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She flexed her feet again. Definitely frozen. Her nod was reluctant.
“You’ll take hold of my waist. For the kick, you’ll draw your knees toward your hips, then shoot them backward.”
“Like a frog.” She could picture the motion.
“Like a frog,” he agreed, and twisting, he lowered himself gently into the lake, onto his back. One arm stroked the water, the other held the kettle just above the surface. He was moving slowly toward shore.
Take hold of my waist.
She lunged forward and grasped him, his motion pulling her onto her chest. A frigid wave slapped her breasts and belly, broke against her mouth, and she sputtered.
“Bring up your heels, then push back,” he said. “Heels up, push back.”
His legs were moving somewhere beneath hers, propelling them along.
She kicked like a frog, too jerkily.
“Keep going,” he said. Suddenly, heat blossomed, tendrils curling around her. Steam billowed. He was pouring the contents of the kettle into the lake. The rush of hot water seemed to lift her. She wasn’t flying, but she was very nearly horizontal, and her gasp gave way to a startled laugh. She kicked, not a proper stroke, more an expression of glee. Her heart pounded wildly, and she kept kicking, clinging to his hard abdomen, feeling the muscles bunch and lengthen beneath her thumbs. Hovering above him, she could kick forever.
But there was only so far to go. Only so much lake to suspend their bodies. Suddenly, they were in the shallows, brought together by the water’s diminished volume. He sat up, carrying her with him.
“I can just reach . . .” he began, stretching his arm toward the grass. A moment later she understood what he’d meant. He tipped her off him. With a giddy shriek, she splashed down on her bottom, then lay back as more hot water swirled around her, and more. He emptied the remaining three kettles. Her wincing skin was sighing and tingling. She floated in the shallow water, delirious with the shock of the cold immersion, the licks of heat.
“It’s wonderful,” she murmured, waving her arms, seeking the warmth.
The last kettle thudded onto the bank.
“Should we try again?” he asked. “An arm stroke this time?”
“Not if that’s the last of the hot water.” She rose onto her elbows. The night air felt mellow on her skin, the soaked silk clammy. “I’d rather swim the Hellespont.”
“Maybe you will.” He shifted, and a warm current lapped between her thighs. “Maybe we will.”
“Together?” She shut her eyes. Dalliances didn’t endure across the length of Europe, did they?
He was a liar, with his insinuations of limitless possibility.
Suddenly, he was lifting her, turning her. Her knees splashed down. She opened her eyes and stared into his face. She was straddling his hips.
“You’ll have to learn an arm stroke first.” He pushed the banyan over her shoulders, then ran his fingers up her bare skin. “Or I could stroke your arms.”
His smile was mischievous. He seemed almost boyish, wet locks of hair forming disorderly curls around his head, dark lashes in clumps, eyes radiant.
When he discovered swimming, had his face looked something like this?
She gave an agitated laugh, desire and doubt wringing the odd sound from her throat.
The more intimate they became, the worse her betrayal.
The more she cared, the more harm she would do. To him. To herself.
This had to stop.
He kissed her mouth, and she didn’t stop him. He kissed her throat, his hand sliding to her breast, dragging down her chemise, its lace trim scratching her nipple. She hissed and wound her fingers in his hair.
She wanted. She wanted beauty and pleasure, stolen moments to remember years from now, when she was living her quiet life, in Hensthorpe, with her aunts, their cats, Fritz.
No, she wanted more.
