I STILL LOVE YOU, BUT...

CHAPTER 18

TRISTAN

My penthouse is a hive of activity this Saturday morning. My chef is busy in the kitchen, and upstairs, the cleaners from Housekeeping are vacuuming and tidying up the rooms.

The chef has outdone himself by preparing a spread of the finest English breakfast for us.

Amanda sits down at the breakfast table, skirt rustling, and unfolds her napkin. Inside the napkin is a single red rose.

She looks up at me, and I smile.

"To match the colour of your lips..." I murmur.

I see her breath hitch.

"And in memory of last night," I add softly, watching a vein begin to pulse in her white throat.

I think about how it feels to kiss that throat, about how it feels to be inside her, about how she wrapped silky legs and arms around me and whispered my name over and over.

I lean across the table, and run my thumb over that vein. She shivers and takes my hand and holds the open palm to her mouth and kisses it.

"I love you," she whispers.

I stand up abruptly, pull back her chair, and lead her from the room, a hand on her elbow.

Two women, one older and matronly, and the other a young girl, in identical gray uniforms, are making the bed. They pause in what they are doing, hands stilling on the bedsheets, as they swivel their heads to gawk at us, taking in Amanda's flushed, downcast face and my face, simmering, no doubt, with impatience and desire.

"Come back later," I say curtly, and my hand snakes around Amanda's waist. Tightens possessively.

The older woman's eyes widen with understanding. At once, she motions to the younger one to leave the bed unmade. Without a word, she pushes the other girl out the door, bobs her head respectfully, and hurries out after her companion. Even before the door has closed properly, Amanda is already in my arms, lifting her face up to mine, and my mouth is crashing down on hers.

"Amanda," I say hoarsely. "My sweet Amanda."

I am drowning in the sensations created by her mouth and tongue and hands.

We lie on the bed and undress each other, taking time between the unbuttoning and the unzipping for long, passionate kisses. Our mouths and hands glide over each other's bodies leisurely, slowly, to savour, linger, love. My fingertips whisper against her bare skin, sliding up her spine, resting at her nape. My kiss, upon her shoulder blades. Her kiss, upon my mouth, light as gossamer, and a sigh, "Tristan..."

I hold her beautiful, luminous face between my hands.

"Your face is shaped like a valentine. It is a heart," I say, kissing her eyes, her nose, her mouth. "And my heart is yours, Amanda Barnes."

We are kneeling in front of each other. She watches me unhook her bra, slide it off her pale, slender shoulders. Her breasts are round and perfect, tipped with pale pink.

"Beautiful. So utterly beautiful," I whisper, teasing the little nubs with my tongue, and I hear her moan, as she knots my hair in her small fists.

I push her back gently, and she watches me, her eyes wide and wild, her red mouth quivering.

I lean over and begin to kiss her legs and thighs, her stomach, between her legs. She moans again, and I rise up, surge toward her, cup her face in my hands. Her eyes are like sapphires; her face is impassioned with desire, her breaths coming in pants.

"Tristan," she whispers,"I love you." She strokes my face tenderly, caresses my cheeks, peppers my face, my mouth with kisses. She has never been more beautiful.