“I’m hoping,” he said, “that you’re going to love it. But we’ll see.”

  He took her into the cinema, which was little more than an overlarge room with broad risers built in, and a concession table in one corner. The seats, though, weren’t seats at all, but twenty or thirty mismatched couches.

  “When somebody in Waiheke has an old couch to get rid of,” he told her, “they bring it here. Island tradition. Want to sit on a couch with me, drink another glass of wine, and watch a naughty movie? Like being eighteen again, eh.”

  “Not how eighteen was for me,” she said. “Better late than never, I guess. But that’d be two glasses.”

  “It would,” he said. “It’s also your birthday. Come on, bad thing. Let’s drink wine and sit in the back row.”

  * * *

  Nina couldn’t get her breath. They couldn’t have been a half hour into the movie, and the wine had already gone down smooth and easy, making her feel relaxed and warm, tucked in close beside Iain on the highest riser in the back corner of the cinema.

  The movie went on, though, and there was nothing smooth and absolutely nothing easy about what she was watching on screen. Or about the tension she could feel in Iain. He was holding her hand, and that was all, but it was as if he were touching her, his fingers on her, inside her. She was watching the woman on screen looking out her window into a dark tropical night, and seeing herself on that last night in Kaiteriteri, gripping the edge of the window frame while Iain hauled her in from behind and kissed her neck. It was the man on the screen, but it was Iain, too, who was pulling her onto the floor, yanking up her dress, and taking her hard.

  And then it got worse.

  On the screen, the palms were swaying, the wind rattling through their fronds, the wind chimes dancing frantically in the dark night. A view through a window, into a bedroom. A woman’s hand twisting frantically at white sheets, her cheek pressed into the mattress, her mouth open, panting, gasping. Her body slamming forward, again and again, taken over by the darkest, deepest pleasure.

  Nina couldn’t look away.

  Iain’s hand moved. Still holding hers, but on her thigh, where she’d left the last few buttons of her dress undone. His fingers were inching up, drawing a slow path up the smooth surface of her inner thigh. Higher and higher.

  Her gaze flew to his face, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the screen, seemingly intent on the action, which was back to the suspense plot now. But his hand was all the way up her thigh, her skirt barely covering her. He was stroking, touching, every brush of his fingers a jolt straight up to her core, and it was all she could do not to squirm.

  Finally, she couldn’t help it. She shivered. A quick turn of his head, and he was glancing at her, then away again, his attention going back to the film. He let go of her, and she tried not to be disappointed, tried to still the throbbing arousal that had left her trembling and weak. They couldn’t make out in the back of a movie theater, darkness or no, couches or no. It would be completely inappropriate, and somebody would see them and recognize them. Both of them.

  When Iain put his arm around her, she jumped. And when his hand started stroking her upper arm, she bit her lip. His thumb was reaching around to the sensitive flesh of her inner arm, exactly the way he’d stroked her that first night on the beach. When he’d been holding her there, and he’d been over her. Before he’d pulled off her clothes and devoured her.

  The theater was air-conditioned, but she was burning up. She put a hand on Iain’s muscular thigh, below the hem of his own shorts. Her fingers traced the edge of the fabric, a delicate whisper over hair-roughened male skin.

  He was hot, too. Hot, and hard with bunched muscle. He was holding himself rigid, the same way she was. He wasn’t one bit relaxed, however lazy his stroking fingers were on her arm.

  On screen, the man and woman were talking, planning, scheming. The movie was getting darker, going deeper, the undercurrents swirling. On the couch, Nina sent her fingers tunneling slowly up under the leg of Iain’s shorts, lingered there for a tantalizing minute, then let go of him and caressed the side of his neck before pulling his head down toward hers.

  She breathed into his ear, “Do you want some of that?”

  It had barely been a whisper, but he’d heard it. His hand stilled on her arm, and his entire body seemed to vibrate. But he didn’t move his head.

