove anyway? And she needed to know just how excellent she could be, he could be, they could be together. She wouldn’t get distracted. She excelled at multitasking. It was only three weeks. It would be hot, intense and fun, and when the conference was over she’d walk away with happy memories and no regrets.
‘An affair it is.’
***
For Orla, the next few fabulous days were revelatory, in both expected and unexpected ways. Having handed her the key to unlock the secret to spectacular sex, Duarte had unleashed a devil she hadn’t even known she’d been guarding. The first time she’d experienced the heady heights of earth-shattering bliss by the river had just been the start of it. He’d taken it upon himself to prove to her exactly how much pleasure her body could endure, which had turned out to be a lot, and by the end of the day she’d been completely drained, so lethargic, her body so boneless, she’d barely been able to move.
Control was a powerful thing, she’d realised as she’d lain there in the glow of the afternoon sun, catching her breath yet again, stars dancing in her head. But so was having the kind of confidence that meant you could temporarily let it go. And that was what he’d given her—confidence—over and over again.
The realisation that she was capable of excellent sex, that she’d finally overcome an obstacle that had been bothering her for years, had been so overwhelming that at one point during the afternoon she’d had to take a moment by going for a wander alone along the shore.
Perhaps she should take more risks, she’d thought, gently kicking at the cool water lapping at her feet. Perhaps she shouldn’t simply avoid things she didn’t think she’d be any good at. Because maybe, just maybe, she’d turn out to be the opposite. And look what could happen when she did take a risk. Yes, there was always the possibility of failure, but should she not fail, the results could be astounding.
From that afternoon on, when she wasn’t overseeing progress at the Quinta or engaged with other work-related matters, Orla was in Duarte’s bed. Or he was in hers. Whichever was closer.
She’d learned that he’d lied about not having tricks. He had plenty, every single one of them astonishing, and in the pursuit of excellence she’d developed a few of her own, one of which she’d tried out in the shower yesterday morning.
In the belief he’d gone off for his habitual early morning swim and she was on her own, she’d switched on the water, lathered herself up and started singing. Terribly. Which was why she generally didn’t do it, whatever the genre. But on that occasion, she’d had a song in her head about happiness and rooms without roofs that was driving her nuts and she’d thought, what the hell?
She’d had the fright of her life when a few minutes later Duarte had appeared and asked who was strangling the cat. To cover her mortification, she’d dragged him into the shower with her and then done her very best to wipe the moment from his head, which had only reinforced her newfound belief that the outcome of taking a risk could sometimes be spectacular.
If he had concerns about the beast he’d released, he didn’t show it. On the contrary, he was with her every step of the way, as insatiable as she was, as if he, too, were making up for lost time. And maybe he was. Whenever he appeared in the press these days he was conspicuously on his own. If he hadhad a liaison of any kind, he’d been exceptionally discreet. If he hadn’t, if she was the first person he’d slept with since his wife, well, that didn’t mean a thing.
‘Come for a swim with me,’ Duarte said, jolting her out of her thoughts by tossing the sheet aside, getting out of bed and distracting her with the view.
A swim? Orla shivered and her pulse skipped a beat. He’d never invited her along before and she was more than all right with that. So why the change of plan?
‘I should get to work,’ she murmured with real regret because, although it wasn’t going to happen, she’d like nothing more than to mess about in the water with him.
‘It’s still early.’
‘I don’t have a costume.’