  Nina took his earlobe between her teeth and gave it a hard nip that made him jump. Then she was whispering again. “I think you should take me home.”

  * * *

  The fever had started for him with the first scene. By half an hour in, he was practically panting. He’d felt Nina’s tension beside him, and he hadn’t known whether she could possibly be as turned on as he was, or if it were something else. It could be shock. He didn’t know what she read, what she watched. So often, she seemed surprised by what they did. It thrilled him, and at the same time, he kept waiting for her to ask him to back off.

  By the time that scene appeared, though, he wasn’t worrying about Nina. He was going up in flames. The silk sheet twisting under the woman’s desperate grip, her face contorting with strain and desire, the hoarse muttering of the man behind her . . .

  He had to touch Nina. He had to. And when his fingers brushed her thigh, he could swear he felt her legs parting for him.

  The next minutes were exquisite torture. Her sweet, soft skin under his fingers, and him not daring to do more. He wanted to take her by the hand and pull her out of there, but this was her birthday outing, and it was a good film. He could tell that, even though he couldn’t have told you what was happening anymore.

  Then she said that.

  He was standing, grabbing her purchases, pulling her by the hand along the back aisle, opening the heavy door and shutting it hastily behind them, then taking his phone out of his pocket to check the time.

  “Thirteen minutes until the next ferry,” he said. “We may be able to get it if we run.”

  “Then,” she said, “let’s run.”

  “You first,” he said. “So I don’t go too fast for you.”

  They were going to miss the boat, he thought after two blocks. He could’ve made it easily, but she wasn’t a big runner. He was going to be stuck here with her for the next hour, drinking another glass of wine, watching her have second thoughts, losing the moment.

  He saw the taxi at the curb, was grabbing Nina’s hand, jogging over, and leaning in to ask the driver, “Take us to the ferry terminal?”

  “Hop in, mate,” the man said, and Iain had the door, was ushering Nina into it. When the driver stopped in front of the wharf five minutes later, Iain was tossing a twenty at him, saying, “Keep the change,” and pulling Nina out again by the hand.

  “Iain,” she said with her husky laugh, “we’re in time.”

  “Just in case,” he said. ‘Run.”

  They had five minutes, in the end. Five minutes to find a spot at the farthest table on the bottom deck. Nina sat against the window, facing the back wall, and Iain sat beside her. They kept their heads down, and nobody recognized them, and nobody came to join them at their table for six. If they had, he’d have paid them to leave.

  At last, the big boat was pulling away from the wharf, and he asked her, “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “That would be three today.”

  Her hair was a little messy from the run, her eyes bright, her cheeks tinged with pink. “Mm,” he said. “You’re right. That’d be pretty naughty of you. We could share, if you like. We’re half an hour’s sail from Auckland, though, and then we still have to get to Devonport.”

  A saucy smile was trying to escape her pretty mouth. “Somebody wasn’t planning ahead quite well enough about my birthday outing.”

  “Somebody’s kicking himself, no worries.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well. Give you time to talk dirty to me. What do you think? Think you can fill up half an hour?”

  “Uh . . . wine,” he reminded her. “If you get me started on that line of chat, I’m not going to be in a position to get you a drink.”

  “Then yes, please,” she said demurely.

  “Sharing?” he asked.

  “Oh, I think I can handle it all,” she said.

  He slid out, not quite able to feel his feet, and said, “Right. We’ll hope you can.”

  * * *

  She should probably feel embarrassed. But she didn’t. She just ached for him. When he left her, her body missed him. And when he slid in beside her again five minutes later and set down two glasses of Chardonnay, she waited for the touch of his side against hers, for his thigh brushing her own, and sighed to get it.

  He lifted his glass, and she raised her own. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he said, touching his glass gently to hers and smiling into her eyes. “You’re even more beautiful at twenty-six.”

  Her own smile was a slow, secret, seductive thing. It was the kind of smile she’d used for the cameras, but she’d never meant it the way she did tonight. She touched her lips to the glass and took a swallow, letting the cool liquid run down her dry throat. “So,” she said, “either that was a really good choice of movie, or a really bad one, because we’re never going to know how it turns out.”

  “We could rent it.” His hand was under the table and on her thigh again. Hard hand on bare skin, his fingers caressing.

  “I’m still not . . . sure.” She took another sip of wine just for something to do, and tried not to shiver at the sensations his hand was evoking. “That I’d make it to the end.”

  “That’s some sexy stuff,” he said. “Particularly that one bit.”

  “You mean when you started groping me?”

  “That would be the one. Though the parts before it weren’t too bad either.”

  “Can I say . . .” She hesitated.

  “Oh, baby,” he said, “you can say.”

  “That part.” She swallowed, realized she was running her fingers up and down the stem of her wineglass, saw him watching her do it, and stopped. “Uh . . . where he was over her, and she was . . . face-down. It sure looked like they were suggesting . . .”

  “Yeh.” His hand was still on her thigh, and he wasn’t drinking his wine. He was looking at her. “That’s what they were suggesting. You liked that, eh.”

  She closed her eyes. “Yeah,” she whispered. “But I couldn’t tell if it hurt.”

  “You’ve never done it.”

  “You know I haven’t.” He’d touched her, sometimes, in the shower, a sneaky, soapy finger, a straying thumb. It had made her gasp, had excited her, and had made her nervous, too. “I can’t see how it wouldn’t hurt. But I’m . . .”

  “It turns you on,” he guessed. His fingers were all the way up her inner thigh now, so close to their goal. She longed for him to touch her, was burning for it, but she was afraid of what she would do if he did. She wasn’t nearly cool enough. She’d betray herself for sure, even here at the back of the boat.

  “Turns me on, too,” he said. “If we were talking dirty here?” The noise of the ferry’s engines was all around them, a low, deep rumble, and Iain’s voice slid under the edges of it, along her nerve endings, making her quiver. “If I were telling you the truth? I’d tell you that taking your ass would be the best birthday present I could ever imagine.”

  She took another sip of wine, because her mouth was dry. “It’s my birthday, though,” she managed.

  “It is. So I’d have to make it good, wouldn’t I? I’d have to make it the best you’d ever had. I bought you a present along those lines. I already know I’ll make you happy. I’ve got a plan. And as for me . . . I’ll be happy either way, no worries.”

  “We could . . .” She was trying to stay in control of this, but it wasn’t easy. “It is my birthday. Maybe you could give me a . . . present. Maybe you could give me a surprise. And I could tell you if I liked it.”

  “Maybe I could.” He’d shifted closer, and one long finger was brushing across damp silk, beginning a lazy circle. “Maybe I could.”

  Win the Girl

  The ride was endless. Iain’s stealthy fingers remained on her though all of it, never getting her close enough, keeping her at the burning edge of arousal. She drank her wine and tried to hold still, doing her utmost not to react to what he was doing, to betray what she was feeling. It was torture, it was much too risky, and it was absolutely irresistible.

  But even the longest ferry ride had to end sometime, and finally, the boat was slowing, the huge horse-shaped cranes of the busy freight terminal coming into view, lit brightly even on Sunday night. The ferry turned and backed into the wharf, and Iain took his hand away, turned his body toward her, and made an adjustment under the table himself while she pulled down her skirt and tried to still the pounding of her heart.

  He muttered, “Could’ve thought this out better,” then shifted away, put his hands flat on the table, and took some deep breaths of his own.

  “Yes,” she said, getting some of her sassiness back. “I’d say this is one person’s fault, and that person is you.”

  “You wait,” he said, his blue eyes burning right through her. “You wait.”

  “Wait” was what they did, too. Ten minutes on the wharf, then another ten backtracking across the Harbour to Devonport, during which they sat in an open row of seats, held hands, and didn’t talk, maybe because neither of them could think of anything to say that wouldn’t set them off again. Then, finally, this ferry was docking as well, and Iain was picking up her bags and leading the way up the ramp and along the wharf to the carpark.

  When they reached the car, he opened her door, handed her the bags, and shut the door again, and got in on his side. And then he put both hands on the steering wheel and laid his head on it.

  “Bloody hell,” he said, “that was the longest journey of my life.”

  She laughed, and he turned his head, glared at her, and said, “And that laugh of yours doesn’t help. Your voice could turn me on in church.”

  “Really?” She leaned across the car and kissed his neck, then let her lips linger there, tracing down the thick column, minus its usual bristle of evening shadow, because he’d shaved for her. “Maybe you need me to relieve the pressure a little,” she murmured in his ear. “You know when my voice sounds really good? When you’re hearing it from all the way down in your lap.”

  He was turning the key, pulling out of the carpark. “Not that that isn’t one of the most brilliant suggestions I’ve heard all day, but seems to me you made another one first. I’m a stickler for getting things done in order. And it’s your birthday, eh. The birthday girl receives.”

  That one shut her up until he was pulling the car into his garage. He turned the key, and she half-expected him to kiss her, but he didn’t. Instead, he was climbing out, closing the garage door, and heading for the front door, as usual. But when they were inside, he said, “Right. You. Downstairs. In five minutes, I’m going to be coming down and getting in the shower, and you’re going to be in it. With the necklace on.”

  “Uh . . .”

  He dropped her bags in the entryway. “Nina. My self-control’s this close to snapping. If you want some privacy first, I’m giving it to you. But that’s it. Five minutes. Clothes off. Necklace on. Shower. Go.”

  She went.

  She could swear it wasn’t five minutes. She’d barely managed to get her teeth brushed, had just finished stripping off her clothes and tossing them into the hamper when he was in the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  “I said in the shower.” He was The Hulk again, the slow, merciless teasing of the ferry a thing of the past.

  “Sue me,” she said with a toss of her head. “I’m late.”

  He didn’t smile. Instead, he reached beyond her, turned the tap to full, and pulled her straight into the huge tiled space. She was gasping at the freezing shock of the cold water, but he was already turning so he took the force of it onto his back. She was shivering, calling out, and he was paying no attention at all. He had her shoved back against the tiled wall, and finally, he was kissing her. His hands around her head, his mouth lowered onto hers as the water warmed around them, and his tongue was plunging into her mouth, going deep, taking it all.

  He kissed her until she was liquid, until she was whimpering, and then he let go of her, picked up the bar of passionfruit-scented soap that was her favorite, and said, “Turn around.”

  When she didn’t move fast enough, he had a hand on her shoulder, was spinning her. “Hands on the wall.”

  One part of her said that she could still tell him no, and that he’d listen. The other part, the primitive back of her brain that seemed to be calling the shots tonight, wanted to know that he could do anything to her. That he could take her body and use it in any way he wanted, because it was his.

  “Bend over,” he said. “And hold still.”

  He’d directed the showerhead straight onto her lower back, and the hard spray was hitting her there, running down her bottom, the backs of her thighs, an assault and a caress. And then his soapy hands had joined in. One big forearm came around her breasts, his hand capturing one of them, playing hard. The crown of her head was resting against the backs of her hands now, and she was letting him do it. His other hand slid down her back, lingering on her lower back, the base of her spine, and she was pressing back against him, wanting more.

  He took his hand away, and she wanted it back. Then it was there again, his fingers sliding down, slick and soapy and insistent. He knew how she liked to be touched, and he was doing it.

  “Oh.” She was backing into him, calling out. “Yes. Please.”

  His hand had left her breast, was moving down the front of her body, replacing the first one and taking up its work. His right hand had shifted, was behind her, soapy again, parting her, circling, exploring.

  She started to stand up again, and his other hand was at the back of her neck, pressing the plates of chilly gold against her skin and her head into the wall. “Hold still,” he said. “So it doesn’t hurt.” He kept his hand there, holding her down, and she should be objecting to that. She should. But his other hand . . .